ESSAYS BY LEIGH HUNT.
 
 Uniform with the Present Volume. 
 
 Handsomely printed and half-bound, price zs. each. 
 
 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA. 
 
 By Charles Lamb. 
 Both Series complete in One Volume. 
 
 GASTRONOMY AS A FINE ART. 
 
 By Brillat-Savarik. 
 Translated by R. E. Anderson, M.A. 
 
 ANECDOTES OF THE CLERGY. 
 
 By Jacob Larwood. 
 
 THE EPICUREAN; and ALCIPHRON. 
 
 By Thomas Moore. 
 
 ROBINSON CRUSOE. 
 
 By Daniel Defoe. 
 Illustrated by George Cruikshank. 
 
 THE NATURAL HISTORY OF SELBORNE. 
 
 By Gilbert White, M.A. 
 Edited by Thomas Brown, F.L.S. 
 
 LONDON: CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY.
 
 ESSAYS BY LEIGH HUNT 
 
 EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 
 
 By EDMUND OLLIER 
 
 A NEW EDITION 
 
 3Lont«an 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
 
 BAI.LANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 SANTA BAKBARA 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 INTRODUCTION, . 
 
 SOCIAL GENEALOGY, 
 
 PLEASANT RECOLLECTIONS CONNECTED WITH THE METRO 
 
 POLIS, . . . . 
 
 ON THE HOUSEHOLD GODS OF THE ANCIENTS, 
 LUDICROUS EXAGGERATION, 
 
 FATAL MISTAKE OF NERVOUS DISORDERS FOR INSANITY, 
 MISTS AND FOGS, . 
 FAR COUNTRIES, . 
 A TALE FOR A CHIMNEY CORNER, 
 THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. — FIRST PAPER, 
 
 " " SECOND PAPER, 
 
 " " THIRD PAPER, 
 
 A FEW THOUGHTS ON SLEEP, 
 THE FAIR REVENGE, 
 GETTING UP ON COLD MORNINGS, 
 HATS, NEW AND ANCIENT, 
 lady's MAID. — SEAMEN ON SHORE, 
 DEATHS OF LITTLE CHILDREN, . 
 OF STICKS, 
 
 A NOW, .... 
 COACHES AND THEIR HORSES. — FIRST PAPER, 
 
 " " SECOND PAPER 
 
 OF THE SIGHT OF SHOPS. — FIRST PAPER. 
 
 *' " SECOND PAPER, 
 
 38 
 46 
 
 52 
 
 57 
 
 62 
 
 69 
 
 75 
 
 85 
 
 95 
 
 107 
 
 120 
 
 126 
 
 133 
 
 139 
 
 147 
 
 157 
 
 162 
 
 171 
 
 177 
 
 188 
 
 199 
 
 209
 
 VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 TO ANY ONE WHOM BAD WEATHER DEPRESSES, 
 
 THE OLD GENTLEMAN, . , . , 
 
 ON THE REALITIES OF IMAGINATION, . 
 
 SHAKSPEARE's BIRTHDAY, 
 
 A RAINY DAY, ..... 
 
 O.M THE TALKING OF NONSENSE, 
 
 ON THE SLOW RISE OF THE MOST RATIONAL OPINIONS 
 
 SUPERFINE BREEDING, .... 
 
 SHAKING HANDS, . . . . . 
 
 ON RECEIVING A SPRIG OF LAUREL FROM VAUCLUSE, 
 
 A HUMAN ANIMAL, AND THE OTHER EXTREME, 
 
 UPON INDEXES, . . 
 
 THOUGHTS AND GUESSES ON HUMAN NATURE, 
 
 MAY-DAY, .... 
 
 spring. — daisies.— gathering flowers, 
 of dreams, .... 
 
 on commendatory verses, 
 hoole's and Fairfax's tasso, . 
 
 PAGE 
 2X8 
 
 222 
 227 
 238 
 242 
 248 
 
 261 
 264 
 268 
 280 
 283 
 
 303 
 312 
 
 323 
 
 335
 
 LEIGH HUNT.' 
 
 IN studying the prose of Leigh Hunt, we make the ac- 
 quaintance of what may be regarded as an intermediate 
 territory between the older and the newer styles of 
 essay-writing. His youthful productions had a smack of the 
 eighteenth century, and yet were not of it ; his more mature 
 works were distinguished in a great degree by the character- 
 istics of to-day, and yet were in some measure different. 
 His tirst ideas of literature were formed while the Johnsonian 
 style was still dominant, before the French Revolution had 
 had time to rouse the mind of Europe (or at least of England) 
 out of its pseudo-scholastic lethargy, before the war with 
 Buonaparte had come to confront the nation with the stem 
 truths of a new state of things, and while yet the great in- 
 ventions of our own day were unsuspected, except by a 
 few thoughtful brains. It was the worst period that our 
 literature has ever known. The great dictator of Fleet 
 Street had gone, leaving behind him a host of feeble satellites, 
 
 * Some small portions of this Introduction have alread.y appeared in 
 other places.
 
 X LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 who made the vices of his style apparent in their vapid and 
 insincere imitations. Those who did not mimic Johnson 
 did worse ; for they wrote in a tone of maudhn sentiment- 
 ahty that had not even the show of strength. Burke and 
 Gibbon, indeed, were still living; but they stood almost 
 alone. In poetry, the Delia Cruscan manner prevailed, with 
 its false simplicity and real tinsel, its lachrymose tenderness 
 and sham romance. Wordsworth and Coleridge had not 
 yet risen above the horizon, and, in the dearth of original 
 genius, Hayley was looked upon as a prodigy. It is true 
 that Cowper kept alive the feeling of a better day ; but even 
 his poems were to some extent imbued with the faults of the 
 time. It was in the midst of these influences that Leigh 
 Hunt's earliest literary style was fashioned. The age was one 
 of pretence, and the young poet and essayist suffered in the 
 first instance from the mistakes of others. He had " a good 
 old aunt," who used to encourage him "to write fine letters," 
 and on whom he composed an elegy after her death, in 
 which he called her " a nymph " ! In our days, none but a 
 boy could commit such an absurdity; but at that time the 
 boy simply followed the example of his elders, who in such 
 affairs were probably not his superiors. The old lady her- 
 self, who was so fond of "fine letters," would doubtless 
 have considered her translation into the nymphal state 
 a perfectly proper thing — in poetry. In the same arti- 
 ficial and sophisticated strain, Leigh Hunt, when a boy, 
 wrote " an Ode in praise of the Duke of York's victory at 
 Dunkirk, which," he relates, " I was afterwards excessively 
 mortified to find had been a defeat. I compared him to 
 Alexander, or rather dismissed Alexander with contempt in 
 the exordium." In a letter to one of his daughters, he says
 
 LEIGH HUNT. XI 
 
 that he described the Duke as " galloping about through 
 the field of battle, shooting the Frenchmen in the eye I " When 
 he had shaken himself free of this rubbish, Leigh Hunt be- 
 came one of the most natural writers that ever lived; but 
 it was not until after some years that he corrected the false 
 literary education of his youth. 
 
 His experiences at the Blue-coat School were not of a 
 character to set him in the right road. The master, Boyer, 
 seems to have been a pedant, without any appreciation of 
 the spirit of classical learning, which he apparently regarded 
 as an affair of grammar and of mechanical forms. The boy 
 saw through and disliked the formalism ; and he fled for 
 refuge to the poets of his own country — but generally to 
 the poorest and weakest of them. He forsook one kind of 
 conventionality for another ; he bathed his mind in the 
 poetry of the period immediately succeeding Pope, and ap- 
 pears to have regarded the contributors to " Dodsley's Mis- 
 cellany" as the greatest masters of verse. So true to him 
 were the most sickly pretences of the so-called pastoral school 
 of poetry, that he and some of his school-fellows would oc- 
 casionally row up the river to Richmond, in order that they 
 might enact, literally and in good faith, Collins's extravagant 
 lines about Thomson's grave in his Ode on the death of that 
 poet : — 
 
 " Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore 
 
 When Thames in summer wreaths is dress'd, 
 And oft suspend the dashing oar, 
 To bid his gentle spirit rest." 
 
 Such was the style which he then believed in and rever- 
 enced ; such was the style in which his earliest volume of 
 poems, called " Juvenilia," was composed. It was towards
 
 XU LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 the close of the year 1799 that he quitted the Blue-coat 
 School, and "Juvenilia" appeared in 1802. Six years 
 later than that — namely, in 1808 — the Exami7ier com- 
 menced; but, in the meanwhile, the young author had been 
 trying his wings in a variety of ways, though chiefly in 
 the direction of essay-writing and theatrical criticism. The 
 eighteenth century style was still in the ascendant, and some 
 of the men whom we are accustomed to associate with that 
 century almost exclusively were yet living and compos- 
 ing. Sheridan had several years of life before him ; Arthur 
 Murphy, the friend and biographer of Johnson, might 
 have been among the readers of Leigh Hunt's early pro- 
 ductions ; Mrs Piozzi, whose portrait had been painted by 
 Hogarth, was alert and vigorous ; so was Hannah More ; 
 Person was astounding Europe with his learning, and rejoic- 
 ing his boon companions with his wit in the Cider Cellars of 
 Maiden Lane ; and Burke, Gibbon, Cowper, and Horace 
 Walpole were but newly dead. The prose writings of Leigh 
 Hunt in those days were in a great degree modelled on a 
 book which was then a favourite of his, and for which, in- 
 deed, he retained a regard to the end of his existence — the 
 Connoisseur of Colman the Elder and Bonnell Thornton. 
 It was a collection of periodical essays in the manner ot 
 Addison's and Steele's Tatlcr and Spectator, and was distin- 
 guished by a vein of pleasant humour and wit, though 
 wanting the freshness and originality of its prototypes. 
 Its influence over Leigh Hunt was marked. The first set 
 of essays he ever wrote in public — for there must have been 
 many predecessors in private — were contributed to the 
 Traveller evening newspaper (now united with the Globe), 
 under the signature of " Mr Town, junior, Critic and Censor-
 
 LEIGH HUNT. XUl 
 
 general ; " which, with the omission of the " junior," was the 
 designation of the assumed author of the Connoisseur. He 
 even caught up the pet phrases of the Connoissetir period ; 
 talked of "the town," "the critics," " the wits," "the fops," 
 &c. ; and reproduced, with half-unconscious fidelity, the 
 tone of airy banter in which they delighted. We see the 
 prevalence of this style in the volume (published in 1807) 
 entitled, " Critical Essays on the Performers of the London 
 Theatres, including General Observations on the Practice 
 and Genius of the Stage. By the Author of the Theatrical 
 Criticisms in the Weekly Paper called the News." The 
 book is extremely clever — we have certainly no such dramatic 
 criticism now, nor, indeed, any drama or school of acting to 
 call it forth ; but the style is that of laboured and conscious 
 epigram, combined with the somewhat ostentatious scholar- 
 liness, and proneness to moralise and lecture, of a youth 
 not long free from the influences of his tutor. The wit, 
 however, is often genuine, notwithstanding the assumed 
 manner ; as where, speaking of John Kemble's eccentricities 
 of pronunciation, the essayist says, " I could mispronounce 
 much better than he when I was a mere infant." This is like 
 some of the happy sallies of Johnson in familiar conversa- 
 tion ; but a few lines further down we have Johnson in his 
 balanced literary style : — " He (Kemble) does not present 
 one the idea of a man who grasps with the force of genius, 
 but of one who overcomes by the toil of attention." Nothing 
 could be more unlike this method of thinking and writing 
 than the mature style of Leigh Hunt. 
 
 Family antecedents have often much to do with deter- 
 mining a man's character and genius ; and so it was in the 
 present instance. Leigh Hunt's father was a Barbadian;
 
 JCIV LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 his motlier a native of Pliiladelphia. Both families, Hunts 
 and Shewells, were of EngUsh origin ; but they had been 
 settled for a few generations in the New World, and had 
 acquired some semi-tropical characteristics. Leigh Hunt 
 himself had a decidedly West Indian look, and there were 
 not wanting West Indian elements in his disposition. 
 Although some writers have indulged in a species of cant 
 about his "gentleness," and although it is true that his 
 nature was full of affection and of placability — both 
 increasing with the progress of years — he had a good deal 
 of hot blood in him, and could show it upon occasion. 
 His earlier writings prove this, beyond the necessity of 
 further remark. He had something also of the volatility, 
 the luxuriance of fancy, the quickness to pleasurable 
 impressions, the occasional reactions of melancholy, and 
 the want of practical knowledge and adaptability, commonly 
 found among natives of those lands which border on the 
 sun. His volatihty was in time counteracted by suffering, 
 experience, and thought; his luxuriance of fancy was 
 gradually curbed by the instincts of an exquisite literary 
 taste, educated by incessant reading ; his quick apprehen- 
 sion of the pleasurable was kept in check by a conscientious 
 and truly virtuous soul, and by habits of life which carried 
 temperance to the length of abstemiousness; and the 
 reactions of melancholy were overcome by a general 
 tendency to cheerfulness. But the want of aptitude for the 
 practical affairs of life continued to the end, and was the 
 chief source of Leigh Hunt's continual embarrassments. 
 He was also insensibly influenced by his parents in other 
 ways than those to which I have alluded. Isaac Hunt, the 
 father, was a clergyman of the Church of England, living in
 
 LEIGH HUNT. XV 
 
 Philadelphia at the time the war of independence broke out, 
 and, being a staunch Royalist, he was obliged to fly to 
 England. He did not get on well here, and died poor and 
 broken-spirited. His wife (Leigh Hunt's mother) came of 
 a Quaker stock ; but, in their later years, both forsook 
 orthodoxy for Unitarianism, and were likewise Universalists 
 — that is to say, believers in the ultimate goodness and 
 happiness of all created beings, even including demons. 
 These circumstances tended to the creation of certain 
 habits of mind and disposition in the young genius. He 
 was accustomed from his earliest years to a mingling of 
 religious reverence with freedom of religious thought, and to 
 a regard for the interests of humanity as superior to any 
 personal advantage. The very loyalty of his parents, taking 
 the form of revolt from a successful revolution, encouraged 
 in him a spirit of political independence ; and the narrow 
 means with which he was familiar during childhood and youth 
 threw him upon his own resources, while perhaps rendering 
 him a little too easy under conditions which he might have 
 amended by a greater regard to the ordinary business of the 
 world. But, though a West Indian in blood, and to a great 
 degree in temperament, he was in other respects very much 
 of an Englishman. He was born at Southgate, Middlesex, 
 not far from Edmonton, and on the edge of that still woody 
 and charmingly rural district called Enfield Chase. In 
 his "Autobiography" he says, it is a pleasure to him to 
 know that he was born " in so sweet a village as South- 
 gate," adding that " Middlesex in general is a scene of trees 
 and meadows, of 'greenery' and nestling cottages; and 
 Southgate is a prime specimen of Middlesex. It is a place 
 lying out of the way of innovation ; therefore it has the
 
 X\n LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 pure, sweet air of antiquity about it." It is touching to find 
 the grey, battered old writer recalHng in his age the 
 associations of his infancy. " I wander in imagination," he 
 says, in the work aheady quoted, " through the spots marked 
 in the neighbourhood, with their pleasant names — Wood- 
 side, Wood Green, Palmer Green, Nightingale Hall, &c. — 
 and fancy my father and mother listening to the nightingales, 
 and loving the new little baby, who has now lived to see 
 more years tlian they did." The date of his birth was the 
 19th of October, 1784 — the day before that on which Lord 
 Palmerston was born. 
 
 The chief — indeed, the only systematic — part of Leigh 
 Hunt's education was at Christ's Hospital, of which, in the 
 days of Boyer, he has given an account worthy to rank side 
 by side with those of Lamb and Coleridge.* He was to 
 have completed his education at one of the universities, and 
 to have gone into the Church, like his father ; but religious 
 scruples stood in the way of both designs, and probably the 
 straitened means of the family would in itself have prevented 
 their being carried out. "Unitarianism" and " Universalism" 
 were not in favour in those days ; and Leigh soon went far- 
 ther than either of his parents in dissent from the accepted 
 opinions of the world in matters of faith. So, after a brief 
 period of staying at home, reading, cultivating early friend- 
 ships, haunting the London bookstalls, and writing very indif- 
 ferent verses, he got into the way of journalism, as clever 
 youths are apt to do when they have no more definite open- 
 ing in life, and became the theatrical critic of the News, a 
 paper belonging to his elder brother, John. His criticisms 
 attracted attention, as they deserved to do, for, as I have 
 * " Auto'iiograpliy," chaps, iii. and iv.
 
 LEIGH HUNT. XVll 
 
 already remarked, they were witty and discriminating, far 
 better in style than the common run of newspaper writing in 
 those days, and thoroughly honest and impartial. It was cus- 
 tomary at that time (have Ave entirely outgrown the custom?) 
 for the gentlemen who " did the theatres " for the daily and 
 weekly press to be on familiar terms with the managers and 
 leading actors, and to flatter them in proportion to the amount 
 of orders they got, and of good dinners they were permitted 
 to enjoy. Leigh Hunt (then in his twenty-first year) made it 
 a point of honour to know neither managers nor actors, and 
 to accept no tickets of admission. The articles were unex- 
 pectedly successful; for, after all that satirists have said, and 
 will probably go on saying perpetually, about the dulness 
 and corruption of mankind, nothing succeeds better in this 
 world than a little wit and a little honesty. Leigh Hunt 
 first made his name as a dramatic critic, and when he 
 and his brother started the Examiner, at the commence- 
 ment of 1808, its popularity was in some measure due to the 
 fact of its being known to be conducted by the gentleman 
 who had written the News theatricals, and to the further 
 fact of dramatic criticism from the same pen being a chief 
 feature in its contents. Those were days in which the stage 
 was still a power, and when large classes of the community 
 discussed the merits of rival actors and different styles of 
 acting with as much warmth as others discussed politics. 
 The Examiner, however, soon made itself a reputation for 
 comments upon more important things than the doings of 
 Drury Lane and Covent Garden managers. Its honesty, 
 independence, and fearlessness in the handling of affairs of 
 state, obtained for it the estimation of all the liberal thinkers 
 of that time, and the still more flattering enmity of the
 
 XVIU LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 Prince Regent and his Government. When it began, Leigh 
 Hunt was a clerk in the War Office, but he soon gave up that 
 position, in order that he might not be trammelled in his 
 remarks on the great. The policy of the Examinei', never- 
 theless, was not Republican or Jacobinical. It neither 
 reviled the French Revolution nor idolised it. It was for 
 putting down the ambition and rapacity of Buonaparte, 
 and for maintaining all the bases of the English Constitu- 
 tion, with those ameliorations which time had necessitated, 
 and with an extension of popular power equivalent to what 
 was granted many years later in the Reform Bill of 1832. 
 In these days of Tory democracy, and of democracy not 
 Tory, we should probably look on the politics of the 
 brothers Hunt (for the excellent sense, sound practical 
 knowledge, and sterling honesty of John should not 
 be forgotten) as a little too mild and cautious. Even in 
 respect to religion, they ranged themselves with the Church 
 of England, though dissenting on some important doctrinal 
 points, and anticipating the tone of reverential inquiry and 
 large toleration now held by many to be essential to reli- 
 gion itself. The period was a dark one for Liberalism of all 
 kinds, and Leigh Hunt differed on many grounds from 
 the comfortable and lazy acquiescence of society. He suf- 
 fered accordingly, as such men will sufter, and are proud to 
 suffer. The Examiner was prosecuted several times for the 
 freedom of its comments on public affairs; and at length, 
 on the 2 2d of March, 181 2, an unusually bold article on the 
 Prince Regent, provoked by a piece of disgusting adulation 
 on the part of the Morning Post, laid the enterprising 
 brothers under a sentence of two years' imprisonment 
 in separate jails, accompanied by a fine of p^Soo each.
 
 LEIGH HUNT. XIX 
 
 The Piince unquestionably deserved everything that was 
 said of him in the incriminated article ; yet it is not to be 
 wondered at that the Government of the day should have 
 thought it necessary to prosecute the author and publisher, 
 nor is it surprising that George himself should have desired 
 to give a return blow for one which must have made him 
 wince. A man may be the greatest criminal alive ; but if I 
 beat him in the public streets, it is not unnatural that he 
 should knock me down. I am therefore not inclined to join 
 in the exclamations that have sometimes been made about 
 the cruelty of the sentence. I am very glad that the article 
 was written, and I sympathise with the sufferings of the 
 brothers ; but it cannot be disputed that the remarks were 
 in the highest degree libellous. We sometimes demand of 
 princes a greater amount of magnanimity than we are com- 
 monly in the habit of exhibiting ourselves, or than belongs 
 to ordinary nature ; we expect that they shall submit to the 
 most extreme attacks without stirring a finger in self-defence. 
 John and Leigh Hunt did their duty in exposing the 
 wretched flattery of the Mortiing Post ; the Prince did no 
 more than was natural, or than he was legally entitled to 
 do, in punishing the committers of the assault. This is 
 really the sum of the whole business. 
 
 His two years' imprisonment did Leigh Hunt both harm 
 and good. It furnished the Tories for many years to come 
 with a stone to fling at him whenever they wanted to be 
 personal ; and, on the other hand, it advanced his reputa- 
 tion with the Liberals, and brought him many friends. 
 During his imprisonment, he made the acquaintance of 
 Hazlitt, Bentham, and Byron ; and his counsel at the trial 
 was no less a man than Brougham. Keats he did not 
 
 B
 
 XX LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 know until somewhat later. His mind seemed to ripen a 
 good deal from that time. He made his prison rooms as 
 pretty and cheerful as he could, cultivated a little garden in 
 one of the small yards of the jail, and continued to write 
 Liberalism from week to week in the Examiner, besides 
 employing his pen on criticism and poetry. To this period 
 belong the " Story of Rimini " and other works. It was in 
 the prison, also, that Leigh Hunt first became intimate with 
 Shelley, though he had slightly known him before. His 
 close friendship with that remarkable genius (who helped 
 him in his pecuniary difficulties with signal generosity) had 
 an important influence on his fate. It caused him to be 
 identified with some opinions which he did not share, and 
 it drew down upon his head the rancorous vituperation of 
 the Tory writers in Blackwood's Magazine and the Quarterly 
 Review. Leigh Hunt's character suffered for many years 
 in public esteem, in consequence of the venomous false- 
 hoods concerning him and his friends circulated by those 
 two periodicals. The shallow and noisy cry about the 
 " cockney school " of ■wi'iters, moreover, affected the sale of 
 his works ; and with the triumph of reactionary principles 
 under the long administration of Lords Liverpool and 
 Castlereagh, the success of the Examiner declined. With 
 an increasing family, and a load of debt (the latter partly 
 resulting from the Government prosecutions to which I have 
 alluded, and the fine imposed for the libel on the Prince 
 Regent), Leigh Hunt had for several years to fight a diffi- 
 cult and discouraging battle, and it cannot be denied that 
 his troubles were increased by a natural inability to under- 
 stand the mysteries of pounds, shillings, and pence. At 
 length, towards the close of 182 1, Shelley and Lord Byron,
 
 LEIGH HUNT. XXI 
 
 who were then in Italy, invited Leigh Hunt to settle there 
 with his family, and to start, in conjunction with his two 
 poetical friends, a new quarterly periodical for the advocacy 
 of liberal opinions. The inducement was very great, and 
 he went. But the project was disastrous in every respect. 
 Shelley was drowned almost immediately after Leigh Hunt's 
 arrival at Pisa; the contemplated periodical — which was 
 called the Liberal : Verse and Prose from i/ie South — proved 
 a failure, notwithstanding that it contained some of Byron's 
 most celebrated poems, besides other admirable matter; 
 and Byron and Hunt soon quarrelled. The consequence 
 was, that the latter and his family were left in a foreign 
 country without the means of life, and a period of suffering 
 ensued, which ever afterwards darkened the recollection of 
 that beautiful and poetic land in the mind of Leigh Hunt. 
 On his return to England, he wrote a book about Lord 
 Byron (then deceased) which he afterwards regretted, 
 because it was conceived in a spirit of embittered memory ; 
 but he always maintained that the noble poet had treated 
 him ill in their common Italian venture. 
 
 From the period of his return to England, in the autumn 
 of 1825 to the time of his death in the autumn of 1859 — 
 a space of four-and-thirty years — Leigh Hunt lived a very 
 retired life, incessantly reading or writing, battling with 
 adverse fortune, and sometimes nearly succumbing to it, 
 acquiring new friends among the younger generation of 
 writers, and losing old ones by the inexorable decrees of 
 nature. Year by year he gave himself less to politics than 
 formerly, and more to literature for its own sake, to which 
 his personal predilections and special aptitudes undoubtedly 
 led him in the main. As early as 1810-12, he had edited a
 
 XXII LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 Quarterly Magazine, chiefly devoted to literatvire, called the 
 Reflector; in 1819-20-21, he had issued the weekly collec- 
 tion of essays entitled the Ifidicator ; and he now reverted 
 to this species of writing. He started, or edited, many perio- 
 dicals — the Companion (1828), the TTz/^r (1830-31-32), the 
 London Journal ( 1 83 4-3 5 ), the Mojithly Repository (1837-38), 
 and some others ; and he wrote many books, ranging over 
 several departments of literature. In 1840, and again in 
 1858, he appeared as a dramatic author. "The Legend of 
 Florence " was produced at Covent Garden during the 
 management of the present Mr Charles Mathews and the 
 late Madame Vestris ; and " Lovers' Amazements " saw gas- 
 light at the Lyceum. As he wore on in life, Leigh Hunt 
 acquired the reputation and authority of a veteran ; and as 
 the noise of the old battles receded farther and farther into 
 the distance, and he more and more refrained from engaging 
 in new ones, the kindliness of his nature, and the fascinating 
 gracefulness of his conversation and manners, won to his 
 side many former enemies, and created for him many new 
 friends. Professor Wilson, his sometime enemy of Black- 
 wood, not only expressed privately to Leigh Hunt his regret 
 for the injustice he had done him, at the same time inviting 
 him to write in the Magazine (an offer which was declined), 
 but, in the number for August, 1834, publicly retracted the 
 slanders which in earlier days he had helped to disseminate, 
 spoke of his old enemy in the highest terms, and made use 
 of that magnificent phrase, worthy to be written in letters of 
 gold — " The animosities are mortal, but the humanities live 
 for ever." The Government of Lord John Russell, in 1847, 
 acknowledged the value of Hunt's services to Liberalism and 
 to literature by a pension of ^200 a year; and, during the
 
 LEIGH HUNT. rxin 
 
 last ten or fifteen years of his existence, strangers from afar — 
 from all parts of the United Kingdom, and from America — 
 sought the venerable poet and essayist in his humble study, 
 and left it with wealthier, and doubtless with brighter, 
 memories. His life was in several respects a life of trouble, 
 but his cheerfulness was such that he was, upon the whole, 
 happier than some men who have had fewer griefs to wrestle 
 with. Death often stabbed him in his tenderest affections ; 
 and the loss of his youngest son, Vincent, from consumption, 
 in 1852, was a calamity from which the father never re- 
 covered. But his darkest clouds had more than a silver 
 lining ; they had the golden suffusion and interpenetration 
 of a quenchless sunlight. In the two volumes of " Corre- 
 spondence," edited in 1862 by his eldest son, my friend Mr 
 Thornton Hunt, we see him as those who knew him 
 familiarly saw him in his every-day life : sometimes over- 
 clouded with the shadow of affliction, but more often bright 
 and hopeful, and at all times taking a keen delight in 
 beautiful things ; in the exhaustless world of books and art; 
 in the rising genius of young authors ; in the immortal 
 language of music; in trees, and liowers, and old memorial 
 nooks of London and its suburbs ; in the sunlight which 
 came, as he used to say, like a visitor out of heaven, glorify- 
 ing humble places ; in the genial intercourse of mind with 
 mind ; in the most trifling incidents of daily life that spoke 
 of truth and nature ; in the spider drinking from the water- 
 drop which had fallen on his letter from some flowers while 
 he was writing ; in the sunset lighting up his " little homely 
 black mantelpiece " till it kindled into " a solemnly gor 
 geous presentment of black and gold;" in the domestici- 
 ties of tamily life, and in the general progress of the world.
 
 XXIV LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 A heait and soul so gifted could not but share largely in the 
 happiness with which the Divine Ruler of the universe has 
 compensated our sorrows ; and he had loving hearts about 
 him to the last, to sweeten all. 
 
 The end reached him on the 28th of August, 1859, 
 in the seventy-fifth year of his age. He was buried in 
 Kensal Green Cemetery, and a monument to his memory 
 (originally proposed by Mr S. C Hall, and subscribed for 
 by numerous friends and admirers) is about to be erected 
 over the grave. His health had been failing for some time 
 before, and he died, with entire tranquillity, at the house of 
 his friend and relative, Mr Charles Reynell, at Putney. " It 
 is an interesting incident," says his son, in a Postscript to 
 the second edition of the "Autobiography" (i860), "that 
 his very last efforts were devoted to aid the relatives ot 
 Shelley in vindicating the memory of the friend who had 
 gone so many years before him" (in connexion with the 
 work entitled "Shelley Memorials"). "His death was 
 simply exhaustion : he broke off his work to lie down and 
 repose. So gentle was the final approach that he scarcely 
 recognised it till the very last, and then it came without 
 terrors. His physical suffering had not been severe ; at the 
 latest hour he said that his only ' uneasiness' was failing breath. 
 And that failing breath was used to express his sense of the 
 inexhaustible kindnesses he had received from the family 
 who had been so unexpectedly made his nurses,' — to draw 
 from one of his sons, by minute, eager, and searching ques- 
 tions, all that he could learn about the latest vicissitudes 
 and growing hopes of Italy, — to ask the friends and children 
 around him for news of those whom he loved, — and to send 
 love and messages to the absent who loved him."
 
 LEIGH HUNT. XXV 
 
 I enjoyed the friendship of Leigh Hunt for rather a long 
 period, reckoning my boyish years as well as my years of young 
 manhood. He was one of my father's oldest and most in- 
 timate friends, for I believe their acquaintanceship began in 
 the year 1810. It was in the early days of the Examiner, 
 and my father, then a very young man, addressed a letter 
 to the paper on some misperformance of Shakspeare at 
 Drury Lane or Covent Garden, and, in his ignorance of 
 journalistic ways, asked at the office to see the editor, that 
 he might deliver the MS. into his own hands. The editor 
 accordingly came out of his sanctum in Beaufort Buildings, 
 Strand, and received the young enthusiast in dramatic pro- 
 prieties very graciously. Having myself, nearly half a cen- 
 tury later, done a good deal of journalistic work in those 
 same Beaufort Buildings, I cannot help recalling this little 
 incident with a certain pleasure. In subsequent years 
 my father came to know Leigh Hunt intimately, and he was 
 among those who visited him in Horsemonger Lane Jail. 
 From 1817 to 1822, they had occasional business con- 
 nexions ; for my father, having started as a publisher, issued 
 some of Hunt's works from his office, together with the first 
 volume of Keats, and several of Shelley's poems. He and 
 Leigh Hunt died within three months of each other, and 
 their friendship extended over nearly half a century. One 
 of Leigh Hunt's latest writings was an account of my 
 father, published shortly after his death, and forming a 
 number of the Occasional, a series of papers written by 
 Hunt, during the closing months of his life, in the Specta- 
 tor, then under the editorship of his eldest son. Less 
 than three months later, I myself, at the request of that 
 son, wrote the final Occasio?ial, wliich was of course devoted
 
 XXVI LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 to the memory of him who had originated and carried on 
 the series. 
 
 I can recollect Leigh Hunt almost as long as I can recol? 
 lect anybody. He was grey-headed, and a somewhat vener- 
 able-looking man, even when first I knew him, though at that 
 time he was a little under fifty ; but doubtless my childish 
 eyes exaggerated the appearance of age. In later years he 
 had almost a patriarchal look, and this was increased by 
 the long, priest-like gown he always wore when sitting at 
 home, and which admirably suited his fine tall figure 
 and studious aspect. With reference to this garment, he 
 would often quote Lamb's line in his sonnet written at 
 Cambridge : — • 
 
 " And I walk gowndd — feel unusual powers." 
 
 Many are the evenings I have passed in his three last houses 
 • — those in Edwardes Square, Kensington, Phillimore Ter- 
 race, close by, and Cornwall Road, Hammersmith ; and they 
 will always remain among the happiest recollections of my 
 life. The sitting-room in each had that look of intellectual 
 elegance which men of liberal culture and inherent taste 
 know so well how to produce even with the most moderate 
 means. Books enriched one portion of the walls ; a few 
 prints connected with poets and poetry adorned other parts ; 
 a cast or two from Greek or Italian originals stood about, 
 where they could be seen and admired ; and little vases of 
 flowers were never wanting, if the season could furnish any. 
 The conversation one used to get in the midst of these 
 pleasant influences was of a piece with themselves. Leigh 
 Hunt was an admirable talker. He did not " preach," as 
 Coleridge is reported to have done; he was always ready to
 
 LEIGH HUNT. XXVll 
 
 liear what others had to say, even when his visitors were 
 3''0ung men who could have suggested httk to a mind so ex- 
 perienced and well-informed as his ; but he evidently knew 
 his power in this respect, and loved (when in familiar 
 society) to be " drawn out " on questions of literature, art, 
 morals, biography, or human nature. He had been an im- 
 mense reader all his life, and a very discursive reader too- 
 much more so, I take it, than Lamb ; and he constantly 
 surprised you by the extent of his knowledge. It is related 
 of Dr Maginn that nobody ever saw him reading a book, 
 and yet that he seemed to know all books. If the 
 statement is correct, I should judge that his knowledge was 
 superficial, as the literary knowledge of any man must be 
 who is " never seen to read." But Leigh Hunt's acquaint- 
 ance with books would bear examination, and you could not 
 visit his house without seeing how it was that he managed 
 to traverse so large a territory. At whatever hour you went 
 in, you were certain to find him wnth a book in his hand, 
 unless he was writing, and then the volumes in immediate 
 requisition stood piled up high on either hand. He de- 
 pended a good deal on the London Library, for his own 
 collection was not large ; but most of his books were ster- 
 ling, and so carefully read that they showed marks of the 
 author's pen, in " scorings " and annotations, on almost 
 every page. They are now, I believe, in America, and it is 
 to be hoped that some one will publish these notes, which 
 were particularly rich, I recollect, in Todd's "Spenser," in 
 Croker's edition of Boswell's " Life of Johnson," and in the 
 English translation of Plato published in " Bohn's Classical 
 Library." Leigh Hunt's knowledge of literature extended 
 over four languages besides his own, from all of which he
 
 XXVIU LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 translated, — viz., Greek, Latin, Italian, and French. He had 
 no knowledge of German, nor, I imagine, any great sym- 
 pathy with the German genius, the complexion of his own 
 mind being Southern — a mingling of the classic and the ro- 
 mantic ; but he knew Goethe through translations, and ap- 
 preciated him. It was the essence of this varied knowledge 
 that you got in his conversation, mingled with the results of 
 his own meditations, and the experiences of a chequered 
 life ; all lit up by a soft and lambent wit, a singularly quaint 
 and kindly humour, and a fancy that was never at a loss for 
 the aptest illustrations, and the happiest turns of expression. 
 All through the evening, the books referred to in conversa- 
 tion accumulated on the little table placed at the side of his 
 chair ; passages from favourite poets, or (though less fre- 
 quently) prose authors, w^ere occasionally read in a fine 
 sonorous voice, and with exquisite modulation ; and one 
 o'clock in the morning would often take you unawares. 
 The beautiful cheerfulness of the veteran — a cheerfulness 
 with no hint of flippancy, and indeed not seldom infinitely 
 touching in its reflected lights of tender and regretful 
 memory ; the easy grace of his manners ; his boundless 
 charity ; his belief in the essential goodness of human 
 nature ; his hopefulness for the future of the world, and his 
 profound, though informal, piety ; — all these things contri- 
 buted to the peculiar charm of his companionship. I rank 
 those evenings among my most cherished recollections, 
 and prize them as we prize that which has gone from us for 
 ever. The qualities which make a man of genius wxiat he 
 is, are never to be met with again in precisely the same 
 combination. We may find a second time friends as kind 
 and as intellectual ; but a certain type of character is lost — •
 
 LEIGH HUNT. XXIX 
 
 at least to his personal intimates — when a man like Leigh 
 Hunt is removed from amongst us. It is as if a peculiar 
 species of flower had died out, and, though other species 
 may be as fine or finer, they will not supply the gap. 
 
 The great ambition of Leigh Hunt was to achieve a 
 name as a poet ; but he will be known to posterity less in 
 connexion with his verse than with his prose. Undoubtedly 
 he has written some very beautiful poetry. The " Story of 
 Rimini " has many passages full of a rich, southern luxury 
 of feeling and warmth of tone, and others that are steeped 
 in pathos. " Captain Sword and Captain Pen " exhibits in 
 parts a terrible power of word-painting, descriptive of the 
 agonies of a battle-field. Many of his lighter pieces are 
 distinguished by sparkling wit and fancy, and the two 
 Eastern poems, " Mahmoud " and " Abou ben Adhem," are 
 models of powerful and concentrated narrative. But his 
 imagination was not strong ; he could seldom get rid of his 
 own personality ; and what he has so admirably said of 
 Charles Lamb, in explaining his deficiencies in this respect, 
 may also be pronounced of himself. " He sat at the receipt 
 of impressions, rather than commanded them."* His 
 dramas are charming ni many respects ; but they are not 
 sufficiently dramatic to keep a place on the stage. The 
 critical habit, or disposition to comment, was more natural 
 to him than the power to originate ; and thus we often find 
 his poems spoiled by the intrusion of what is simply essay- 
 writing in verse. It is in fact as an essayist and critic that 
 Leigh Hunt will mainly live. The papers contained in the 
 present volume are but a fraction of his writings in this 
 respect ; but they show not a little of the riches of his 
 * Introductory Essay to " The Book of the Sonnet."
 
 XXX LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 mind. They are among the most admirable essays in the 
 English language. Buoyant in manner as they mostly are, 
 they have a substratum of thought. A kindly wisdom looks 
 out of them, smiling, yet often with a gravity beneath the 
 smile; for they are deeply and tenderly human. In early 
 life, the southern gaiety of Hunt's animal spirits occasionally 
 found vent in a sort of boyish friskiness, which people 
 mistook for frivolity, though it was not really so ; but after 
 middle age this sobered down into a graver, though never 
 a less cheerful, mood. Now gay, now humorous, now witty, 
 now reflective, now analytical, and invariably literary, 
 these essays pass through many lights and shades of feeling, 
 and are at home in all. Addison had not half as much 
 variety, and his views of life and nature had nothing like the 
 subtlety and depth of Hunt's. Lamb had a richer humour, 
 a more singular personality, a more tragic intensity of 
 pathos ; but his range was less — his sympathies were not so 
 catholic. Leigh Hunt's criticism may never have reached 
 the majestic and sonorous heights of Hazlitt's masterpieces; 
 it had less of eloquence and force ; but it was more reliable 
 and more even. Its quality was exquisitely refined and 
 delicate — the result of a natural sensibility, educated and 
 trained by long and careful study ; but it is a mistake to 
 suppose that its only characteristic was sympathy. No 
 doubt, sympathy was a chief element; but not more so than 
 judgment. Leigh Hunt has never had justice done him 
 for the excellent sense and sanity of his mind. Where 
 Coleridge would rave, and Hazlitt be paradoxical, and 
 Lamb grow hysterical with emotion, or beautifully quaint 
 with fantastic eccentricity. Hunt seemed always to preserve 
 the balance of his faculties. With great powers of admir-
 
 LEIGH HUNT. XXXJ 
 
 ation, a strong sense of enjoyment, and an ardent dis- 
 position, he nevertheless appeared to know the exact hne 
 beyond which hterary worship passes into superstition. 
 
 Like all men who are oblig'^d to write for bread, Leigh 
 Hunt wrote many things that do not merit reprinting. Of 
 his numerous periodicals, he only succeeded in establishing 
 the Examiner ; and the reasons are too obvious to permit 
 of the result being surprising. They were started with 
 insufficient capital, and were made to depend too much on 
 the efforts of one man. After a while, Leigh Hunt would be 
 ill or overworked. Then came excuses that the editor could 
 not furnish the usual amount of matter, and old articles, 
 that had appeared years before in other periodicals, would 
 be made to do duty for original matter, in default of a staft 
 of contributors to fall back upon. It is amusing sometimes 
 to observe Hunt's excessively personal confidences with the 
 reader under the dual shadow of the editorial "we." His 
 greatest undertaking in the way of periodicals was the 
 Tatlcr, a daily paper of which he was the chief support, and 
 in which he wrote literary criticisms, theatrical criticisms 
 (penned in the small hours at the printing-office, after seeing 
 the play), and general articles. He continued this tre- 
 mendous work for nearly a year and a half, and was almost 
 killed by the fatigue and the late hours. One of his 
 characteristics has not been fully recognised, and that was, 
 his great capacity for work. He had periods of enforced 
 idleness, and, like all bookish men, he was fond of medi- 
 tative ease. But his best writings were the result of very 
 considerable labour and painstaking ; of the most con- 
 scientious investigation of facts, where facts were needed ; 
 and of a comiDlete devotion of his faculties towards the
 
 XXXH LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 object to be accomplished. Even when an old man, he 
 would sometimes sit up through the greater part of the 
 night, in order to complete work in hand. Notwithstand- 
 ing his great experience, he was not (except on special 
 occasions) a very rapid writer. He corrected, excised, 
 reconsidered, and elaborated his productions (unless when 
 pressed for time) with the most minute attention to details; 
 and the habit increased on him the older he grew. 
 
 In his earlier days, the life of Leigh Hunt was a life of 
 war; in his later days it was a life of peace, chequered 
 with sorrows. The courage with which, in poverty and 
 trouble, he fought the enemies of his youth, dealing hard 
 blows and grievous gashes, neither giving nor asking 
 quarter, and varying his attacks from prose to verse with 
 infinite spirit and address, is one of the gallantest things on 
 record. In the last five-and-twenty years of his long life, 
 however, he desired to be at peace with all men, and to 
 help the world by sympathy rather than by antagonism. In 
 both ways (for both are necessary) he aided the march ot 
 humanity, and, though he suffered much, he did not miss 
 his reward. He gathered friends and admirers about him 
 while he was yet in the flesh, and his memory is a perfume 
 in the heart of literature. 
 
 EDMUND OLLIER. 
 
 *^* The essays contained in the present volume are all from the 
 Indicator, and are reprinted from the first edition of that work. They 
 are among the best and most characteristic of their author's productions, 
 and several (as the reader will find pointed out in their respective places) 
 were special favourites with Lamb, Hazlitt, Keats, &c.
 
 ESSAYS BY LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 SOCIAL GENEALOGY. 
 
 IT is a curious and pleasant thing to consider, that a link of 
 personal acquaintance can be traced up from the authors 
 of our own times to those of Shakspeare, and to Shak- 
 speare himself. Ovid, in recording with fondness his intimacy 
 with Propertius and Horace, regrets that he had only seen 
 Virgil (Trist., Book IV. v. 51). But still he thinks the sight of 
 him worth remembering. And Pope, when a child, prevailed 
 on some friends to take him to a coffee-house which Dryden 
 frequented, merely to look at him ; which he did, to his great 
 satisfaction. Now, such of us as have shaken hands with a 
 living poet, might be able, perhaps, to reckon up a series of 
 connectmg shakes to the very hand that wrote of Hamlet, and 
 of Falstaff, and of Desdemona. 
 
 With some living poets, it is certain. There is Thomas 
 Moore, for instance, who knew Sheridan. Sheridan knew John- 
 son, who was the friend of Savage, who knew Steele, who knew 
 Pope. Pope was intimate with Congreve, and Congreve with 
 Dryden. Dryden is said to have visited Milton. Milton is 
 said to have known Davenant ; and to have been saved by him 
 
 C 
 
 2,
 
 34 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 from the revenge of the restored court, in return for having 
 saved Davenant from the revenge of the Commonwealth. But if 
 the link between Dryden and Milton, and Milton and Davenant, 
 is somewhat apocryphal, or rather dependent on tradition (for 
 Richardson, the painter, tells us the latter from Pope, who had 
 it from Betterton the actor, one of Davenant's company), it may 
 be carried at once from Dryden to Davenant, with whom he 
 was unquestionably intimate. Davenant, then, knew Hobbes, 
 who knew Bacon, who knew Ben Jonson, who was intimate with 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, Chapman, Donne, Drayton, Camden, 
 Selden, Clarendon, Sydney, Raleigh, and perhaps all the great 
 men of Elizabeth's and James's time, the greatest of them all 
 undoubtedly. Thus have we a link of " beamy hands " from 
 our own times up to Shakspeare. 
 
 In this friendly genealogy we have omitted the numerous 
 side-branches or common friendships ; but of those we shall 
 give an account by and by. It may be mentioned, however, in 
 order not to omit Spenser, that Davenant resided some time in 
 the family of Sir Fulke Greville Lord Brooke, the friend of Sir 
 Philip Sydney. Spenser's intimacy with Sydney is mentioned 
 by himself, in a letter, still extant, to Gabriel Harvey. 
 
 We will now give the authorities for our intellectual pedigree. 
 Sheridan is mentioned in Boswell as being admitted to the cele- 
 brated club, of which Johnson, Goldsmith, and others were 
 members. He had then, if we remember, just written his 
 " School for Scandal," which made him the more welcome. Of 
 Johnson's friendship with Savage (we cannot help beginning 
 the sentence with his favourite leading preposition), the well- 
 known Life is an interesting and honourable record. It is said 
 that in the commencement of their friendship they have some- 
 times wandered together about London for want of a lodging ; 
 — more likely, for Savage's want of it, and Johnson's fear of 
 offending him by offering a share of his own. But we do not 
 remember how this circumstance is related by BoswelL 
 
 Savage's intimacy with Steele is recorded in a pleasant anec-
 
 SOCIAL GENEALOGY. 35 
 
 dote, which he told Johnson. Sir Richard once desired him, 
 " with an air of the utmost importance," says his biographer, 
 " to come very early to his house the next morning. Mr Savage 
 came as he had promised, found the chariot at the door, and 
 Sir Richard waiting for him, and ready to go out. What was 
 intended, and whither they were to go, Savage could not con- 
 jecture, and was not willing to inquire ; but immediately seated 
 himself with Sir Richard. The coachman was ordered to drive, 
 and they hurried with the utmost expedition to Hyde Park 
 Corner, where they stopped at a petty tavern, and retired to a 
 private room. Sir Richard then informed him that he intended 
 to publish a pamphlet, and that he had desired him to come 
 thither that he might write for him. They soon sat down to 
 the work. Sir Richard dictated, and Savage wrote, till the 
 dinner that had been ordered was put upon the table. Savage 
 was surprised at the meanness of the entertainment, and after 
 some hesitation ventured to ask for wine, which Sir Richard, 
 not without reluctance, ordered to be brought. They then 
 finished their dinner, and proceeded in their pamphlet, which 
 they concluded in the afternoon. 
 
 " Mr Savage then imagined that his task was over, and 
 expected that Sir Richard would call for the reckoning, and 
 return home ; but his expectations deceived him, for Sir Richard 
 told him that he was without money, and that the pamphlet 
 must be sold before the dinner could be paid for ; and Savage 
 was therefore obliged to go and offer their new production to 
 sale for two guineas, which with some difficulty he obtained. 
 Sir Richard then returned home, having retired that day only 
 to avoid his creditors, and composed the pamphlet only to dis- 
 charge his reckoning." 
 
 Steele's acquaintance with Pope, who wrote some papers for 
 his " Guardian," appears in the letters and other works of the 
 wits of that time. Johnson supposes that it was his friendly 
 interference which attempted to bring Pope and Addison 
 together after a jealous separation. Pope's friendship with
 
 36 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 Congreve appears also in his letters. He also dedicated the 
 " Iliad " to him, over the heads of peers and patrons. Congreve, 
 whose conversation most likely partook of the elegance and wit 
 of his writings, and whose manners appear to have rendered 
 him an universal favourite, had the honour in his youth of attract- 
 ing singular respect and regard from Dryden. He was publicly 
 hailed by him as his successor, and affectionately bequeathed 
 the care of his laurels. Dryden did not know who had been 
 looking at him in the coffee-house. 
 
 "Already I am worn with cares and age, 
 And just abandoning th' ungrateful stage ; 
 Unprofitably kept at Heaven's expense, 
 I live a rent-charge on His providence. 
 But you, whom every Muse and Grace adorn, 
 Whom I foresee to better fortune born, 
 Be kind to my remains ; and oh defend, 
 Against your judgment, your departed friend ! 
 Let not th' insulting foe my fame pursue, 
 But shade those laurels which descend to you." 
 
 Congreve did so with great tenderness. 
 
 Dryden is reported to have asked Milton's permission to turn 
 his " Paradise Lost " into a rhyming tragedy, which he called 
 " The State of Innocence, or the Fall of Man ;" a work such as 
 might be expected from such a mode of alteration. The vener- 
 able poet is said to have answered, " Ay, young man, you may 
 tag my verses if you will." Be the connexion, however, of 
 Dryden with Milton, or of Milton with Davenant, as it may, 
 Dryden wrote the alteration of Shakspeare's " Tempest," as it 
 is now perpetrated, in conjunction with Davenant. They were 
 great hands, but they should not have touched the pure gran- 
 deur of Shakspeare. The intimacy of Davenant with Hobbes 
 is to be seen by their correspondence prefixed to " Gondibert." 
 Hobbes was at one time secretary to Lord Bacon, a singularly 
 illustrious instance of servant and master. Bacon is also sup- 
 posed to have had Ben Jonson for a retainer in some capacity ; 
 but it is certain that Jonson had his acquaintance, for he records 
 it in his " Discoveries." And had it been otherwise, his link
 
 SOCIAL GENEALOGY. 37 
 
 with the preceding writers could be easily supplied through the 
 medium of Greville and Sydney, and indeed of many others of 
 his contemporaries. Here, then, we arrive at Shakspeare, and 
 feel the electric virtue of his hand. Their intimacy, dashed a 
 little, perhaps, with jealousy on the part of Jonson, but main- 
 tained to the last by dint of the nobler part of him and of 
 Shakspeare's irresistible fineness of nature, is a thing as notori- 
 ous as their fame. Fuller says : — " Many were the wit-combates 
 betwixt [Shakspeare] and Ben Jonson, which two I behold like 
 a Spanish great galleon and an English man-of-war. Master 
 Jonson (like the former) was built far higher in learning : solid, 
 but slow in his performances. Shakspeare, with the English 
 man-of-war, lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with 
 all tides, tack about, and take advantage of all winds, by the 
 quickness of his wit and invention." This is a happy simile, 
 with the exception of what is insinuated about Jonson's greater 
 solidity. But let Jonson show for himself the affection with 
 which he regarded one who did not irritate or trample down 
 rivalry, but rose above it like the quiet and all-gladdening sun, 
 and turned emulation to worship :— 
 
 " Soul of the age ! 
 Th' applause ! delight ! the wonder of our stage I 
 My Shakspeare, rise ! I will not lodge thee by 
 Chaucer or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 
 A little .urther, to make thee a room ; 
 Thou art a monument without a tomb; 
 And art alive still, while thy book doth live. 
 And we have wits to read, and praise to give. 
 
 He was not of an age, but for all time.''
 
 PLEASANT RECOLLECTIONS CONNECTED 
 WITH THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 ONE of the best secrets of enjoyment is the art of cultivat- 
 ing pleasant associations. It is an art that of necessity- 
 increases with the stock of our knowledge ; and though 
 in acquiring our knowledge we must encounter disagreeable 
 associations also, yet, if we secure a reasonable quantity of 
 health by the way, these will be far less in number than the 
 agreeable ones : for, unless the circumstances which gave rise 
 to the associations press upon us, it is only from want of health 
 that the power of throwing off these burdensome images be- 
 comes suspended. 
 
 And the beauty of this art is, that it does not insist upon 
 pleasant materials to work on. Nor, indeed, does health. Health 
 will give us a vague sense of delight, in the midst of objects 
 that would teaze and oppress us during sickness. But healthy 
 association peoples this vague sense with agreeable images. It 
 will relieve us, even when a painful sympathy with the distresses 
 of others becomes a part of the very health of our minds. For 
 instance, we can never go through St Giles's, but the sense of 
 the extravagant inequalities in human condition presses more 
 forcibly upon us ; but some pleasant images are at hand even 
 there to refresh it. They do not displace the others, so as to 
 injure the sense of public duty which they excite ; they only 
 serve to keep our spirits fresh for their task, and hinder them
 
 PLEASANT RECOLLECTIONS OF THE METROPOLIS. 39 
 
 from running into desperation or hopelessness. In St Giles's 
 Church lie Chapman, the earliest and best translator of Homer; 
 and Andrew Marvell, the wit and patriot, whose poverty 
 Charles II. could not bribe. We are as sure to think of these 
 two men, and of all the good and pleasure they have done to 
 the world, as of the less happy objects about us. The steeple 
 of the church itself, too, is a handsome one ; and there is a 
 flock of pigeons in that neighbourhood, which we have stood 
 with great pleasure to see careering about it of a fine afternoon, 
 when a western wind had swept back the smoke towards the 
 city, and showed the white of the stone steeple piercing up into 
 a blue sky. So much for St Giles's, whose very name is a 
 nuisance with some. It is dangerous to speak disrespectfully of 
 old districts. Who would suppose that the Borough was the 
 most classical ground in the metropolis ? And yet it is un- 
 doubtedly so. The Globe Theatre was there, of which Shak- 
 speare himself was a proprietor, and for which he wrote his plays. 
 Globe Lane, in which it stood, is still extant, we believe, under 
 that name. It is probable that he lived near it : it is certain 
 that he must have been much there. It is also certain that on 
 the Borough side of the river, then and still called the Bank- 
 side, in the same lodging, having the same wardrobe, and, some 
 say, with other participations more remarkable, lived Beaumont 
 and Fletcher. In the Borough also, at St Saviour's, lie Fletcher 
 and Massinger in one grave ; in the same church, under a 
 monument and effigy, lies Chaucer's contemporary, Gower ; and 
 from an inn in the Borough, the existence of which is still 
 boasted, and the site pointed out by a picture and inscription, 
 Chaucer sets out his pilgrims and himself on their famous road 
 to Canterbury. 
 
 To return over the water, who would expect anything poetical 
 from East Smithfield ? Yet there was born the most poetical 
 even of poets, — Spenser. Pope was born within the sound of 
 Bow-bell, in a street no less anti-poetical than Lombard Street. 
 So was Gray, in Cornhill. So was Milton, in Bread Street,
 
 40 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 Cheapside. The presence of the same great poet and patriot 
 has given happy memories to many parts of the metropolis. 
 He hved in St Bride's Churchyard, Fleet Street ; in Aldersgate 
 Street, in Jewin Street, in Barbican, in Bartholomew Close ; in 
 Holborn, looking back to Lincoln's Inn Fields ; in Holborn, 
 near Red Lion Square ; in Scotland Yard ; in a house looking 
 to St James's Park, now belonging to an eminent writer on legis- 
 lation, and lately occupied by a celebrated critic and meta- 
 physician ; and he died in the Artillery Walk, Bunhill Fields, 
 and was buried in St Giles's, Cripplegate, 
 
 Ben Jonson, who was born " in Hartshorne Lane, near Char- 
 ing Cross," was at one time " master " of a theatre in Barbican. 
 He appears also to have visited a tavern called the Sun "and 
 Moon, in Aldersgate Street, and is known to have frequented, 
 with Beaumont and others, the famous one called the Mermaid, 
 which was in Cornhill. Beaum^ont, writing to him from the 
 country in an epistle full of jovial wit, says : — 
 
 "The sun (which doth the greatest comfort bring 
 To absent friends, because the self-same thing 
 They know they see, however absent) is 
 Here our best haymaker (forgive me this ! 
 It is our country style) : — in this warm shine 
 I lie, and dream of your full Mermaid wine. 
 
 Methinks the little wit I had is lost 
 
 Since I saw you: for wit is like a rest 
 
 Held up at tennis, which men do the best 
 
 With the best gamesters. What things have we seen 
 
 Done at the Mermaid ! heard words that have been 
 
 So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, 
 
 As if that every one from whom they came 
 
 Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, 
 
 And had resolved to live a fool the rest 
 
 Of his dull life then when there hath been thrown 
 
 Wit able enough to justify the town 
 
 For three days past, — wit that might warrant be 
 
 For the whole city to talk foolishly 
 
 Till that were cancell'd ; and, when that was gone. 
 
 We left an air behind us, which alone 
 
 Was able to make the two next companies 
 
 Right witty; — though but downright fools, mere wi5c.
 
 PLEASANT RECOLLECTIONS OF THE METROPOLIS. 4 1 
 
 The Other celebrated resort of the great wits of that time 
 was the Devil Tavern, in Fleet Street, close to Temple Bar. 
 Ben Jonson lived also in Bartholomew Close, where Milton after- 
 wards lived. It is in the passage from the cloisters of Christ's 
 Hospital into St Bartholomew's. Aubrey gives it as a com- 
 mon opinion, that at the time when Jonson's father-in-law made 
 him help him in his business of bricklayer, he worked with his 
 own hands upon the Lincoln's Inn garden-wall, which looks 
 upon Chancery Lane, and which seems old enough to have some 
 of his illustrious brick-and-mortar still remaining. 
 
 Under the cloisters in Christ's Hospital (which stand in the 
 heart of the city unknown to most persons, like a house kept 
 invisible for young and learned eyes) lie buried a multitude of 
 persons of all ranks ; for it was once a monastery of Grey Friars. 
 Among them is John of Bourbon, one of the prisoners taken at 
 the battle of Agincourt. Here also lies Thomas Burdett, ancestor 
 of the present Sir Francis, who was put to death in the reign 
 of Edward IV., for wishing the horns of a favourite white 
 stag, which the king had killed, in the body of the person who 
 advised him to do it. And here too (a sufficing contrast) lies 
 Isabella, wife of Edward II. — 
 
 " She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, 
 That tore the bowels of her mangled mate." 
 
 Gray. 
 
 Her "mate's" heart was buried with her, and placed upon her 
 bosom ! a thing that looks like the fantastic incoherence of a 
 dream. It is well we did not know of her presence when at 
 school ; or, after reading one of Shakspeare's tragedies, we 
 should have run twice as fast round the cloisters at night-time 
 as we used. Camden, " the nourice of Antiquitie," received 
 part of his education in this school ; and here also, not to men- 
 tion a variety of others known in the literary world, were bred 
 two of the most powerful and deep-spirited writers of the present 
 day ; whose visits to the cloisters we well remember.
 
 42 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 In a palace on the site of Hatton Garden, died John of Gaunt. 
 Brook House, at the corner of the street of that name in Hol- 
 born, was the residence of the celebrated Sir Fulke Greville, 
 Lord Brook, the "friend of Sir Philip Sydney." In the same 
 street died, by a voluntary death, of poison, that extraordinary 
 person, Thomas Chatterton — 
 
 "The sleepless soul, that perish'd in his pride." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 He was buried in the workhouse in Shoe Lane ; — a circum- 
 stance, at which one can hardly help feeling a movement of 
 indignation. Yet what could beadles and parish officers know 
 about such a being? No more than Horace Walpole. In 
 Gray's Inn lived, and in Gray's Inn garden meditated. Lord 
 Bacon. In Southampton Row, Holborn, Cowper was a fellow- 
 clerk to an attorney with the future Lord Chancellor Thurlow. 
 At the Fleet Street corner of Chancery Lane, Cowley, we 
 believe, was born. In Salisbury Court, Fleet Street, was the 
 house of Thomas Sackville, first Earl of Dorset, the precursor 
 of Spenser, and one of the authors of the first regular English 
 tragedy. On the demolition of this house, part of the ground 
 was occupied by the celebrated theatre built after the Restora- 
 tion, at which Betterton performed, and of which Sir William 
 Davenant was manager. Lastly, here was the house and print- 
 ing-office of Richardson. In Bolt Court, not far distant, lived 
 Dr Johnson, who resided also for some time in the Temple. 
 A list of his numerous other residences is to be found in 
 Boswell.* Congreve died in Surrey Street, in the Strand, at 
 his own house. At the corner of Beaufort Buildings was Lilly's, 
 the perfumer, at whose house the " Tatler'^ was published. In 
 Maiden Lane, Covent Garden, Voltaire lodged while in London, 
 at the sign of the White Peruke. Tavistock Street was then, 
 we believe, the Bond Street of the fashionable world ; as Bow 
 
 * The Temple must have had many eminent inmates. Among them, it is believed, 
 V/as Chaucer, who is also said, upon the strength of an old record, to havo been fined 
 two shillings for beating a Franciscan friar in Fleet Street.
 
 PLEASANT RECOLLECTIONS OF THE METROPOLIS. 43 
 
 Street was before. The change of Bow Street from fashion to 
 the police, with the theatre still in attendance, reminds one of 
 the spirit of the " Beggar's Opera." Button's Coffee-house, the 
 resort of the wits of Queen Anne's time, was in Russell Street, — 
 we believe, near where the Hummums now stand. We think 
 we recollect reading, also, that in the same street, at one of the 
 corners of Bow Street, was the tavern where Dryden held regal 
 possession of the arm-chair. The whole of Covent Garden is 
 classic ground, from its association with the dramatic and other 
 wits of the times of Dryden and Pope. Butler lived, perhaps 
 died, in Rose Street, and was buried in Covent Garden Church- 
 yard ; where Peter Pindar the other day followed him. IR 
 Leicester Square, on the site of Miss Linwood's exhibition and 
 other houses, was the town mansion of the Sydneys, Earls of 
 Leicester, the family of Sir Philip and Algernon Sydney. In 
 the same square lived Sir Joshua Reynolds. Dryden lived and 
 died in Gerrard Street, in a house which looked backwards into 
 the garden of Leicester House. Newton lived in St Martin's 
 Street, on the south side of the square. Steele lived in Bury 
 Street, St James's : he furnishes an illustrious precedent for the 
 loungers in St James's Street, where a scandal-monger of those 
 times delighted to detect Isaac Bickerstaff in the person of 
 Captain Steele, idling before the coffee-houses, and jerking his 
 leg and stick alternately against the pavement. We have men- 
 tioned the birth of Ben Jonson near Charing Cross. Spenser 
 died at an inn, where he put up on his arrival from Ireland, in 
 King Street, Westminster, — the same which runs at the back of 
 Parliament Street to the Abbey. Sir Thomas More lived at 
 Chelsea. Addison lived and died in Holland House, Kensing- 
 ton, now the residence of the accomplished nobleman who takes 
 his title from it. In Brook Street, Grosvener Square, lived 
 Handel ; and in Bentinck Street, Manchester Square, Gibbon. 
 We have omitted to mention that De Foe kept a hosier's shop 
 in Cornhill ; and that on the site of the present Southampton 
 Buildings, Chancery Lane, stood the mansion of the Wriothes-
 
 44 LEIGH HUNT S ESSAYS. 
 
 leys, Earls of Southampton, one of whom was the celebrated 
 friend of Shakspeare. But what have we not omitted also ? 
 No less an illustrious head than the Boar s, in Eastcheap, — the 
 Boar's Head Tavern, the scene of Falstaff's revels. We believe 
 the place is still marked out by a similar sign. But who knows 
 not Eastcheap and the Boar's Head ? Have we not all been 
 there time out of mind ? And is it not a more real as well as 
 notorious thing to us than the London Tavern, or the Crown 
 and Anchor, or the Hummums, or White's, or What's-his- 
 name's, or any other of your contemporary and fleeting taps ? 
 
 But a line or two, a single sentence, in an author of former 
 times, will often give a value to the commonest object. It not 
 only gives us a sense of its duration, but we seem to be looking 
 at it in company with its old observer ; and we are reminded at 
 the same time of all that was agreeable in him. We never saw, 
 for instance, even the gilt ball at the top of the College of 
 Physicians, without thinking of that pleasant mention of it in 
 Garth's " Dispensary," and of all the wit and generosity of that 
 amiable man : — 
 
 " Not far from that most celebrated place,* 
 Where angry Justice shows her awful face ; 
 Where little villains must submit to fate, 
 That great ones may enjoy the world in state ; 
 There stands a dome, majestic to the sight, 
 And sumptuous arches bear its oval height : 
 A golden globe, placed high with artful skill, 
 Seems, to the distant sight, a gilded pill." 
 
 Gay, in describing the inconvenience of the late narrow part 
 of the Strand, by St Clement's, took away a portion of its un- 
 pleasantness to the next generation, by associating his memory 
 with the objects in it. We did not miss without regret even the 
 " combs " that hung " dangling in your face " at a shop which 
 he describes, and which was standing till the improvements 
 took place. The rest of the picture is still alive, ("Trivia," 
 Book III.) 
 
 * The OKI Bailey.
 
 PLEASANT RECOLLECTIONS OF THE METROPOLIS. 4$ 
 
 " Where the fair columns of St Clement stand, 
 
 Whose straiten'd bounds encroach upon the Strand t 
 Where the low pent-house bows the walker's head, 
 And the rough pavement wounds the yielding tread ; 
 Where not a post protects the narrow space, 
 And, strung in twines, combs dangle in thy face ; 
 Summon at once thy courage, rouse thy care. 
 Stand firm, look back, be resolute, beware. 
 Forth issuing from steep lanes, the collier's steeds 
 Drag the black load ; another cart succeeds ; 
 Team follows team, crowds heap'd on crowds appear, 
 And wait impatient till the road grow clear." 
 
 There is a touch in the winter picture in the same poem, 
 vhich everybody will recognise : — 
 
 " At White's the harness'd chairman idly stands. 
 And swings around his waist his tingling hands." 
 
 The bewildered passenger in the Seven Dials is compared to 
 Theseus in the Cretan Labyrinth. And thus we come round to 
 the point at which we began. 
 
 Before we rest our wings, however, we must take another dart 
 over the city, as far as Stratford-at-Bow, where, with all due 
 tenderness for boarding-school French, a joke of Chaucer's has 
 existed as a piece of local humour for nearly four hundred and 
 fifty years. Speaking of the Prioress, who makes such a delicate 
 figure among his Canterbury Pilgrims, he tells us, among her 
 other accomplishments, that^ 
 
 " French she spake full faire and featously ;" 
 
 adding, with great gravity — 
 
 "After the school of Stratford-atte-Bowe ; 
 For French of Paris was to her unknowe." 
 
 [Note. — The "eminent writer on legislation " mentioned in p. 40 
 as occupying Milton's house in Westminster, was Jeremy Bentham ; 
 the previous tenant — a "celebrated critic and metaphysician" — was 
 Hazlitt. The two "powerful and deep-spirited writers" alluded to as 
 scholars at Christ's Hospital (p. 41), were Coleridge and Lamb. London 
 has altered a good deal since this essay was written. The College of 
 Physicians, for instance, has gone, and Picket Street, which Leigh 
 Hunt mentions as a recent improvement (it supplanted Butcher Row), 
 L- now a thing of the past. — E. O.J
 
 ON THE HOUSEHOLD GODS OF THE 
 ANCIENTS. 
 
 THE Ancients had three kinds of household gods, — the 
 Daimon (Daemon) or Genius, the Penates, and the Lares. 
 The first was supposed to be a spirit allotted to every 
 man from his birth, some say with a companion, and that one 
 of them was a suggester of good thoughts, and the other of evil. 
 It seems, however, that the Genius was a personification of the 
 conscience, or rather of the prevailing impulses of the mind, or 
 the other self of a man ; and it was in this sense most likely 
 that Socrates condescended to speak of his well-known Daemon, 
 Genius, or Familiar Spirit, who, as he was a good man, always 
 advised him to a good end. The Genius was thought to paint 
 ideas upon the mind in as lively a manner as if in a looking- 
 glass ; upon which we chose which of them to adopt. Spenser, 
 a most learned as well as imaginative poet, describes it, in 
 one of his most comprehensive though not most poetical 
 stanzas, as 
 
 " That celestial Powre, to whom the care 
 Of life, and generation of all 
 Tliat lives, pertaine in charge particulare ; 
 Who wondrous things concerning our welfare, 
 And straunge phantomes, doth lett us ofte foresee, 
 And ofte of secret ills bids us beware : 
 That is our Selfe, whom though we do not sec. 
 Vet each doth in himselfe it well perceive to bee. 
 
 " Therefore a god him sage antiquity 
 Did wisely make." — Faery Queene, Book II. St. 47.
 
 ON THE HOUSEHOLD GODS OF THE ANCIENTS. 47 
 
 Of the belief in an Evil Genius, a celebrated example is fur- 
 nished in Plutarch's account of Brutus's vision, of which Shak- 
 speare has given so fine a version (Julius Caesar, Act IV. sc. 3). 
 Beliefs of this kind seem traceable from one superstition to 
 another, and in some instances are no doubt immediately so. 
 But fear, and ignorance, and even the humility of knowledge, 
 are at hand to furnish them, where precedent is wanting. There 
 is no doubt, however, that the Romans, who copied and in 
 general vulgarised the Greek mythology, took their Genius from 
 the Greek Daimon ; and, as the Greek word has survived and 
 taken shape in the common word Daemon, which by scornful 
 reference to the Heathen religion came at last to signify a Devil, 
 so the Latin word Genius, not having been used by the trans- 
 lators of the Greek Testament, has survived with a better mean- 
 ing, and is employed to express our most genial and intellectual 
 faculties. Such and such a man is said to indulge his genius — 
 he has a genius for this and that art — he has a noble genius, 
 an airy genius, an original and peculiar genius. And as the 
 Romans, from attributing a genius to every man at his birth, 
 came to attribute one to places and to soils, and other more 
 comprehensive peculiarities, so we have adopted the same use 
 of the term into our poetical phraseology. We speak also of 
 the genius, or idiomatic peculiarity, of a language. One of the 
 most curious and edifying uses of the word Genius took place 
 in the English translation of the French "Arabian Nights," 
 which speaks of our old friends the Genie and the Genies. 
 This is nothing more than the French word retained from the 
 original translator, who applied the Roman word Genius to the 
 Arabian Dive or Elf. 
 
 One of the stories with which Pausanias has enlivened his 
 description of Greece is relative to a Genius. He says that 
 one of the companions of Ulysses having been killed by the 
 people of Temesa, they were fated to sacrifice a beautiful virgin 
 every year to his manes. They were about to immolate one as 
 usual, when Euthymus, a conqueror in the Olympic Games,
 
 48 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 touched with pity at her fate and admiration of her beauty, fel\ 
 in love with her, and resolved to try if he could not put an end 
 to so terrible a custom. He accordingly got permission from 
 the state to marry her, provided he could rescue her from her 
 dreadful expectant. He armed himself, waited in the temple, 
 and the Genius appeared. It was said to have been of an 
 appalling presence. Its shape was every way formidable, its 
 colour of an intense black ; and it was girded about with a wolf- 
 skin. But Euthymus fought and conquered it ; upon which it 
 fled madly, not only beyond the walls, but the utmost bounds of 
 Temesa, and rushed into the sea. 
 
 The Penates were gods of the house and family. Collectively 
 speaking, they also presided over cities, public roads, and at 
 last over all places with which men were conversant. Their 
 chief government, however, was supposed to be over the most 
 inner and secret part of the house, and the subsistence and wel- 
 fare of its inmates. They were chosen at will out of the number 
 of the gods, as the Roman in modern times chose his favourite 
 saint. In fact, they were only the higher gods themselves, 
 descending into a kind of household familiarity. They were the 
 personification of a particular Providence. The most striking 
 mention of the Penates which we can call to mind is in one of 
 Virgil's most poetical passages. It is where they appear to 
 -(Eneas, to warn him from Crete, and announce his destined 
 empire in Italy (Book III. v. 147) : — 
 
 " Nox erat, et terris animalia somniis habebat. 
 Effigies sacrse Divum, Phrygiique Penates, 
 Quos mecum a Troja, mediisque ex ignibus urbis 
 Extuleram, visi ante oculos adstare jacentis 
 In somnis, multo manifest! lumine, qua se 
 Plena per insertas fundebat Luna fenestras." 
 
 'Twas night ; and sleep was on all living things. 
 I lay, and saw before my veiy eyes 
 Dread shapes of gods, and Phrygian deities, 
 The great Penates ; whom with reverent joy 
 I bore from out the heart of burning Troy. 
 Plainly I saw them, standing in the light 
 Which the moon pour'd into the room that night.
 
 ON THE HOUSEHOLD GODS OF THE ANCIENTS. 49 
 
 And again, after they had addressed him : — 
 
 " Nee sopor illud erat ; sed coram agnoscere vultus, 
 Velata5;que comas, prjesentiaque oravidebar: 
 Turn gelidus toto manabat corpora sudor." 
 
 It was no dream: I saw them face to face, 
 Tlieir hooded hair ; and felt them so before 
 ^ly being, that I burst at every pore. 
 
 The Lares, or Lars, were the lesser and most familiar house- 
 hold gods ; and though their offices were afterwards extended 
 a good deal, in the same way as those of the Penates, with 
 whom they are often wrongly confounded, their principal sphere 
 was the fire-place. This was in the middle of the room ; and 
 the statues of the Lares generally stood about it in little niches. 
 They are said to have been in the shape of monkeys ; more 
 likely mannikins, or rude little human images. Some were 
 made of wax, some of stone, and others doubtless of any mate- 
 rial for sculpture. They were represented with good-natured 
 grinning countenances, were clothed in skins, and had little 
 dogs at their feet. Some writers make them the offspring of 
 the goddess Mania, who presided over the spirits of the dead ; 
 and suppose that originally they were the same as those spirits ; 
 which is a very probable as well as agreeable superstition, the 
 old nations of Italy having been accustomed to bury their dead 
 in their houses. Upon this supposition, the good or benevolent 
 spirits were called Familiar Lares, and the evil or malignant 
 ones Larvas and Lemures. Thus Milton, in his awful " Hymn 
 on the Nativity " :— 
 
 "In consecrated earth, 
 And on the holy hearth. 
 
 The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint. 
 In urns and altars round, 
 A drear and dying sound 
 
 Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; 
 And the chill marble seems to sweat, 
 While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat." 
 
 But Ovid tells a story of a gossiping nymph Lara, who, having 
 
 I)
 
 50 LEIGH HUNT S ESSAYS. 
 
 told Juno of her husband's amour with Juturna, was " sent to 
 hell " by him, and courted by Mercury on the road ; the conse- 
 quence of which was the birth of the Lares. This seems to 
 have a natural reference enough to the gossiping over fire- 
 places. 
 
 It is impossible not to be struck with the resemblance between 
 these lesser household gods and some of the offices of our old 
 English elves and fairies. But of them more by and by. 
 Dacier, in a note upon Horace (Book I., Od. 12), informs us, 
 that in some parts of Languedoc, in his time, the fire-place was 
 still called the Lar ; and that the name was also given to 
 houses. 
 
 Herrick, an excellent poet of the Anacreontic order in the 
 time of Elizabeth, whose works we shall often have occasion to 
 recommend to the reader, and who was visited perhaps more 
 than any poet that ever lived with a sense of the pleasantest 
 parts of the cheerful mythology of the ancients, has written 
 some of his lively little odes upon the Lares. We have not 
 them by us at this moment, but we remember one beginning — 
 
 " It was, and still my care is, 
 To worship you, the Lares." 
 
 We take the opportunity of the Lars being mentioned in it, 
 to indulge ourselves, and we hope our readers, in a little poem 
 of Martial's, very charming for its simplicity. It is an epitaph 
 on a child of the name of Erotion. 
 
 " Hie festinata requiescit Erotion umbra, 
 
 Crimine quam fati sexta peremit hiems. 
 Quisquis eris nostri post me regnator agelli, 
 
 Manibus exiguis annua justa dato. 
 Sic Lare perpetuo, sic turba sospite, solus 
 
 Flebilis in terra sit lapis iste tua." 
 
 THE EPITAPH OF EROTION. 
 
 Underneath this greedy stone 
 Lies little sweet Erotion ;
 
 ON THE HOUSEHOLD GODS OF THE ANCIENTS. 5 1 
 
 Whom tlie Fates, with hearts as cold. 
 
 Nipt away at six years old. 
 
 Thou, whoever thou mayst be, 
 
 That hast this small field after me, 
 
 Let the yearly rites be paid 
 
 To her little slender shade : 
 
 So shall no disease or jar 
 
 Hurt thy house, or chill thy Lar ; 
 
 But this tomb here be alone 
 
 The only melancholy stone. 
 
 [Note. — Herrick can hardly be called a poet of "the time of Eliza- 
 beth ", since he was only twelve years old when Elizabeth died, and 
 was living in the reign of Charles II. — E. O.]
 
 LUDICROUS EXAGGERATION. 
 
 MEN of wit sometimes lil:e to pamper a favourite joke 
 into exaggeration, — into a certain corpulence of face- 
 tiousness. Their relish of the thing makes them wish 
 it as large as possible ; and the social enjoyment of it is doubled 
 by its becoming more visible to the eyes of others. It is for 
 this reason that jests in company are sometimes built up by 
 one hand after another — " three-piled hyperboles " — till the over- 
 done Babel topples and tumbles down amidst a merry confusion 
 of tongues. 
 
 Falstaff was a great master of this art. He loved a joke <ts 
 large as himself ; witness his famous account of the men in 
 buckram. Thus he tells the Lord Chief-Justice that he had 
 lost his voice "with singing oi anilieins ;" and he calls Bar- 
 dolph's red nose "a perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire- 
 light ; " and says it has saved him " a thousand marks in links 
 and torches," walking with it " in the night betwixt tavern and 
 tavern." See how he goes heightening the account of his 
 recruits at every step : — " You would think that I had a hundred 
 and fifty tattered prodigals, lately come from swine-keeping, 
 froin eating draff and husks. A mad fellow met me on the way, 
 and told me I had unloaded all the gibbets, and pressed the 
 dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scare-crows, I '11 not 
 march through Coventry with them, that 's flat. Nay, and the 
 villains march wide betwixt the legs, as if they had gyves on ;
 
 LUDICROUS EXAGGERATION. 53 
 
 for, indeed, I had most of them out of prison. There 's but a 
 shirt and a half in all my company ; and the half-shirt is two 
 napkins, tacked together, and thrown over the shoulders like a 
 herald's coat without sleeves ! " 
 
 An old schoolfellow of ours (who, by the way, was more fond of 
 quoting Falstaff than any other of Shakspeare's characters) used 
 to be called upon for a story, with a view to a joke of this sort, it 
 being an understood thing that he had a privilege of exaggera- 
 tion, without committing his abstract love of truth. The reader 
 knows the old blunder attributed to Goldsmith about a dish of 
 green peas. Somebody had been applauded in company for 
 advising his cook to take some ill-dressed peas to Hammer- 
 smith, " because that was the way to Turn'em Green ; " upon 
 which Goldsmith is said to have gone and repeated the pun at 
 another table in this fashion: — "John should take those peas, 
 I think, to Hammersmith." "Why so, Doctor?" "Because 
 that is the way to make 'em green." Now, our friend would 
 give the blunder with this, sort of additional dressing. "At 
 sight of the dishes of vegetables. Goldsmith, who was at his 
 own house, took off the covers, one after another, with great 
 anxiety, till he found that peas were among them ; upon which 
 he rubbed his hands with an air of infinite and prospective 
 satisfaction. ' You are fond of peas, sir ?' said one of the com- 
 pany. ' Yes, sir,' said Goldsmith, ' particularly so. I eat 
 them all the year round. I mean, sir, every day in the season. 
 I do not think there is anybody so fond of peas as I am.' ' Is 
 there any particular reason, Doctor,' asked a gentleman pre- 
 sent, ' why you like peas so much, beyond the usual one of 
 their agreeable taste?' 'No, sir, none whatsoever; — none, I 
 assure you.' (Here Goldsmith showed a great wish to impress 
 this fact on his guests). ' I never heard any particular encomium 
 or speech about them from any one else ; but they carry their 
 own eloquence with them. They are things, sir, of infinite 
 taste.' (Here a laugh, which put Goldsmith in additional 
 spirits). ' But, bless me ! ' he exclaimed, looking narrowly
 
 54 LEIGH HUNT'S ESSAYS. 
 
 into the peas, ' I fear they are very ill done. They are abso- 
 lutely yellow instead of green ' (here he put a strong emphasis 
 on green), ' and, you know, peas should be emphatically green. 
 Greenness in a pea is a quality as essential as whiteness in a 
 lily. The cook has quite spoilt them ; but I '11 give the rogue 
 a lecture, gentlemen, with your permission.' Goldsmith then 
 rose and rang the bell violently for the cook, who came in, ready 
 booted and spurred. ' Ha ! ' exclaimed Goldsmith, 'those boots 
 and spurs are your salvation, you knave. Do you know, sir, 
 what you have done ? ' ' No, sir.' ' Why, you have made 
 the peas yellow, sir. Go instantly, and take 'em to Hammer- 
 smith.' ' To Hammersmich, sir ? ' cried the man, all in aston- 
 ishment, the guests being no less so. ' Please, sir, why am I 
 to take 'em to Hammersmith?' 'Because, sir,' and here 
 Goldsmith looked round with triumphant anticipation, ' that is 
 the way to render those peas green ! ' 
 
 There is a very humorous piece of exaggeration in " Butler's 
 Remains," a collection, by-the-bye, well worthy of " Hudibras," 
 and, indeed, of more interest to the general reader. Butler is 
 defrauded of his fame with readers of taste who happen to be no 
 politicians, when " Hudibras" is printed without this appendage. 
 The piece we allude to is a short description of Holland : — 
 
 "A country that draws fifty foot of water, 
 In which men live as in the hold of Nature ; 
 And when the sea does in upon them break. 
 And drowns a province, does bat spring a leak. 
 
 That feed, like cannibals, on other fishes. 
 And serve their cousin-germans up in dishes. 
 A land that rides at anchor, and is moor'd. 
 In which they do not live, but go aboard." 
 
 We do not know, and perhaps it would be impossible to dis- 
 cover, whether Butler wrote his minor pieces before those of the 
 great patriot Andrew Marvel!, who rivalled him in wit, and ex- 
 celled him in poetry. Marvel!, though born later, seems to have 
 been known earlier as an author. He was certainly known pub- 
 licly before him. But in the political poems of Marvell there
 
 LUDICROUS EXAGGERATION. 55 
 
 is a ludicrous " Character of Holland," which might be pro- 
 nounced to be either the copy or the original of Butler's, if in 
 those anti-Batavian times the Hollander had not been baited 
 by all the wits ; and were it not probable that the unwieldy 
 monotony of his character gave rise to much the same ludic- 
 rous imagery in many of their fancies. Marvell's wit has the 
 advantage of Butler's, not in learning or multiplicity of contrasts 
 (for nobody ever beat him there), but in a greater variety of 
 them, and in being able, from the more poetical turn of his 
 mind, to bring graver and more imaginative things to wait 
 upon his levity. 
 
 He thus opens the battery upon our amphibious neighbour : — 
 
 " Holland, that scarce deserves the name of laud. 
 As but the off-scouring of the British sand ; 
 And so much earth as was contributed 
 By English pilots when they heav'd the lead. 
 Or what by the ocean's slow alluvion fell, 
 Of shipwreck'd cockle and the mussel-shell. 
 
 Glad then, as miners who have found the ore, 
 They, with mad labour,* fish'd the land to shore { 
 And dived as desperately for each piece 
 Of earth, as if 't had been of ambergreece ; 
 Collecting anxiously small loads of clay, 
 Less than what building swallows bear away ; 
 Or than those pills which sordid beetles rowl, 
 Transfusing into them their dunghill soul." 
 
 He goes on in a strain of exquisite hyperbole : — 
 
 " How did they rivet with gigantic piles 
 Thorough the centre their neiv-catclied viiles : 
 And to the stake a struggling country bound. 
 Where barking waves still bait the forced ground ; 
 Building their wat'ry Babel far more high 
 To reach the sea, than those to scale the sky. 
 Yet still his claim the injured ocean lay'd, 
 And oft at leap-frog o'er their steeples play'd ; 
 As if on purpose it on land had come 
 To show them what 's their Mare Liberum.f 
 
 • Dry den afterwards, of fighting for gain, in Lis song of " Come, if you dare": — 
 
 " The Gods from above the mad labour behold." 
 t A Free Ocean.
 
 56 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 A daily deluge over them does boil ; 
 The earth and water play at level-coyl. 
 The fish oft-times the burgher dispossess'd, 
 And sat, not as a meat, but as a guest : 
 And oft the Tritons, and the Sea-nymphs, saw 
 Whole shoals of Dutch served up for cabillau. 
 Or, as they over the new level ranged, 
 For pickled herring, pickled Heeren changed. 
 Nature, it seem'd, ashamed of her mistake. 
 Would throw their land away at duck-and-drake : 
 Therefore, Necessity, that first made kings, 
 Something like government among them brings: 
 For as with Pigmys, who best kills the crane, 
 Among the hungry he that treasures grain, 
 Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns. 
 So rules among the drowned he that drains. 
 Not who first sees the rising sun commands ; 
 But who could first discern the rising lands. 
 Who best could know to pump an earth so leak. 
 Him they their lord and country's father speak. 
 To make a bank was a great plot of state ; — 
 Invent a shovel, and be a magistrate." 
 
 We can never read these or some other ludicrous verses of 
 Marvell, even when by ourselves, without laughter; but we must 
 curtail our self-indulgence for the present.
 
 FATAL MISTAKE OF NERVOUS DISORDERS 
 FOR INSANITY. 
 
 SOME affecting catastrophes in the pubhc papers induce us 
 to say a lew words on the mistaken notions which are so 
 often, in our opinion, the cause of their appearance. It is 
 much to be wished that some physician, truly so called, and 
 philosophically competent to the task, would write a work on 
 this subject. We have plenty of books on symptoms and other 
 alarming matters, very useful for increasing the harm already 
 existing. We believe, also, there are some works of a different 
 kind, if not written in direct counteraction ; but the learned 
 authors are apt to be so prodigiously grand and etymological 
 in their title-pages, that they must frighten the general under- 
 standing with their very advertisements. 
 
 There is this great difference between what is generally un- 
 derstood by the word insanity, and the nervous or melancholy 
 disorders, the excess of which is so often confounded with it. 
 Insanity is a consequence of malformation of the brain, and is 
 by no means of necessity attended with melancholy, or even ill- 
 health. The patient, in the very midst of it, is often strong, 
 healthy, and even cheerful. On the other hand, nervous dis- 
 orders, or even melancholy in its most aggravated state, is 
 nothing but the excess of a state of stomach and. blood, ex- 
 tremely commoru The mind, no doubt, will act upon that state 
 and exasperate it ; but there is great reaction between mind and 
 body ; and as it is a common thing for a man in an ordinary
 
 58 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 fever, or fit of the bile, to be melanclTioly, and even to do or feel 
 inclined to do an extravagant thing, so it is as common for him 
 to get well, and be quite cheerful again. Thus, it is among wit- 
 less people that the true insanity will be found. It is the more 
 intelligent that are subject to the other disorders ; and a proper 
 use of their intelligence will show them what the disorders are. 
 
 But weak treatment may frighten the intelligent. A kind 
 person for instance, in a fit of melancholy, may confess that he 
 feels an inclination to do some desperate or even cruel thing. 
 This is often treated at once as insanity, instead of an excess cf 
 the kind just mentioned ; and the person, seeing he is thought 
 mad, begins to think himself so, and at last acts as if he were. 
 This is a lamentable evil ; but it does not stop here. The 
 children or other relatives of the person may become victim.s to 
 the mistake. They think there is madness, as the phrase is, 
 " in the family ;" and so, whenever they feel ill, or meet with a 
 misfortune, the thought will prey upon their minds, and this 
 may lead to catastrophes with which they have really no more 
 to do than any other sick or unfortunate people. How many 
 persons have committed an extravagance in a brain-fever, or 
 undergone hallucinations of mind in consequence of getting an 
 ague, or taking opium, or fifty other causes ! and yet the moment 
 the least wandering of mind is observed in them, others become 
 frightened ; their fright is manifested beyond all necessity ; and 
 the patients and their family must suffer for it. They seem to 
 think that no disorder can properly be held a true Christian 
 sickness, and fit for charitable interpretation, but where the 
 patient has gone regularly to bed, and had curtains, and caudle- 
 cups, and nurses about him, like a well-behaved respectable sick 
 gentleman. But this state of things implies muscular weakness, 
 or weakness of that sort which renders the bodily action feeble. 
 Now, in nervous disorders the muscular action may be as strong 
 as ever ; and people may reasonably be allowed a world of 
 illness, sitting in their chairs, or even walking or runnmg. 
 
 These mistaken pronouncers upon disease ought to be told,
 
 FATAL MISTAKE OF NERVOUS DISORDERS FOR INSANITY. 5^ 
 
 that when they are thus unwarrantably frightened, they are 
 partaking of the very essence of what they misapprehend ; for 
 it is fear, in all its various degrees and modifications, which is 
 at the bottom of nervousness and melancholy ; not fear in its 
 ordinary sense, as opposed to cowardice (for a man who would 
 shudder at a bat, or a vague idea, may be bold as a lion against 
 an enemy), but imaginative fear ;— fear either of something 
 knov.'n, or of the patient knows not what, — a vague sense of 
 terror, — an impulse, — an apprehension of ill, — dwelling upon 
 some painful and worrying thought. Now, this suffering is 
 inevitably connected with a weak state of the body in some 
 respects, particularly of the stomach. Hundreds will be found 
 to have felt it, if patients inquire ; but the mind is sometimes 
 afraid of acknowledging its apprehensions even to itself; and 
 thus fear broods over and hatches fear. 
 
 These disorders, generally speaking, are greater or less in 
 their effects according to the exercise of reason. But do not 
 let the word be misunderstood. We should rather say, accord- 
 ing to the extent of the information. A very imaginative man 
 will indeed be likely to suffer more than others ; but if his know- 
 ledge is at all in proportion, he will also get through his evil 
 better than an uninformed man suffering great terrors. And the 
 reason is, that he knows how much bodily unhealthiness has to 
 do with it. The very words that frighten the unknowing might 
 teach them better, if understood. Thus, insanity itself properly 
 means nothing but unhealthiness, or unsoundness. Derange- 
 ment explains itself, and may surely mean very harmless things. 
 Melancholy is compounded of two words, which signify dark 
 bile. Hypochondria is the name of one of the regions of the 
 stomach, — a very instructive etymology. And lunacy refers to 
 effects, real or imaginary, of particular states of the moon, which, 
 if anything after all, are nothing more than what every delicate 
 constitution feels in its degree from particular slates of the 
 weather ; for weather, like the tides, is apt to be in such and 
 such a condition when the moon presents such and such a face.
 
 So LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 It has been said — 
 
 " Great wits to madness nearly are allied. 
 
 It is curious that he who wrote the saying (Dryden) was a 
 very sound wit to the end of his hfe ; while his wife, who was of 
 a weak understanding, became insane. An excellent writer 
 (Wordsworth) has written an idle couplet about the insanity 
 of poets : — 
 
 " We poets in our youth begin in gladness ; 
 But thereof come in the end despondency and madness." 
 
 If he did not mean madness in the ordinary sense, he should 
 not have written this line. If he did, he ought not to have fallen, 
 in the teeth of his information, into so vulgar an error. There 
 are very few instances of insane poets, or of insane great under- 
 standings of any sort. Bacon, Milton, Newton, Shakspeare, 
 Cervantes, Sic, were all of minds as sound as they were great. 
 So it has been with the infinite majority of literary men of all 
 countries. If Tasso and a few others were exceptions, they 
 were but exceptions, and the derangement in these eminent men 
 has very doubtful characters about it, and is sometimes made a 
 question. It may be pretty safely affirmed, at least, upon an 
 examination of it, that, had they not been the clever men they 
 were, it would have been much worse and less equivocal. 
 Collins, whose case was, after all, one of inanition, rather than 
 insanity, had been a free liver, and seems to have been hurt by 
 having a fortune left him. Cowper was weak-bodied, and beset 
 by Methodists. Swift's body was full of bad humours. He 
 himself attributed his disordered system to the effects of a 
 surfeit of fruit on his stomach, and in his last illness he used to 
 break out in enormous biles and blisters. This was a violent 
 effort of nature to help and purify the current of his blood, — the 
 main object in all such cases. Dr Johnson, who was subject to 
 mists of melancholy, used to fancy he should go mad ; but he 
 never did. 
 
 Exercise, conversation, cheerful society, amusements of all
 
 FATAL MISTAKE OF NERVOUS DISORDERS FOR INSANITY. 6l 
 
 sorts, or a kind, patient, and gradual helping of the bodily 
 health, till the mind be capable of amusement (for it should 
 never foolishly be told "not to think" of melancholy things, 
 without having something done for it to mend the bodily health) 
 —these are the cures, the only cures, and, in our opinion, 
 the almost infallible cures, of nervous disorders, however ex- 
 cessive. Above all, the patient should be told that there has 
 often been an end to that torment of one haunting idea, which 
 is, indeed, a great and venerable suffering. Many persons 
 have got over it in a week, a few weeks, or a month, some in 
 a few months, some not for years ; but they have got over it at 
 last. There is a remarkable instance of this in the life of our 
 great King Alfred. He was seized, says his contemporary bio- 
 grapher, with such a strange illness while sitting at table in the 
 twenty-fifth year (we think) of his age, that he shrieked aloud ; 
 and for twenty years afterwards this illness so preyed upon him, 
 that the relief of one hour was embittered by what he dreaded 
 would come the next. His disorder is conjectured by some to 
 have been an internal cancer ; by others^ with more probability, 
 the black bile, or melancholy. The physicians of those times 
 knew nothing about it ; and the people showed at once their 
 ignorance, and their admiration of the king, by saying that the 
 devil had caused it out of jealousy. It was probably produced 
 by anxiety for the state of his country; but the same thing 
 which wounded him might have helped to keep him up, for he 
 had plenty of business to attend to, and fought with his own 
 hand in fifty-six pitched battles. Now, exactly twenty years 
 after, in the forty-fifth year of his age (if our former recollection 
 is right), this disorder totally left him, and his great heart was 
 where it ought to be, in a heaven of health and calmness. 
 
 [Note. — In the "Autobiography" of Leigh Hunt will be found a 
 curious account of a nervous disorder from which he himself suffered at 
 various periods, and which probably suggested the foregoing essay. 
 (See Chapters VIII. and XV., together with some references in other 
 places). — E. O.]
 
 MISTS AND FOGS. 
 
 THE world never feels so cheerless as when it is undergoing 
 mists and fogs. As long as there are objects to look at, 
 it is hard if we cannot find something to entertain our 
 thoughts ; but when the world itself is shut out from our obser- 
 vation, — when the same mists that shut it out come clinging 
 round about us with cold, and when we think what the poor are 
 likely to suffer from the approaching winter, — we seem to feel, 
 not only that we are dreary, but that we ought to be so. 
 
 And so we ought, as far as our own dreariness will the more 
 excite us to relieve that of others. Sympathy is our first duty, 
 let it come either in the shape of pain or pleasure. But when 
 we have done our duty to others ; when we have refused, as 
 much as in us lies, to take our own pleasures till we have done 
 what we can to share them with others, whether by a fortunate 
 power to bestow, or by other personal helping, less fortunate, 
 but sometimes more noble, or even by nothing but the dis- 
 semination of instructive and cheerful thoughts, — smiles which 
 even a poverty-stricken hand may sometimes sow in the warm 
 earth of humanity, — then we have the fullest right to gather 
 enjoyment from all we can ; and then also, because we have the 
 fullest right, we have the greatest power. 
 
 And yet, at the same time, when we speak of right, we are 
 struck with the inconclusiveness which is to be found in decisions 
 apparently the kindest as well as most useful. Who shall say
 
 MISTS AND FOGS. 63 
 
 what is the greater right which any one human being, under all 
 the circumstances which modify his character, has beyond any 
 other, to be made happy ? However, there seems a great differ 
 ence between man and man in the actual amount of their enjoy- 
 ments ; and if the great silence of Nature keeps us in ignorance 
 of the reason (for superstition does but perplex the matter, 
 instead of unfolding it), it is a comforting reflection, not only 
 that the general yearning of things is towards happiness, but 
 that happiness is produced in proportion as the yearning is 
 general and sympathetic ; in other words, in proportion as it 
 tends to the greatest sum of happiness. 
 
 Behold one of the advantages of fogs and mists ! If the 
 southern nations, with their sunshine and clear air, are more 
 joyous than we are, and have a greater but vaguer instinct to 
 make others partake of their pleasure, our greater share of 
 melancholy sets us upon scheming how to turn that instinct of 
 humanity to the best account. It is thus that England, though 
 slow to enjoy, has of old been quick to relieve, — has had tho 
 chief hand in giving those great lifts to the world in knowledge 
 and liberty, for which the sunny Italian was too idle and con- 
 tented. 
 
 It is from the same cause that our great poets (with one excep- 
 tion, perhaps, as to grandeur of invention) are greater than those 
 of Italy. They have seen the dark as well as the bright side of 
 things ; and their knowledge of both gives to their writings a 
 depth of charity, as well as imagination, pre-eminently human. 
 All the things that can be said for human nature, as well as 
 about its passions and imaginings, are to be found perhaps in 
 Shakspeare, and in Shakspeare only ; but his contemporaries 
 had a good share of the same gentle spirit of arbitration. 
 
 On the other hand, where the English do not cultivate the 
 more genial part of experience, they are likely to err more than 
 most nations : for pain, when it does not turn into knowledge, 
 is apt to turn into suUenness and malignity. Its reliefs also 
 become of the grossest and most selfish nature ; and nothing
 
 64 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 can be more disgustingly pitiable than a gross, arrogant English- 
 man, who in the plenitude of his egotism talks against vanity, 
 and, in the midst of the most selfish and sordid vices, — money- 
 scraping, or gormandising, or drinking, or cock-fighting, — thinks 
 himself entitled to despise other nations, whose vices are rather 
 the excesses of sympathy. 
 
 Such a man is not worthy of his very fogs ; for even they 
 have their bright sides, and help to increase the comforts of our 
 houses. And now, then, to say something of their merits and 
 treatment. 
 
 Fogs and mists, being nothing but vapours which the cold 
 air will not suffer to evaporate, must have body enough to 
 present a gorgeous aspect next the sun. To the eye of an 
 eagle, or whatever other eyes there may be to look down upon 
 them, they must appear like masses of cloudy gold. In fact, 
 they are but clouds unrisen. The city of London, at the time 
 we are writing this article, is literally a city in the clouds. Its 
 inhabitants walk through the same airy heaps which at other 
 times float far over their heads in the sky, or minister with 
 glorious faces to the setting sun. 
 
 We do not say that any one can " hold a fire in his hand " 
 by thinking on a fine sunset ; or that sheer imagination of any 
 sort can make it a very agreeable thing to feel as if one's body 
 were wrapped round with cold wet paper ; much less to flounder 
 through gutters, or run against posts. But the mind can often 
 help itself with agreeable images against disagreeable ones ; 
 or pitch itself round to the best sides and aspects of them. 
 The solid and fiery ball of the sun, stuck, as it were, in the 
 thick, foggy atmosphere ; the moon just winning her way 
 through it into beams ; nay, the very candles and gas-lights in 
 the shop windows of a misty evening, — all have, in our eyes, 
 their agreeable varieties of contrast to the surrounding haze. 
 We have even halted, of a dreary autumnal evening, at that 
 open part of the Strand by St Clement's, and seen the church, 
 which is a poor structure of itself, take an aspect of ghastly
 
 MISTS AND FOGS. 65 
 
 grandeur from the dark atmosphere ; looking like a tall white 
 mass mounting up interminably into the night overhead. 
 
 The poets, who are the common friends that keep up the 
 intercourse between nature and humanity, have in numberless 
 passages done justice to these our melancholy visitors, and 
 shown us what grand personages they are. To mention only a 
 few of the most striking: — When Thetis, in Homer's "Iliad" 
 (Book I. V. 359), rises out of the sea to console Achilles, she 
 issues forth in a mist ; like the gigantic Genius in the "Arabian 
 Nights." The reader is to suppose that the mist, after ascend- 
 ing, comes gliding over the water, and, condensing itself into a 
 human shape, lands the white-footed goddess on the shore. 
 
 When Achilles, after his long and vindictive absence from 
 the Greek armies, reappears in consequence of the death of 
 his friend Patroclus, and stands before the appalled Trojan 
 armies, who are thrown into confusion at the very sight, 
 Minerva, to render his aspect the more astonishing and awful, 
 puts about his head a halo of golden mist, streaming upwards 
 with fire (Book XVIII. v. 205). He shouts aloud under this 
 preternatural diadem ; Minerva throws into his shout her own 
 immortal voice with a strange unnatural cry ; at which the 
 horses of the Trojan warriors run round with their chariots, 
 and twelve of their noblest captains perish in the crush. 
 
 A mist was the usual clothing of the gods when they de- 
 scended to earth ; especially of Apollo, whose brightness had 
 double need of mitigation. Homer, to heighten the dignity of 
 Ulysses, has finely given him the same covering, when he 
 passes through the court of Antinous, and suddenly appears 
 before the throne. This has been turned to happy account by 
 Virgil, and to a nev/ and noble one by Milton. Virgil makes 
 ./Eneas issue suddenly from a mist, at the moment when his 
 friends think him lost, and the beautiful Queen of Carthage is 
 wishing his presence. Milton — but we will give one or two of 
 his minor uses of mists, by way of making a climax of the one 
 alluded to. If Satan, for instance, goes lurking about Paradise, 
 
 E
 
 66 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 it is "like a black mist low creeping." If the angels on guard 
 glide about it, upon their gentler errand, it is like fairer 
 vapours — 
 
 " On the ground 
 Gliding meteorous, as evening-mist 
 Risen from a river o'er the marish gHdes, 
 And gathers ground fast at the labourer's heel 
 Homeward returning." — Par. Lost, Book XII. v. 62S. 
 
 Now, behold one of his greatest imaginations. The fallen 
 demigods are assembled in Pandcemonium, waiting the return 
 of their "great adventurer" from his "search of worlds." 
 
 " He through the midst unmark'd, 
 In show plebeian angel militant 
 Of lowest order pass'd ; and from the door 
 Of that PlutonLan hall, invisible, 
 Ascended his high throne ; which, under state 
 Of richest te.xture spread, at the upper end 
 Was placed in regal lustre. Down awhile 
 He sat, and round about him saw unseen. 
 At last, — as from a clojcd, his fulgent head 
 And shape star-bright appeared, or brighter ; clad 
 With what permissive glory since his fall 
 Was left him, or false glitter. All amazed 
 At that so sudden blaze, the Stygian throng 
 Bent their aspect ; and whom they wish'd beheld 
 Their mighty chief return'd." 
 
 There is a piece of imagination in Apollonius Rhodiuf, 
 worthy of Milton or Homer. The Argonauts, in broad daylight, 
 are suddenly benighted at sea with a black fog. They pray to 
 Apollo, and he descends from heaven, and, lighting on a rock, 
 holds up his illustrious bow, which shoots a guiding light for 
 them to an island. 
 
 Spenser, in a most romantic chapter of the " Faery Oueene '"' 
 (Book II.), seems to have taken the idea of a benighting from 
 Apollonius, as well as to have had an eye to some passages of 
 the " Odyssey ;" but, like all great poets, what he borrows only 
 brings worthy companionship to some fine invention of his own. 
 It is a scene thickly beset with horror. Sir Guyon, in the
 
 MISTS AND FOGS. 67 
 
 course of his voyage through the perilous sea, wishes to stop 
 and hear the Syrens ; but the Palmer, his companion, dissuades 
 him : — 
 
 " When suddeinly a grosse fog over spred 
 
 With his dull vapour all that desert has, 
 
 And heaven's chearefuU face enveloped. 
 
 That all things one, and one as nothing, was, 
 And this great universe seem'd one confused mass. 
 
 " Thereat they greatly were dismay'd, ne wist 
 
 How to direct theyr way in darkness wide, 
 
 But fear'd to wander iti that wasteful! mist, 
 
 For tombling into mischiefe unespyde : 
 
 Worse is the daunger hidden than descride. 
 
 Suddeinly, an innumerable flight 
 
 Of harmfull fowles about them fluttering cride, 
 
 And with theyr wicked wings them oft did smight. 
 And sore annoyed, groping in that griesly night. 
 
 "Even all the nation of unfortunate 
 And fatall birds about them flocked were. 
 Such as by nature men abhorre and hate : — 
 The ill-faced owle, death's dreadful messengere : 
 The hoarse night-raven, trump of dolefuU drere ; 
 The lether-wingd^d batt, dayes enimy : 
 The rueful! stritch, still waiting on the here : 
 The whistler shrill, that whoso heares doth dy ; 
 
 The hellish harpie.s, prophets of sad destiny. 
 
 " All these, and all that els does horror breed, 
 About them flew, and fild theyr sayles with fear ; 
 Yet stayd they not, but forward did proceed, 
 Whiles th' one did row, and th' other stifiy steare." 
 
 Ovid has turned a mist to his usual account, an amatory one. 
 It is where Jupiter, to conceal his amour with lo, throws a 
 cloud over the valley of Tempe. There is a picture of Jupiter 
 and lo, by Correggio, in which that great artist has finely availed 
 himself of the circumstance ; the head of the father of gods and 
 men coming placidly out of the cloud, upon the young lips oi 
 lo, like the very benignity of creation. 
 
 We must mention another instance of the poetical use of a 
 mist, if it is only to indulge ourselves in one of those masterly 
 passages of Dante, in which he contrives to unite minuteness of 
 detail with the most grand and sovereign impressiveness. It is
 
 68 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 in a lofty comparison of the planet Mars looking through morn- 
 ing vapours ; the reader will see with what (Pur., Canto II. v. lo). 
 Dante and his guide Virgil have just left the infernal regions, 
 and are lingering on a solitary sea-shore in Purgatory ; which 
 reminds us of that still and far-thoughted verse — 
 
 " Lone sitting by the shores of old romance." 
 
 But to our English-like Italian : — • 
 
 " Noi eravam kmgh' esso '1 mare ancora," &c. 
 
 That solitary shore we still kept on, 
 
 Like men who, musing on their journey, stay, 
 
 At rest in body, yet in heart are gone : 
 When lo ! as, at the early dawn of day, 
 
 Red Mars looks deepening through the foggy heat, 
 
 Down in the west, far o'er the watery way ; 
 So did mine eyes behold (so may they yet) 
 
 A light, which came so swiftly o'er the sea 
 
 That never wing with such a fervour beat. 
 I did but turn to ask what it might be 
 
 Of my sage leader, when its orb had got 
 
 More large meanwhile, and came more gloriously: 
 And by degrees I saw, I knew not what 
 
 Of white about it ; and beneath the white 
 
 Another. My great master utter'd not 
 One word till those first-issuing candours bright 
 
 Fann'd into wings ; but soon as he had found 
 
 Who was the mighty voyager now in sight. 
 He cried aloud, " Dowa, down, upon the ground ! 
 
 It is God's Angel." * 
 
 * These are the famous terzetti or triplets of the Italians, which are linked to- 
 gether like a chain ; the fresh rhyme in the middle of every stanza being connected 
 with the first and last lines of the ne.\t. We think we recollect that Mr Hayley has 
 given a specimen of a translation of Dante in the original measure. If not, the 
 present one is perhaps the first that has appeared in the language ; which we men- 
 tion, of course, as a mere curiosity.
 
 FAR COUNTRIES, 
 
 IMAGINATION, though no mean thing, is not a proud one. 
 If it looks down from its wings upon common places, it 
 only the more perceives the vastness of the region about 
 it. The infinity into which its ilight carries it, might indeed 
 throw back upon it a too great sense of insignificance, did not 
 Beauty or Moral Justice, with its equal eye, look through that 
 blank aspect of power, and reassure it ; showing it that there is a 
 power as much above power itself, as the thought that reaches 
 to all is to the hand that can touch only thus far. 
 
 But we do not wish to get into this tempting region of specu- 
 lation just now. We only intend to show a particular instance, 
 in which imagination instinctively displays its natural humility : 
 we mean, in the fondness which imaginative times and people 
 have shown for what is personally remote from them ; for what 
 is opposed to their own individual consciousness, even in range 
 of space, in farness of situation. 
 
 There is no surer mark of a vain people than their treating 
 other nations with contempt, especially those of whom they 
 know least. It is better to verify the proverb, and take every- 
 thing unknown for magnificent, rather than predetermine it to 
 be v/orthless. The gain is greater. The instinct is more judi- 
 cious. When we mention the French as an instance, we do not 
 mean to be invidious. Most nations have their good as well as 
 bad features ; and in " Vanity Fair" there are many booths.
 
 70 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 The French, not long ago, praised one of their neighbours so 
 highly, that the latter is suspected to have lost as much modesty 
 as the former gained by it. But they did this as a set-off against 
 their own despots and bigots. When they again became the 
 greatest power in Europe, they had a relapse of their old egotism. 
 The French, though an amiable and intelligent people, are not an 
 imaginative one. The greatest height they go is in a balloon. 
 They get no farther than France, let them go where they will 
 They "run the great circle and are still at home," like the 
 squirrel in his rolling cage. Instead of going to Nature in 
 their poetry, they would make her come to them, and dress 
 herself at their last new toilet. In practical philosophy and 
 metaphysics, they divest themselves of gross prejudices, and 
 then think they are in as graceful a state of nakedness as Adam 
 and Eve. 
 
 At the time when the French had this fit upon them of prais- 
 ing the English (which was nevertheless the honester one of 
 the two), they took to praising the Chinese for numberless un- 
 known qualities. This seems a contradiction to the near-sighted- 
 ness we speak of: but the reason they praised them was, that 
 the Chinese had the merit of unbounded religious toleration ; 
 a great and extraordinary one, certainly, and not the less so for 
 having been, to all appearance, the work of one man. All the 
 romance of China, such as it was, — anything in which they 
 differed from the French, — their dress, their porcelain towers, 
 their Great Wall, — was nothing. It was the particular agree- 
 ment with the philosophers. 
 
 It happened, curiously enough, that they could not have 
 selected for their panegyric a nation apparently more con- 
 temptuous of others ; or at least more self-satisfied and unimag- 
 inative. The Chinese are cunning and ingenious, and have a 
 great talent at bowing out ambassadors who come to visit them. 
 But it is somewhat inconsistent with what appears to be their 
 general character that they should pay strangers even this 
 equivocal compliment ; for, under a prodigious mask of polite-
 
 FAR COUNTRIES. 7 1 
 
 ncss, they are not slow to evince their contempt of other nations 
 whenever any comparison is insinuated with the subjects of 
 the Brother of the Sun and Moon. The knowledge they respect 
 in us most is that of gun-making, and of the East Indian pas- 
 sage. When our countrymen showed them a map of the earth, 
 they inquired for China ; and, on finding that it only made a 
 little piece in a corner, could not contain their derision. They 
 thought that it was the main territory in the middle, — the apple 
 of the world's eye. 
 
 On the other hand, the most imaginative nations, in their 
 highest times, have had a respect for remote countries. It is a 
 mistake to suppose that the ancient term "barbarian," applied to 
 foreigners, suggested the meaning we are apt to give it. It may 
 have gathered some such insolence with it among the Romans, 
 as they spread their own barbarous power ; but the more in- 
 tellectual Greeks venerated the countries from which they 
 brought the elements of their mythology and philosophy. The 
 philosopher travelled into Egypt, like a son to see his father. 
 The merchant heard in Phoenicia the far-brought stories of other 
 realms, which he told to his delighted countrymen. It is sup- 
 posed that the mortal part of Mentor, in the " Odyssey," was 
 drawn from one of these voyagers. When Anacharsis, the 
 Scythian, was reproached with his native place by an unworthy 
 Greek, he said, " My country rnay be a shame to me, but you 
 are a shame to your country." Greece had a lofty notion of the 
 Persians and the Great King, till Xerxes came over to teach it 
 better, and betrayed the softness of their skulls. 
 
 It was the same with the Arabians, at the time when they 
 had the chief accomplishments of the world to themselves ; as 
 we see by their delightful tales. Everything shines with them 
 in the distance, like a sunset. What an amiable people are 
 their Persians ! What a wonderful place is the island of 
 Serendib ! You would think nothing could be finer than the 
 Caliph's city of Bagdad, till you hear of Grand Cairo ; and how 
 has that epithet and that name towered in the imagination of
 
 72 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 all those who have not had the misfortune to see the modern 
 city ! Sindbad was respected, like Ulysses, because he had 
 seen so many adventures and nations. So was Aboulfaouris, 
 the great voyager in the " Persian Tales." His very name 
 sounds like a wonder. 
 
 "With many a tempest had his beard been shaken." 
 
 It was one of the workings of the great Alfred's mind, to know 
 about far distant countries. There is a translation by him of a 
 book of geography ; and he even employed people to travel, — 
 a great stretch of intellectual munificence for those times. About 
 the same period, Haroun al Raschid (whom our manhood is 
 startled to find almost a less real person than we thought him, 
 for his very reality) wrote a letter to the Emperor of the West, 
 Charlemagne. Here is Arabian and Italian romance shaking 
 hands in person ! 
 
 The Crusades pierced into a new world of remoteness. We 
 do not know whether those were much benefited who took part 
 in them ; but for the imaginative persons remaining at home, 
 the idea of going to Palestine must have been like travelling 
 into a supernatural world. When the campaign itself had a good 
 effect, it must have been of a very fine and highly-tempered 
 description. Chaucer's Knight had been 
 
 " Sometime with tlie lord of Palatie 
 Agen another hethen in Turkic : 
 And evermore he had a sovereign price ; 
 And though that he was worthy, he was wise, 
 And of his port as meek as is a niaj dc." 
 
 How like a return from the moon must have been the re- 
 appearance of such travellers as Sir John Mandeville, Marco 
 Polo, and William de Rubruc[uis, with their news of Prester John, 
 the Great Mogul, and the Great Cham of Tartary ! The long- 
 lost voyager must have been hke a person consecrated in all the 
 quarters of heaven. His staff and his beard must have looked 
 like relics of his former self. The Venetians, who were some of 
 the earliest European travellers, have been remarked, among
 
 FAR COUNTRIES. 73 
 
 their other amiable qualities, for their great respect to strangers. 
 The peculiarity of their position, and the absence of so many 
 things which are commonplaces to other countries, such as 
 streets, horses, and coaches, add, no doubt, to this feeling. But 
 a foolish or vain people would only feel a contempt for what 
 they did not possess. Milton, in one of those favourite passages 
 of his, in which he turns a mere vocabulary into such grand 
 meaning and music, shows us whose old footing he had delighted 
 to follow. How he enjoys the distance ; emphatically using the 
 words, far, farthest, and utmost ! — 
 
 " Embassies from regions far remote, 
 In various habits, on the Appian road, 
 Or on the Emilian ; some from farthest south, 
 Syene, and where the shadow both way falls, 
 Meroe, Nilolick isle ; and more to west, 
 The realm of Bocchus to the Black-moor sea ; 
 From the Asian kings, and Parthian among these; 
 From India and the golden Chersonese, 
 And utmost Indian isle, Taprobane." 
 
 Farad. Reg. Book IV. 
 
 One of the main helps to our love of remoteness in general, 
 is the associations we connect with it of peace and quietness. 
 Whatever there may be at a distance, people feel as if they 
 should escape from the worry of their local cares. " Oh that I 
 had wings like a dove ! then would I fly away, and be at rest." 
 The word far is often used wilfully in poetry, to render distance 
 still more distant. An old English song begins — 
 
 " In Irelande, farre over the sea. 
 There dwelt a bonny king." 
 
 Thomson, a Scotchman, speaking of the western isles of his 
 own country, has that delicious line, full of a dreary yet lulling 
 pleasure : — 
 
 " As when a shepherd of the Hebrid isles. 
 Placed far aviid the jiielancholy viain." 
 
 In childhood, the total ignorance of the world, especially when 
 we are brought up in some confined spot, renders everything
 
 Jf4 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 beyond the bounds of our dwelling a distance and a romance. 
 Mr Lamb, in his " Recollections of Christ's Hospital," says that 
 he remembers when some half-dozen of his schoolfellows set off, 
 " without map, card, or compass, on a serious expedition to find 
 out Philip Qnai-irs Island.^'' We once encountered a set of boys 
 as romantic. It was at no greater distance than at the foot of a 
 hill near Hampstead ; yet the spot was so perfectly Cisalpine to 
 them, that two of them came up to us with looks of hushing 
 eagerness, and asked, " whether, on the other side of that hill, 
 there were not robbers ; " to which the minor adventurer of the 
 two added, " And some say, serpents." They had all got bows 
 and arrows, and were evidently hovering about the place, be- 
 twixt daring and apprehension, as on the borders of some wild 
 region. We smiled to think which it was that husbanded their 
 suburb wonders to more advantage, they or we ; for while they 
 peopled the place with robbers and serpents, we were peopling 
 it with sylvans and fairies. 
 
 " So was it when my Hie began ; 
 So is it now I am a man ; 
 So be it when I shall grow old, 
 
 Or let me die ! 
 The child is father to the man ; 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety."
 
 A TALE FOR A CHIMNEY CORNER. 
 
 A MAN who does not contribute his quota of grim stories 
 now-a-days seems hardly to be free of the repubhc of 
 letters. He is bound to wear a death's head as part of 
 his insignia. If he does not frighten everybody, he is nobody. 
 If he does not shock the ladies, what can be expected of him ? 
 
 We confess we think very cheaply of these stories in general. 
 A story, merely horrible or even awful, which contains no senti- 
 ment elevating to the human heart and its hopes, is a mere appeal 
 to the least judicious, least healthy, and least masculine of our 
 passions — fear. They whose attention can be gravely arrested 
 by it are in a fit state to receive any absurdity with their wits 
 off; and this is the cause why less talents are required to 
 enforce it than in any other species of composition. With this 
 opinion of such things, we may be allowed to say, that we would 
 undertake to write a dozen horrible stories in a day, all of which 
 should make the common worshippers of power, who were not 
 in the very healthiest condition, turn pale. We would tell of 
 haunting old women, and knocking ghosts, and solitary lean 
 hands, and Empusas on one leg, and ladies growing longer and 
 longer, and horrid eyes meeting us through key-holes, and 
 plaintive heads, and shrieking statues, and shocking anomalies 
 of shape, and things which when seen drive people mad ; and 
 indigestion knows what besides. But who would measure 
 talents with a leg of veal, or a German sausage ?
 
 76 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 Mere grimness is as easy as grinning ; but it requires some- 
 thing to put a handsome face on a story. Narratives become 
 of suspicious merit in proportion as they lean to Newgate-like 
 oftences, particularly of blood and wounds. A child has a 
 reasonable respect for a raw-head-and-bloody-bones, because all 
 images whatsoever of pain and terror are new and fearful to his 
 inexperienced age : but sufferings merely physical (unless sub- 
 limated like those of Philoctetes) are commonplaces to a grown 
 man. Images, to become awful to him, must be removed from 
 the grossness of the shambles. A death's head was a respect- 
 able thing in the hands of a poring monk, or of a nun compelled 
 to avoid the idea of life and society, or of a hermit already 
 buried in the desert. Holbein's " Dance of Death," in which 
 every grinning skeleton leads along a man of rank, from the 
 Pope to the gentleman, is a good memento iiiori; but there the 
 skeletons have an air of the ludicrous and satirical. If we were 
 threatened with them in a grave way, as spectres, we should 
 have a right to ask how they could walk about without muscles. 
 Thus, many of the tales written by such authors as the late Mr 
 Lewis, who wanted sentiment to complete his talents, are quite 
 puerile. When his spectral nuns go about bleeding, we think 
 they ought in decency to have applied to some ghost of a 
 surgeon. His little gray men, who sit munching hearts, are of 
 a piece with fellows that eat cats for a wager. 
 
 Stories that give mental pain to no purpose, or to very little 
 purpose compared with the unpleasant ideas they excite of 
 human nature, are as gross mistakes, in their way, as these, and 
 twenty times as pernicious : for the latter become ludicrous to 
 grown people. They originate also in the same extremes, either 
 of callousness, or morbid want of excitement, as the others. 
 But more of these hereafter. Our business at present is with 
 things ghastly and ghostly. 
 
 A ghost story, to be a good one, should unite as much as 
 possible objects such as they are in life with a preternatural 
 spirit. And to be a perfect one — at least, to add to the other
 
 A TALE FOR A CHIMNEY CORNER. 77 
 
 utility of excitement a moral utility — they should imply some 
 great sentiment ; something that comes out of the next world 
 to remind us of our duties in this ; or something that helps to 
 carry on the idea of our humanity into after-life, even when we 
 least think we shall take it with us. When " the buried majesty 
 of Denmark" revisits earth to speak to his son Hamlet, he 
 comes armed, as he used to be, in his complete steel. His visor 
 is raised, and the same fine face is there ; only, in spite of his 
 punishing errand and his own suft'erings, with 
 
 " A countenance more in sorrow than in anger." 
 
 When Donne, the poet, in his thoughtful eagerness to reconcile 
 life and death, had a figure of himself painted in a shroud, 
 and laid by his bedside in a coffin, he did a higher thing than 
 the monks and hermits with their skulls. It was taking his 
 humanity with him into the other world, not affecting to lower 
 the sense of it by regarding it piecemeal, or in the framework. 
 Burns, in his "Tam o' Shanter," shows the dead in their coffins, 
 after the same fashion. He does not lay bare to us their skele- 
 tons or refuse, — things with which we can connect no sympathy 
 or spiritual wonder. They still are flesh and body, to excite the 
 one ; yet so look and behave, inconsistent in their very consist- 
 ency, as to exite the other. 
 
 " Coffins stood round like open presses, 
 Which show'd the dead in their last dresses : 
 And, by some devilish cantrip sleight, 
 Each, in his cauld hand, held a light." 
 
 Reanimation is perhaps the most ghastly of all ghastly things, 
 uniting as it does an appearance of natural interdiction from 
 the next world with a supernatural experience of it. Our 
 human consciousness is jarred out of its self-possession. The 
 extremes of habit and newness, of commonplace and astonish- 
 ment, meet suddenly, without the kindly introduction of death 
 and change ; and the stranger appals us in proportion. Wheii
 
 78 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 the accou/it appeared the other day in the newspapers of the 
 galvanised dead body, whose features as well as limbs under- 
 went such contortions that it seemed as if it were about to rise 
 up, one almost expected to hear, for the first time, news of the 
 other world. Perhaps the most appalling figure in Spenser is 
 that of Maleger (" Faery Queene," Book II. c. 11) : — 
 
 " Upon a tygre swift and fierce he rode, 
 
 That as the winde ran underneath his lode, 
 
 Whiles his long legs nigh raught unto the ground : 
 
 Full large he was of limbe, and shoulders brode, 
 
 But of such subtle substance and Unsound, 
 That like a ghost he seem'd, whose grave-clothes were unbound." 
 
 Mr Coleridge, in that voyage of his to the brink of all unutter- 
 able things, the " Ancient Mariner" (which works out, however, 
 a fine sentiment), does not set mere ghosts or hobgoblins to man 
 the ship again, when its crew are dead ; but reanimates, for a 
 while, the crew themselves. There is a striking fiction of this 
 sort in Sale's " Notes upon the Koran." Solomon dies during 
 the building of the Temple^ but his body remains leaning on a 
 staff, and overlooking the workmen, as if it were alive ; till, a 
 worm gnawing through the prop, he falls down. The contrast 
 of the appearance of humanity with something mortal or super- 
 natural, is always the more terrible in proportion as it is com- 
 plete. In the pictures of the temptations of saints and hermits, 
 where the holy person is surrounded, teased, and enticed, with 
 devils and fantastic shapes, the most shocking phantasm is that 
 of the beautiful woman. To return also to the "Ancient Mariner." 
 The most appalling personage in Mr Coleridge's " Ancient 
 Mariner" is the Spectre-worrlan, who is called Life-in-Death. 
 He renders the most hideous abstraction more terrible than it 
 could otherwise have been, by embodying it in its own reverse. 
 " Death" not only " lives" in it, but the " unutterable" becomes 
 uttered. To see such an unearthly passage end in such earthli- 
 ness, seems at the moment to turn commonplace itself into 
 a sort of spectral doubt. The Mariner, after describing the
 
 A TALE FOR A CHIMNEY CORNER. 79 
 
 horrible calm, and the rotting sea, in which the ship was stuck, 
 is speaking of a strange sail which he descried in the distance. 
 
 " 'I'he western wave was all a-flame, 
 
 The day was well-nigh done ! 
 Almost upon the western wave 
 
 Rested the broad bright Sun; 
 When that strange ship drove suddenly 
 
 Betwixt us and the Sun. 
 
 " And straight the Sun was fleck'd with bars, 
 (Heaven's Mother send us grace !) 
 As if through a dungeon-grate he peer'd, 
 With broad and burning face. 
 
 "Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
 How fast she nears and nears ! 
 Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 
 Like restless gossameres ? 
 
 "Are those /zs'r ribs, through which the Sui 
 Did peer, as through a grate? 
 And is that Woman all her crew? 
 Is that a Death ? and are there two ? 
 Is Death that woman's mate ? 
 
 "Her lips were red, her looks were free^ 
 Her locks were yellow as gold, 
 Her skin was as white as leprosy : 
 The Night-Mare Life-in-Deatli was she, 
 Who thicks man's blood with cold." 
 
 But we must come to Mr Coleridge's story with ali our imagin- 
 ation upon us. Now let us put our knees a little nearer the fire, 
 and tell a homelier one about life-in-death. The groundwork of 
 it is in Sandys's " Commentary upon Ovid/' and quoted from 
 Sabinus. * 
 
 A gentleman of Bavaria, of a noble family, was so afflicted at 
 the death of his wife, that, unable to bear the company of any 
 other person, he gave himself entirely up to a solitary way of 
 living. This was the more remarkable in him, as he had been 
 a man of jovial habits, fond of his wine and visitors, and im- 
 patient of having his numerous indulgencies contradicted. But 
 in the same temper, perhaps, might be found the cause of his 
 
 * The Saxon Latin poet, we presume, Professor of Belles-Lettres at Frankfort 
 We know nothing of him except from a biographical dictionary.
 
 8o LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 sorrow ; for, though he would be impatient with his wife, as with 
 others, yet he loved her as one of the gentlest wills he had ; and 
 the sweet and unaffected face which she always turned round 
 upon his anger might have been a thing more easy for him to 
 trespass upon, while living, than to forget, when dead and gone. 
 His very anger towards her, compared with that towards others, 
 was a relief to him, and rather a wish to refresh himself in the 
 balmy feeling of her patience than to make her unhappy herself. 
 or to punish her, as some would have done, for that virtuous 
 contrast to his own vice. 
 
 But whether he bethought himself, after her death, that this 
 was a very selfish mode of loving ; or whether, as some thought, 
 he had wearied out her life with habits so contrary to her own ; 
 or whether, as others reported, he had put it to a fatal risk by 
 some lordly piece of self-will, in consequence of which she had 
 caught a fever on the cold river during a night of festivity ; he 
 surprised even those who thought that he loved her by the ex- 
 treme bitterness of his grief. The very mention of festivity, 
 though he was patient for the first day or two, afterwards threw 
 him into a passion of rage; but, by degrees, even his rage fol- 
 lowed his other old habits. He was gentle, but ever silent. He 
 ate and drank but sufficient to keep him alive, and used to spend 
 the greater part of the day in the spot where his wife was buried. 
 
 He was going there one evening, in a very melancholy manner, 
 with his eyes turned towards the earth, and had just entered the 
 rails of the burial-ground, when he was accosted by the mild 
 voice of somebody coming to meet him. " It is a blessed even- 
 ing, sir," said the voice. The gentleman looked up. Nobody 
 but himself was allowed to be in the place at that hour, and yet 
 he saw with astonishment a young chorister approaching him. 
 He was going to express some wonder when, he said, the modest 
 though assured look of the boy, and the extreme beauty of his 
 countenance, which glowed in the setting sun before him, made 
 an irresistible addition to the singular sweetness of his voice, 
 and he asked him, with an involuntary calmness and a gesture of
 
 A TALE FOR A CHIMNEY CORNER. 8 I 
 
 respect, not what he did there, but what he wished. " Only to 
 wish you all good things," answered the stranger, who had now 
 come up ; " and to give you this letter." The gentleman took 
 the letter, and saw upon it, with a beating yet scarcely bewildered 
 heart, the handwriting of his wife. He raised his eyes again to 
 speak to the boy, but he was gone. He cast them far and near 
 round the place, but there were no traces of a passenger. He 
 then opened the letter; and by the divine light of the setting 
 sun, read these words : — 
 
 " TO MY DEAR HUSBAND, WHO SORROWS FOR HIS WIFE. 
 
 " Otto, my husband, the soul you regret so is returned. You 
 will know the truth of this, and be prepared with calmness to see 
 it, by the divineness of the messenger who has passed you. You 
 will find me sitting in the public walk, praying for you — praying 
 that you may never more give way to those gusts of passion, 
 and those curses against others, which divided us. 
 
 " This, with a warm hand, from the living Bertha." 
 
 Otto (for such, it seems, was the gentleman's name) went in- 
 stantly, calmly, quickly, yet with a sort of benumbed being, to 
 the pubUc walk. He felt, but with only a half-consciousness, as 
 if he glided without a body. But all his spirit was awake, 
 eager, intensely conscious. It seemed to him as if there had 
 been but two things in the world, — Life and Death ; and that 
 Death was dead. All else appeared to have been a dream. He 
 had awaked from a waking state, and found himself all eye, 
 and spirit, and locomotion. He said to himself once, as he 
 went, " This is not a dream. I will ask my great ancestors to- 
 morrow to my new bridal feast, for they are alive." Otto had been 
 calm at first, but something of old and triumphant feelings 
 seemed again to come over him. Was he again too proud and 
 confident ? Did his earthly humours prevail again, when he 
 thought them least upon him ? We shall see. 
 
 The Bavarian arrived at the public walk. It was full of
 
 82 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 people with their wives and children, enjoying the beauty of 
 the evening. Something hke common fear came over him, 
 as he went in and out among them, looking at the benches on 
 each side. It happened that there was only one person, a lady, 
 sitting upon them. She had her veil down, and his being under- 
 went a fierce but short convulsion as he went near her. Some- 
 thing had a little baffled the calmer inspiration of the angel that 
 had accosted him, for fear prevailed at the instant, and Otto 
 passed on. He returned before he had reached the end of the 
 walk, and approached the lady again. She was still sitting in 
 the same quiet posture, only he thought she looked at him. 
 Again he passed her. On his second return, a grave and sweet 
 courage came upon him, and, in an under but firm tone of in- 
 quiry, he said, " Bertha ?" "I thought you had forgotten me," 
 said that well-known and mellow voice, which he had seemed 
 as far from ever hearing again as earth is from heaven. He 
 took her hand, which grasped his in turn, and they walked home 
 in silence together, the arm, which was wound within his, giving 
 warmth for warmth. 
 
 The neighbours seemed to have a miraculous want of wonder 
 at the lady's reappearance. Something was said about a mock 
 funeral, and her having withdrawn from his company for a while ; 
 but visitors came as before, and his wife returned to her house- 
 hold affairs. It was only remarked that she always looked pale 
 and pensive. But she was more kind to all, even than before, 
 and her pensiveness seemed rather the result of some great 
 internal thought than of unhappiness. 
 
 For a year or two, the Bavarian retained the better temper 
 which he acquired. His fortunes flourished beyond his earliest 
 ambition. The most amiable, as well as noble, persons of the 
 district were frequent visitors, and people said that to be at 
 Otto's house must be the next thing to being in heaven. But, 
 by degrees, his self-will returned with his prosperity. He never 
 vented impatience on his wife; but he again began to show that 
 the disquietude it gave her to see it vented on others, was a
 
 A TALE FOR A CHIMNEY CORNER. 83 
 
 secondnry thing, in his mind, to the indulgence of it. Whether it . 
 was that his grief for her loss had been rather remorse than affec« 
 lion, and so he held himself secure if he treated her well ; of 
 whether he was at all times rather proud of her than fond ; or 
 whatever was the cause which again set his antipathies above 
 liis sympathies, certain it was, that his old habits returned upon 
 him. Not so often, indeed, but with greater violence and pride 
 when they did. These were the only times at which his wife 
 Avas observed to show any ordinary symptoms of uneasiness. 
 
 At length, one day, some strong rebuff which he had received 
 from an alienated neighbour, threw him into such a transport of 
 rage, that he gave way to the most bitter imprecations, crj'ing, 
 with a loud voice — "This treatment to me too! Tome/ To 
 
 me, who, if the world knew all " At these words, his wife, who 
 
 had in vain laid her hand upon his, and looked him with dreary 
 earnestness in the face, suddenly glided from the room. He, 
 and two or three who were present, were struck with a dumb 
 horror. They said she did not walk out, nor vanish suddenly ; 
 but glided, as one who could dispense with the use of feet. 
 After a moment's pause, the others proposed to him to follow 
 her. He made a movement of despair ; but they went. There 
 was a short passage, which turned to the right into her favour- 
 ite room. They knocked at the door twice or three times, and 
 received no answer. At last one of them gently opened it, and, 
 looking in, they saw her, as they thought, standing before a ^re, 
 which was the only light in the room. Yet she stood so lar 
 from it, as rather to be in the middle of the room : only the face 
 was towards the fire, and she seemed looking upon it. They 
 addressed her, but received no answer. They stepped gently 
 towards her, and still received none. The figure stood dumb 
 and unmoved. At last one of them went round in front, and 
 instantly fell on the floor. The figure was without body. A 
 hollow hood was left instead of a face. The clothes were stand- 
 ing upright by themselves. 
 
 That room was blocked up for ever, for the clothes, if it might
 
 84 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 be so, to moulder away. It was called the Room of the Lady's 
 Figure. The house, after the gentleman's death, was long unin- 
 habited, and at length burned by the peasants in an insurrec- 
 tion. As for himself, he died about nine months after, a gentle 
 and child-like penitent. He had never stirred from the house 
 since ; and nobody would venture to go near him but a man 
 who had the reputation of being a reprobate. It was from this 
 man that the particulars of the story came first. He would dis- 
 tribute the gentleman's alms in great abundance to any strange 
 poor who would accept them, for most of the neighbours held 
 them in horror. He tried all he could to get the parents among 
 them to let some of their little children, or a single one of them, 
 go to see his employer. They said he even asked it one day 
 with tears in his eyes. But they shuddered to think of it ; and 
 the matter was not mended when this profane person, in a fit 
 of impatience, said one day that he would have a child of his 
 own on purpose. His employer, however, died in a day or two. 
 They did not believe a word he told them of all the Bavarian's 
 gentleness, looking upon the latter as a sort of ogre, and upon 
 his agent as little better, though a good-natured-looking, earnest 
 kind ot person. It was said, many years after, that this man had 
 been a friend of the Bavarian's when young, and had been de- 
 serted by him. And the young believed it, whatever the old 
 n^ight.
 
 
 
 S 
 
 1^ 
 
 1^^ 
 
 THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 
 
 FIRST PAPER. 
 
 HAVING met in the " Harleian Miscellany" with an 
 account of a pet thief of ours, the famous Du Val, 
 who flourished in the time of Charles II., and wishing 
 to introduce him worthily to the readers, it has brought to 
 mind such a number of the light-fingered gentry, his predeces- 
 sors, that we almost feel hustled by the thoughts of them. Our 
 subject, we may truly fear, will run away with us. We feel beset, 
 like poor Tasso in his dungeon ; and are not sure that our paper 
 will not suddenly be conveyed away from under our pen. Already 
 we miss some excellent remarks which we should have made in 
 this place. If the reader should meet with any of that kind here- 
 after, upon the like subject, in another man's writings, twenty to 
 one they are stolen from us, and ought to have enriched this our 
 plundered exordium. He that steals an author's purse, may 
 emphatically be said to steal trash ; but he that filches from him 
 his good things Alas ! we thought our subject would be run- 
 ning away with us. We must keep firm. We must put some- 
 thing heavier in our remarks, as the little thin Grecian philosopher 
 used to put lead in his pockets, lest the wind should steal him. 
 
 The more ruffianly crowd of thieves should go first, as pioneers ; 
 but they can hardly be looked upon as progenitors of our gentle 
 Du Val ; and besides, with all their ferocity, some of them 
 assume a grandeur, from standing in the remote shadows of
 
 86 LEIGH HUNT S ESSAYS. 
 
 antiquity. There was the famous son, for instance, of Vulcan 
 and Medusa, whom Virgil calls the dire aspect of half-human 
 Cacus — "Semihominis Caci facies dira." ("^neid," Book VI 1 1, v. 
 194.) He was the Raw-head-and-bloody-bones of ancient fable. 
 He lived in a cave by Mount Aventine, breathing out fiery 
 smoke, and haunting King Evander's highway like the Apollyon 
 of " Pilgrim's Progress." 
 
 "Semperque recent! 
 Casde tepebat humus ; foribusque adfixa superbis 
 Ora virum tristi pendebant pallida tabo." 
 
 The place about was ever in a plash 
 
 Of steaming blood ; and o'er the insulting door 
 
 Hung pallid human heads, defaced with dreary gore. 
 
 He stole some of the cows of Hercules, and dragged them back- 
 wards into his cave to prevent discovery ; but the oxen happen- 
 ing to low, the cows answered them ; and the demigod, detecting 
 the miscreant in his cave, strangled him after a hard encounter. 
 This is one of the earliest sharping tricks upon record. 
 
 Autolycus, the son of Mercury (after whom Shakspeare 
 christened his merry rogue in the " Winter's Tale "), was a thief 
 suitable to the greater airiness of his origin. He is said to have 
 performed tricks which must awake the envy even of horse- 
 dealers ; for, in pretending to return a capital horse which he 
 had stolen, he palmed upon the owners a sorry jade of an ass, 
 which was gravely received by those flats of antiquity. Another 
 time he went still further ; for, having conveyed away a handsome 
 bride, he sent in exchange an old lady elaborately hideous ; yet 
 the husband did not find out the trick till he had got off. 
 
 Autolycus himself, however, was outwitted by Sisyphus, the son 
 of ^olus. Autolycus was in the habit of stealing his neighbours' 
 cattle, and altering the marks upon them. Among others he stole 
 some from Sisyphus ; but, notwithstanding his usual precautions, 
 he was astonished to find the latter come and pick out his oxen, 
 as if nothing had happened. He had marked them under the 
 hoof. Autolycus, it seems, had the usual genei'osity of genius ; 
 and was so pleased with this evidence of superior cunning, that
 
 THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 87 
 
 some say he gave him in marriage his daughter, Anticlea, who 
 was afterwards the wife of Laertes, the father of Ulysses. Ac- 
 cording to others, however, he only favoured him with his 
 daughter's company for a time, a fashion not yet extinct in some 
 primitive countries ; and it was a reproach made against Ulysses, 
 that Laertes was only his pretended, and Sisyphus his real, 
 father. Sisyphus has the credit of being the greatest knave of 
 antiquity. His famous punishment in hell, of being compelled 
 to roll a stone up a hill to all eternity, and seeing it always go 
 down again, is attributed by some to a characteristic trait, which 
 he could not help playing off upon Pluto. It was supposed by 
 the ancients that a man's ghost would wander in a melancholy 
 manner upon the banks of the Styx as long as his corpse re- 
 mained without burial. Sisyphus, on his death-bed, purposely 
 charged his wife to leave him unburied ; and then begged Pluto's 
 permission to go back to earth, on his parole, merely to punish 
 her for so scandalous a neglect. Like the lawyer, however, who 
 contrived to let his hat fall inside the door of heaven, and got 
 St Peter's permission to step in for it, Sisyphus would not return ; 
 and so, when Pluto had him again, he paid him for the trick 
 with setting him upon this everlasting job. 
 
 The exploits of Mercury himself, the god of cunning, may be 
 easily imagined to surpass everything achieved by profaner hands. 
 Homer, in the hymn to his honour, has given a delightful ac- 
 count of his prematurity in swindling. He had not been born 
 many hours before he stole Vulcan's tools, Mars's sword, and 
 Jupiter's sceptre. He beat Cupid in a wrestling bout on the 
 same day ; and Venus caressing him for his conquest, he re- 
 turned the embrace by filching away her girdle. He would also 
 have stolen Jupiter's thunderbolts, but was afraid of burning 
 his fingers. On the evening of his birthday, he drove off the 
 cattle of Admetus, which Apollo was tending. The good- 
 humoured god of wit endeavoured to frighten him into restoring 
 them ; but could not help laughing when, in the midst of his 
 threatenings, he found himself without his quiver.
 
 88 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 The history of thieves is to be found either in that of romance 
 or in the details of the history of cities. The latter have not 
 come down to us from the ancient world, with some exceptions 
 in the comic writers, immaterial to our present purpose, and in 
 the loathsome rhetoric of Petronius. The finest thief in old 
 history is the pirate who made that famous answer to Alexander^ 
 in which he said that the conqueror was only the mightier thief 
 of the two. The story of the thieving architect in Herodotus, 
 we will tell another time. We can call to mind no other thieves 
 in the Greek and Latin writers (always excepting political ones) 
 except some paltry fellows who stole napkins at dinner, and 
 the robbers in Apuleius, the precursors of those in " Gil Bias." 
 When we come, however, to the times of the Arabians and of 
 chivalry, they abound in all their glory, both great and small. 
 Who among us does not know by heart the story of the never- 
 to-be-forgotten " Forty Thieves," with their treasure in the 
 green wood, their anxious observer, their magical opening ol 
 the door, their captain, their concealment in the jars, and the 
 scalding oil, that, as it were, extinguished them, groaning, one 
 by one ? Have we not all ridden backwards and forwards with 
 them to the wood a hundred times ? — watched them, with fear 
 and tremblmg, from the tree ? — sewn up, blind-folded, the four 
 quarters of the dead body ? — and said, " Open, Sesame," to 
 every door at school .'' May we ride with them again and again, 
 or we shall lose our appetite for some of the best things in the 
 world. 
 
 We pass over those interlopers in our English family, the 
 Danes ; as well as Rollo the Norman, and other freebooters, 
 who only wanted less need of robbery to become respectable 
 conquerors. In fact, they did so, as they got on. We have 
 also no particular worthy to select from among that host of 
 petty chieftains who availed themselves of their knightly csstles 
 and privileges to commit all sorts of unchivalrous outinges. 
 These are the giants of modern romance, and the Veglios, 
 Malcnginsj and Pinabellos, of Pulci, Spenser, and Ariosto.
 
 THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 89 
 
 They survived in the petty states of Italy a long while ; gradually 
 took a less solitary though hardly less ferocious shape among 
 the fierce political partisans recorded by Dante ; and at length 
 became represented by the men of desperate fortunes, who 
 make such a figure, between the gloomy and the gallant, in Mrs 
 Radcliffe's " Mysteries of Udolpho." The breaking up of the 
 late kingdom of Italy, with its dependencies, has again revived 
 them in some degree ; but not, we believe, in any shape above 
 common robbery. The regular modern thief seems to make his 
 appearance for the first time in the imaginary character of 
 Brunello, as described by Boiardo and Ariosto. He is a fellow 
 that steals every valuable that comes in his way. The way in 
 which he robs Sacripant, king of Circassia, of his horse, has 
 been ridiculed by Cervantes ; if indeed he did not rather repeat 
 it with great zest ; for his use of the theft is really not such a 
 caricature as in Boiardo and his great follower. While Sancho 
 is sitting lumpishly asleep upon the back of his friend Dapple, 
 Gines de Passamonte, the famous thief, comes and gently with- 
 draws the donkey from under him, leaving the somniculous 
 squire propped up on the saddle with four sticks. His con- 
 sternation on waking maybe guessed. But in the Italian poets, 
 the Circassian prince has only fallen into a deep meditation, 
 when Brunello draws away his steed. Ariosto appears to have 
 thought this extravagance a hazardous one, though he could 
 not deny himself the pleasure of repeating it : for he has made 
 Sacripant blush when called upon to testify how the horse was 
 stolen from him. (" Orlando Furio.," c. 27, st. 84.) 
 
 In the Italian novels and the old French tales are a variety 
 of extremely amusing stories of thieves, all most probably 
 founded on fact. We will give a specimen as we go, by way of 
 making this article the completer. A doctor of laws in Bologna 
 had become rich enough, by scraping money together, to indulge 
 himself in a grand silver cup, which he sent home one day to 
 his wife from the goldsmith's. There were two sharping fellows 
 prowling about that day in search of a prize ; and getting scent
 
 go LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 of the cup, they laid their heads together to contrive how they 
 might indulge themselves in it instead. One of them accord- 
 ingly goes to a fishmonger's, and buys a fine lamprey, which he 
 takes to the doctor's wife, with her husband's compliments, and 
 he would bring a company of his brother doctors with him to 
 dinner, requesting in the meantime that she would send back 
 the cup by the bearer, as he had forgotten to have his arms 
 engraved upon it. The good lady, happy to obey all these 
 pleasing impulses on the part of master doctor, takes in the fish, 
 and sends out the cup, with equal satisfaction ; and sets about 
 getting the dinner ready. The doctor comes home at his usual 
 hour, and, finding his dinner so much better than ordinary, asks 
 with an air of wonder where was the necessity of going to that 
 expense ; upon which the wife, putting on an air of wonder in 
 her turn, and proud of possessing the new cup, asks him where 
 are all those brother doctors, whom he said he should bring 
 with him. "What does the fool mean?" said the testy old 
 gentleman. " Mean ! " rejoined the wife ; " what does //it's 
 mean?" pointing to the fish. The doctor looked down with 
 his old eyes at the lamprey. " God knows," said he, " what it 
 means. I am sure I don't know what it means, more than any 
 other fish ; except that I shall have to pay a pretty sum for 
 every mouthful you eat of it." " Why, it was your own doing, 
 husband," said the wife ; " and you will remember it, perhaps, 
 when you recollect that the same man that brought me the fish 
 was to take away the cup to have your name engraved upon it." 
 At this the doctor started back, with his eyes as wide open as 
 the fish's, exclaiming, " And you gave it him, did you ? " " To 
 be sure I did," returned the good housewife. The old doctor 
 here began a passionate speech, which he suddenly broke off ; 
 and, after stamping up and down the room, and crying out that 
 he was an undone advocate, ran quivering out into the street 
 like one frantic, asking everybody if they had seen a man with 
 a lamprey. The two rogues were walking all this time in the 
 neighbourhood ; and seeing the doctor set off, in his frantic fit,
 
 THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 9I 
 
 to the goldsmith's, and knowing that he who brought the lam- 
 prey had been well disguised, they began to ask one another, in 
 the jollity of their triumph, what need there was for losing a 
 good lamprey, because they had gained a cup. The other, 
 therefore, went to the doctor's house, and, putting on a face of 
 good news, told the wife that the cup was found. " Master 
 doctor," said he, " bade me come and tell you that it was but a 
 joke of your old friend What's-his-name." " Castellani, I war- 
 rant me," said the wife, with a face broad with delight. " The 
 same," returned he. " Master doctor says that Signor Castellani, 
 and the other gentlemen he spoke of, are waiting for you at the 
 signor's house, where they purpose to laugh away the choler 
 they so merrily raised with a good dinner and wine ; and to 
 that end they have sent me for the lamprey." " Take it in God's 
 name," said the good woman ; " I am heartily glad to see it go 
 out of the house, and shall follow it myself speedily." So say- 
 ing, she gave him the fine hot fish, with some sauce, between 
 two dishes ; and the knave, who felt already round the corner 
 with glee, slid it under his cloak, and made the best of his way 
 to his companion, who lifted up his hands and eyes at sight of 
 him, and asked twenty questions in a breath, and chuckled, and 
 slapped his thigh, and snapped his fingers for joy, to think what 
 a pair of fools two rogues had to do with. Little did the poor 
 despairing doctor, on his return home, guess what they were 
 saying of him as he passed the wall of the house in which they 
 were feasting. " Heyday ! " cried the wife, smiling all abroad, 
 as she saw him entering. " What, art thou come to fetch me 
 then, bone of my bone ? Well, if this isn't the gallantest day 
 I have seen many a year ! It puts me in mind— it puts me in 
 
 mind " Here the chirping old lady was about to remind the 
 
 doctor of the days of his youth, holding out her arms and 
 raising her quivering voice, when (we shudder to relate) she 
 received a considerable cuff on the left cheek. " You make rne 
 mad," cried the doctor, " with your eternal idiotical nonsense. 
 What do you mean by coming to fetch you, and the gallantest
 
 02 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 day of your life ? May the devil fetch you, and me, and that 
 invisible fiend that stole the cup." " What ! " exclaimed the 
 wife, suddenly changing her tone from a vociferous complaint 
 which she had unthinkingly set up, " did you send nobody, then, 
 for the lamprey ? " Here the doctor cast his eyes upon the 
 bereaved table, and, unable to bear the shame of this additional 
 loss, however trivial, began tearing his hair and beard, and 
 hopping about the room, giving his wife a new and scandalous 
 epithet at every step, as if he was dancing to a catalogue of her 
 imperfections. The story shook all the shoulders in Bologna 
 for a month after. 
 
 As we find, by the length to which this article has already 
 reached, that we should otherwise be obliged to compress our 
 recollections of Spanish, French, and English thieves into a 
 compass that would squeeze them into the merest dry notices, 
 we will postpone them at once to our next number ; and relate 
 another story from the same Italian novelist that supplied our 
 last. Our author is Massuccio of Salerno, a novelist who dis- 
 Dutes with Bandelio the rank next in popularity to Boccaccio. 
 We have not the original by us ; and must be obliged to an 
 English work for the groundwork of our story, as we have been 
 to Paynter's " Palace of Pleasure " for the one just related. But 
 we take the liberty usual with the repeaters of these stories. 
 We retain the incidents, but tell them in our own way, and 
 imagine what might happen in the intervals. 
 
 Two Neapolitan sharpers, having robbed a Genoese merchant 
 of his purse, make the best of their way to Sienna, where they 
 arrive during the preaching of St Bernardin. One of them at- 
 tends a sermon with an air of conspicuous modesty and devo- 
 tion, and afterwards waits upon the preacher, and addresses 
 him thus : — " Reverend father, you see before you a man, poor, 
 indeed, but honest. I do not mean to boast. God knows, I 
 have no reason. Who upon earth lias reason, unless it be one 
 who will be the last to boast, like yourself, holy father?" Here 
 the saintly orator shook his head. " I do not mean," resumed
 
 THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 93 
 
 the Stranger, " to specik even of the reverend and illustrious 
 Bernardin, but as a man among men. For my part, I am, as it 
 were, a creeping thing among them ; and yet I am honest. If 
 I have any virtue, it is that. I crawl right onward in my path, 
 looking neither to the right nor to the left ; and yet I have my 
 temptations. Reverend father, I have found this purse. I will 
 not deny that, being often in want of the common necessaries 
 of life, and having been obliged last night, in particular, to sit 
 down faint at the city gates, for want of my ordinary crust and 
 onion, which I had given to one (God help him !) still worse off 
 than myself, I did cast some looks — 1 did, I say, just open the 
 purse, and cast a wistful eye at one of those shining pieces, that 
 lay one over the other inside, with something like a wish that I 
 could procure myself a meal with it, unknown to the lawful pro- 
 prietor. But my conscience, thank Heaven, prevailed. I have 
 to make two requests to you, reverend father. First, that you 
 will absolve me for this my offence ; and second, that you will 
 be pleased to mention in one of your discourses, that a poor 
 sinner from Milan, on his road to hear them, has found a purse, 
 and would willingly restore it to the right owner. I would fain 
 give double the contents of it to find him out ; but then, what 
 can I do ? All the wealth I have consists in my honesty. Be 
 pleased, most illustrious father, to mention this in your dis- 
 course, as modestly as becomes my nothingness ; and to add 
 especially, that the purse was found on the road from Milan, 
 lying, miraculously as it were, upon a sunny bank, open to the 
 view of all, under an olive-tree, not far from a little fountain, the 
 pleasant noise of which, peradventure, had invited the owner to 
 sleep." The good father, at hearing this detail, smiled at the 
 anxious sincerity of the poor pilgrim, and, giving him the re- 
 quired absolution, promised to do his utmost to bring forth the 
 proprietor. In his next sermon, he accordingly dwelt with such 
 eloquence on the opportunities thrown in the way of the rich 
 who lose purses to behave nobly, that his congregation several 
 times half rose from tlieir seats out of enthusiasm, and longed
 
 94 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 for some convenient loss of property, that might enable them to 
 show their disinterestedness. At the conclusion of it, however, 
 a man stepped forward, and said, that anxious as he was to do 
 justice to the finder of the purse, which he knew to be his the mo- 
 ment he saw it (only he was loth to interrupt the reverend father), 
 he had claims upon him at home, in the person of his wife and 
 thirteen children, — fourteen, perhaps, he might now say, — which, 
 to his great sorrow, prevented him from giving the finder more 
 than a quarter of a piece ; this however he offered him with the 
 less scruple, since he saw the seraphic disposition of the reve- 
 rend preacher and his congregation, who, he had no doubt, 
 would make ample amends for this involuntary deficiency on 
 the part of a poor family man, the whole portion of whose wife 
 and children might be said to be wrapt up in that purse. His 
 sleep under the olive-tree had been his last for these six nights 
 (here the other man said, with a tremulous joy of acknowledg- 
 ment, that it was indeed just six nights since he had found 
 it) ; and Heaven only knew when he should have had an- 
 other, if his children's bread, so to speak, had not been found 
 again. With these words, the sharper (for such, of course, he 
 was) presented the quarter of a piece to his companion, who 
 made all but a prostration for it ; and hastened with the purse 
 out of the church. The other man's circumstances were then 
 inquired into, and as he was found to have almost as many 
 children as the purse-owner, and no possessions at all, as he 
 said, but his honesty, — all his children being equally poor and 
 pious, — a considerable subscription was raised for him ; so 
 large, indeed, that on the appearance of a new claimant next 
 day, the pockets of the good people were found empty. This 
 was no other than the Genoese merchant, who having turned 
 back on his road, when he missed his purse, did not stop till he 
 came to Sienna, and heard the news of the day before. Im- 
 agine the feelings of the deceived people. Saint Bernardin was 
 convinced that the two cheats were devils in disguise. The 
 resident canon had thought pretty nearly as much all along,
 
 THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN, 95 
 
 but had held his tongue, and now hoped it would be a lesson to 
 people not to listen to everybody who could talk, especially to 
 the neglect of St Antonio's monastery. As to the people them- 
 selves, they thought variously. Most of them were mortified at 
 having been cheated ; and some swore they never would be 
 cheated again, let appearances be what they might. Others 
 thought that this was a resolution somewhat equivocal, and 
 more convenient than happy. For our parts, we think the last 
 were right, and this reminds us of a true English story, more 
 good than striking, which we heard a short while ago from a 
 friend. He knew a man of rugged manners, but good heart 
 (not that the two things, as a lover of parenthesis will say, are 
 at all bound to go together), who had a wife somewhat given to 
 debating with hackney-coachmen, and disputing acts of settle- 
 ment respecting half-miles, and quarter-miles, and abominable 
 additional sixpences. The good housewife was lingering at the 
 door, and exclaiming against one of these monstrous charioteers, 
 whose hoarse low voice was heard at intervals, full of lying pro- 
 testations and bad weather, when the husband called out from 
 a back-room, " Never mind there, never mind ! Let her be 
 cheated ; let her be cheated." 
 
 This is a digression; but it is as well to introduce it. in order 
 to take away a certain bitterness out of the mouth of the other's 
 moral. 
 
 SECOND PAPER. 
 
 We now come to a very unromantic set of rogues — the Spanish 
 ones. In a poetical sense at least, they are unromantic ; though 
 doubtless the mountains of Spain have seen as picturesque 
 vagabonds in their time as any. There are the robbers in " Gil 
 Bias," who have at least a very respectable cavern, and loads of 
 polite superfluities. Who can forget the lofty-named Captain
 
 96 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 Rolando, with his sturdy height and his whiskers, showing with 
 a hfted torch his treasure to the timid stripHng, Gil Bias ? The 
 most illustrious theft in Spanish story is one recorded of no less 
 a person than the fine old national hero, the Cid. As the 
 sufferers were Jews, it might be thought that his conscience 
 would not have hurt him in those days ; but " My Cid" was a 
 kind of early soldier in behalf of sentiment, and, though he went 
 to work roughly, he meant nobly and kindly. " God knows," 
 said he, on the present occasion, " I do this thing more of 
 necessity than of wilfulness ; but by God's help I shall redeem 
 all." The case was this. The Cid, who was too good a subject 
 to please his master the king, had quarrelled with him, or rather 
 had been banished ; and nobody was to give him house-room 
 or food. A number of friends, however, followed him ; and, by 
 the help of his nephew Martin Antolinez, he proposed to raise 
 some money. Martin accordingly negotiated the business with 
 a couple of rich Jews, who, for a deposit of two chests full of spoil, 
 which they were not to open for a year, on account of political 
 circumstances, agreed to advance six hundred marks. '" Well, 
 then," said Martin Antolinez, " ye see that the night is advanc- 
 ing ; the Cid is in haste ; give us the marks." " This is not the 
 way of business," said they ; " we must take first, and then give." 
 Martin accordingly goes with them to the Cid, who in the mean- 
 time has filled a couple of heavy chests with sand. The Cid 
 smiled as they kissed his hand, and said, " Ye see I am going out 
 of the land because of the king's displeasure ; but I shall leave 
 something with ye." The Jews made a suitable answer, and were 
 then desired to take the chests ; but, though strong men, they 
 could not raise them from the ground. This put them in such 
 spirits that, after telling out the six hundred marks (which Don 
 Martin took without weighing), they offered the Cid a present 
 of a fine red skin ; and upon Don Martin's suggesting that he 
 thought his own services in the business merited a pair of hose, 
 they consulted a minute with each other, in order to do every- 
 thing judiciously ; and then gave him money enough to buy. not
 
 THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 97 
 
 only the hose, but a rich doublet and good cloak into the 
 bargain.* 
 
 The regular sharping rogues, however, that abound in Spanish 
 books of adventure, have one species of romance about them, 
 of a very peculiar nature. It may be called, we fear, as far as 
 Spain is concerned, a " romance of real life." We allude to the 
 absolute want and hunger which is so often the original of their 
 sin. A vein of this craving nature runs throughout most of the 
 Spanish novels. In other countries, theft is generally repre- 
 sented as the result of an abuse of plenty, or some other kind 
 of profligacy, or absolute ruin. But it seems to be an understood 
 thing, that to be poor in Spain is to be in want of the commonest 
 necessaries of life. If a poor man here and there happens not 
 to be in so destitute a state as the rest, he thinks himself bound 
 to maintain the popular character for an appetite ; and manifests 
 the most prodigious sense of punctuality and anticipation in all 
 matters relating to meals. Who ever thinks of Sancho, and 
 does not think of ten minutes before luncheon ? Don Quixote 
 on the other hand counts it ungenteel and undignified to be 
 hungry. The cheat who flatters Gil Bias reckons himself 
 entitled to be insultingly triumphant, merely because he has got 
 a dinner out of him. 
 
 Of all these ingenious children of necessity, whose roguery has 
 been sharpened by perpetual want, no wit was surely ever kept 
 at so subtle and fierce an edge as that of the never-to-be- 
 decently-treated Lazarillo de Tormes. If we had not been at a 
 sort of monastic school, and known the beatitude of dry bread 
 and a draught of spring-water, his history would seem to 
 inform us, for the first time, what true hunger was. His cun- 
 ning so truly keeps pace with it, that he seems recompensed for 
 
 * See Mr Southey's excellent compilation entitled, "The Chronicle of the Cid," 
 Book III. sec. 21. The version at the end of the book, attributed to Mr Hookham 
 Frere, of a passage out of the " Poema del Cid,'' is the most native and terse bit 
 of translation we ever met with. It rides along, like the Cid himself on horseback, 
 with an infinite mi.xture of ardour and self-possession ; bending, when jt cboosei^ 
 hilh grace, or bearing down everything with mastery. 
 
 G
 
 98 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 the wants of his stomach by the abundant energies of his head. 
 One-half of his imagination is made up of dry bread and scraps, 
 and the other of meditating how to get at them. Every thought 
 of his mind, and every feehng of his affection, coalesces, and 
 tends to one point, with a ventripetal force. It was said of a 
 contriving lady, that she took her very tea by stratagem. 
 Lazarillo is not so lucky. It is enough for him if, by a train of 
 the most ingenious contrivances, he can lay successful siege to 
 a crust. To rout some broken victuals, — to circumvent an onion 
 or so extraordinary, — is the utmost aim of his ambition. An ox- 
 foot is his beau-ideal. He has as intense and circuitous a sense 
 of a piece of cheese as a mouse at a trap. He swallows sur- 
 reptitious crums with as much zest as a young servant-girl does 
 a plate of preserves. But to his story. He first serves a blind 
 beggar, with whom he lives miserably, except when he commits 
 thefts which subject him to miserable beatings. He next lives 
 with a priest, and finds his condition worse. His third era of 
 esuriency takes place in the house of a Spanish gentleman ; 
 and here he is worse off than ever. The reader wonders, as he 
 himself did, how he can possibly ascend to this climax of 
 starvation. To overreach a blind beggar might be thought easy. 
 The reader will judge by a specimen or two. The old fellow 
 used to keep his mug of liquor between his legs, that Lazarillo 
 might not touch it without his knowledge. He did, however ; 
 and the beggar, discovering it, took to holding the mug in future 
 by the handle. Lazarillo then contrives to suck some of the 
 liquor off with a reed ; till the beggar defeats this contrivance 
 by keeping one hand upon the vessel's mouth. His antagonist, 
 upon this, makes a hole near the bottom of the mug, filling it up 
 with wax, and so tapping the can, with as much gentleness as 
 possible, whenever his thirst makes him bold. This stratagem 
 threw the blind man into despair. He "used to swear and 
 domineer," and wish both the pot and its contents at the devil. 
 The following account of the result is a specimen of the English 
 translation of the work, which is done with great tact and spirit,
 
 THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 99 
 
 we know not by whom. But it is worthy of De Foe. Lazarillo 
 is supposed to tell his adventures himself. " ' You won't accuse 
 me any more, I hope,' cried I, ' of drinking your wine,* after 
 all the fine precautions you have taken to prevent it,' To that 
 he said not a word ; but, feeling all about the pot, he at last un- 
 luckily discovered the hole, which dissembling at that time, he 
 let me alone till next day at dinner. Not dreaming, my reader 
 must know, of the old man's malicious stratagem, but getting in 
 between his legs, according to my wonted custom, and receiving 
 into my mouth the distilling dew, and pleasing myself with the 
 success of my own ingenuity, my eyes upward, but half shut, the 
 furious tyrant, taking up the sweet, but hard pot, with both his 
 hands flung it down again with all his force upon my face ; with 
 the violence of which blow, imagining the house had fallen 
 upon my head, I lay sprawling without any sentiment or judg- 
 ment ; my forehead, nose, and mouth, gushing out of blood, and 
 the latter full of broken teeth, and broken pieces of the can. 
 From that time forward, I ever abominated the monstrous old 
 churl, and, in spite of all his flattering stories, could easily 
 observe how my punishment tickled the old rogue's fancy. He 
 washed my sores with wine ; and with a smile, ' What say'st 
 thou,' quoth he, ' Lazarillo ? the thing that hurt thee, now re- 
 stores thee to health. Courage, my boy ! ' But all his raillery 
 could not make me change my mind." 
 
 At another time, a countryman giving them a cluster of 
 grapes, the old man, says Lazarillo, " would needs take that 
 opportunity to show me a little kindness, after he had been 
 chiding and beating me the whole day before. So setting oui"- 
 selves down by a hedge, * Come hither, Lazarillo,' quoth he, 
 ' and let us enjoy ourselves a little, and eat these raisins together ; 
 which that we may share like brothers, do you take but one at 
 a time, and be sure not to cheat me, and I promise you, for my 
 part, I shall take no more.' That I readily agreed to, and so we 
 
 * The reader is to understand a common southern wine, m ^re like a washy cider 
 tlian anything che.
 
 lOO LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 began our banquet ; but at the very second time he took a couple, 
 believing, I suppose, that I should do the same. And finding 
 he had showed me the way, I made no scruple all the while to 
 take two, three, or four at a time ; sometimes more and some- 
 times less, as conveniently I could. When we had done, the old 
 man shook his head, and, holding the stalk in his hand, ' Thou 
 hast cheated me, Lazarillo,' quoth he, ' for I could take my oath, 
 that thou hast taken three at a time.' ' Who ? I ! I beg your 
 pardon,' quoth I ; 'my conscience is as dear to me as another.' 
 ' Pass that jest upon another,' answered the old fox ; 'you saw 
 me take two at a time without complaining of it, and therefore 
 you took three.' At that I could hardly forbear laughing ; and 
 at the same time admired the justness of his reasoning.'" 
 Lazarillo at length quitted the service of the old hard-hearted 
 miser, and revenged himself upon him at the same time, in a 
 very summary manner. They were returning home one day on 
 account of bad weather, when they had to cross a kennel which 
 the rain had swelled to a little torrent. The beggar v/as about 
 to jump over it as well as he could, when Lazarillo persuaded 
 him to go a little lower down the stream, because there was a 
 better crossing ; that is, there was a stone pillar on the other 
 side, against which he knew the blind old fellow would nearly 
 dash his brains out. " He was mightily pleased with my advice. 
 'Thou art in the right on 't, good boy,' quoth he, 'and I love thee 
 with all my heart, Lazarillo. Lead me to the place thou speak'st 
 of; the water is very dangerous in winter, and especially to have 
 one's feet wet.' " And again :— " ' Be sure to set me in the right 
 place, Lazarillo,' quoth he ; ' and then do thou go over first.' 
 I obeyed his orders, and set him exactly before the pillar, and 
 so leaping over posted myself before it, looking upon him as a 
 man would do upon a mad bull. ' Now your jump,' quoth I, 
 ' and you may get over to rights, without ever touching th'* 
 water.' I had scarce done speaking, when the old man, hke i, 
 ram that 's fighting, ran three steps backwards, to take his start 
 with the greater vigour, and so his head came with a vengeance
 
 THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. lOT 
 
 against the stone-pillar, which made him fall back into the 
 kennel half dead." Lazarillo stops a moment to triumph over 
 him with insulting language ; and then, says he, " resigning my 
 blind, bruised, wet, old, cross, cunning master, to the care of 
 the mob that was gathered about him, I made the best of my 
 heels, without ever looking about, till I had got the town-gate 
 upon my back ; and thence, marching on at a merry pace, I ar- 
 rived before night at Torrigo." 
 
 At the house of the priest, poor Lazarillo gets worse off than 
 before, and is obliged to resort to the most extraordinary shifts 
 to arrive at a morsel of bread. At one time, he gets a key of a 
 tinker, and, opening the old trunk in which the miser kept his 
 bread (a sight, he says, like the opening of heaven), he takes 
 small pieces out of three or four, in imitation of a mouse ; which 
 so convinces the old hunks that the mice and rats have been at 
 them, that he is more liberal of the bread than usual. He lets 
 him have in particular " the parings about the parts where he 
 thought the mice had been." Another of his contrivances is 
 to palm off his pickings upon a serpent, with which animal a 
 neighbour told the priest that his house had been once haunted. 
 Lazarillo, who had been used when he lived with the beggar 
 to husband pieces of money in his mouth (substituting some 
 lesser coin in the blind man's hand, when people gave him 
 anything), now employs the same hiding-place for his key ; but 
 whistling through it unfortunately, one night, as he lay breath- 
 ing hard in his sleep, the priest concludes he has now caught 
 the serpent, and, going to Lazarillo's bed with a broomstick, 
 gives him at a venture such a tremendous blow on the head as 
 half murders him. The key is then discovered, and the poor 
 fellow turned out of doors. 
 
 He is now hired by a lofty-looking hidalgo, and follows him 
 home, eating a thousand good things by anticipation. They 
 pass through the markets, however, to no purpose. The squire 
 first goes to church too, and spends an unconscionable time at 
 mass. At length they arrive at a dreary, ominous-looking house,
 
 I02 LKIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 and ascend into a decent apartment, where the squire, after shak- 
 ing his cloak, and blowing off the dust from a stone seat, lays it 
 neatly down, and so makes a cushion of it to sit upon. There 
 is no other furniture in the room, nor even in the neighbouring 
 rooms, except a bed " composed of the anatomy of an old 
 hamper." The truth is, the squire is as poor as Lazarillo, only 
 too proud to own it ; and so he starves both himself and his 
 servant at home, and then issues gallantly forth of a morning, 
 with his Toledo by his side, and a countenance of stately satis- 
 faction ; returning home every day about noon with "a starched 
 body, reaching out his neck like a greyhound." Lazarillo had 
 not been a day in the house before he found out how matters 
 went. He was beginning, in his despair of a dinner, to eat some 
 scraps of bread which had been given him in the morning, when 
 the squire, observing him, asked what he was about. " ' Come 
 hither, boy,' said he, ' what 's that thou art eating ?' I went," 
 says Lazarillo, " and showed him three pieces of bread, of which, 
 taking away the best, ' Upon my faith,' quoth he, ' this bread 
 seems to be very good.' "Tis too stale and hard, sir,' said I, 
 * to be good.' ' I swear 'tis very good,' said the squire ; 
 ' who gave it thee? Were their hands clean that gave it thee?' 
 ' I took it without asking any questions, sir,' answered I, ' and 
 you see I eat it as freely.' ' Pray God it may be so ! ' answered 
 the miserable squire ; and so putting the bread to his mouth, he 
 ate it with no less appetite than I did mine ; adding at every 
 mouthful, ' Gadzooks, this bread is excellent ! ' " 
 
 Lazarillo, in short, here finds the bare table so completely turned 
 upon him, that he is forced to become provider for his master 
 as well as himself ; which he does by fairly going out every day 
 and begging, the poor squire winking at the indignity, though 
 not without a hint at keeping the connexion secret. The follow- 
 ing extract shall be our climax, which it may well be, the hunger 
 having thus ascended into the ribs of Spanish aristocracy. Laza- 
 rillo, one lucky day, has an ox-foot and some tripe given him by 
 a butcher-woman. On coming home with his treasure, he finds
 
 THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. lO^ 
 
 the hidalgo impatiently walking up and down, and fears he shall 
 have a scolding for staying so long ; but the squire merely asks 
 where he has been, and receives the account with an irrepres- 
 sible air of delight. " I sate down," says Lazarillo, " upon the 
 end of the stone seat, and began to eat, that he might fancy I 
 was feasting ; and observed, witb^)ut seeming to take notice, that 
 his eye was fixed upon my skirt, which was all the plate and 
 table that I had. 
 
 " May God pity me as I had compassion on that poor squire I 
 Daily experience made me sensible of his trouble. I did not 
 know whether I should invite him, for, since he had told me he 
 had dined, I thought he would make a point of honour to refuse 
 to eat ; but, in short, being very desirous to supply his necessity, 
 as I had done the day before, and which I was then much better 
 in a condition to do, having already sufficiently stuffed my 
 own guts : it was not long before an opportunity fairly offered 
 itself; for he, taking occasion to come near me in his walks, 
 ' Lazarillo,' quoth he (as soon as he observed me begin to eat), 
 ' I never saw anybody eat so handsomely as thee ; a body can 
 scarce see thee fall to work without desiring to bear thee com- 
 pany : let their stomachs be never so full, or their mouth be 
 never so much out of taste.' 'Faith,' thought I to myself, 'with 
 such an empty belly as yours, my own mouth would water at a 
 great deal less.' 
 
 " But, finding he was come where I wished him, ' Sir,' said 
 I, ' good stuff makes a good workman. This is admirable bread, 
 and here's an ox-foot so nicely dressed and so well-seasoned, 
 that any body would delight to taste of it.' 
 
 "'How!' cried the squire, interrupting me, 'an ox-foot?' 
 'Yes, sir,' said I, 'an ox- foot.' 'Ah! theti^ quoth he, '■ thoit 
 hast in my opinion the dclicatest bit in Spain; there being 
 neither partridge, pheasant, nor any other thing, that I like 
 nearly so well as that.' 
 
 " ' Will you please to try, sir ? ' said I (putting the ox-foot in 
 his hand, with two good morsels of bread) ; ' when you have tasted
 
 I04 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 it, you will be convinced that it is a treat for a king, 'tis so well 
 dressed and seasoned.' 
 
 " Upon that, sitting down by my side, he began to eat, or 
 rather to devour, what I had given him, so that the bones could 
 hardly escape. * Oh ! the excellent bit,' did he cry, 'that this 
 would be with a little garlic ! ' ' Ha !' thought I to myself, * how 
 hastily thou eatest it without sauce ! ' ' Gad ! ' said the squire, 
 * I have eaten this as heartily as if I had not tasted a bit of 
 victuals to-day ; ' which I did very readily believe. 
 
 "He then called for the pitcher with the water, which was as 
 full as I had brought it home ; so you may guess whether he had 
 ate any. When his squireship had drank, he civilly invited me 
 to do the like ; and thus ended our feast." 
 
 We hope the reader is as much amused with this prolongation 
 of the subject as ourselves, for we are led on insensibly by these 
 amusing thieves, and find we shall have yet another paper to 
 write upon them, before we have done. We will therefore con- 
 clude the present one by giving another specimen or two of the 
 sharping Spaniard out of Quevedo. The Adventures, by the 
 way, of Lazarillo de Tormes, were written in the sixteenth 
 century by a Spanish gentleman, apparently of illustrious family, 
 Don Diego de Mendoza, who was some time ambassador at 
 Venice. This renders the story of the hidalgo still more curious. 
 Not that the author, perhaps, ever felt the proud but condescend- 
 ing pangs which he describes ; this is not necessary for a man of 
 imagination. He merely meant to give a hint to the poorer 
 gentry not to overdo the matter on the side of loftiness, for their 
 own sakes ; and hunger, whether among the proud or the humble, 
 was too national a thing not to be entered into by his statistic 
 apprehension. 
 
 The most popular work connected with sharping adventures 
 is " Gil Bias," which, though known to us as a French production, 
 seems unquestionably to have originated in the country where 
 the scene is laid. It is a work exquisitely easy and true ; but 
 somehow we have no fancy for the knaves in it. They are of
 
 THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. I05 
 
 too smooth, sneaking, and safe a cast. They neither bespeak 
 one's sympathy by necessity, nor one's admiration by daring. 
 We except, of course, the robbers before mentioned, who are a 
 picturesque patch in the work, like a piece of rough poetry. 
 
 Of the illustrious Guzman d'Alfarache, the most popular book 
 of the kind, we believe, in Spain, and admired, we know, in this 
 country by some excellent judges, we cannot with propriety 
 speak, for we have only read a few pages at the beginning; 
 though we read those twice over, at two different times, and each 
 time with the same intention of going on. In truth, as Guzman 
 is called by way of eminence the Spanish Rogue, we must say 
 for him, as far as our slight acquaintance warrants it, that he is 
 also " as tedious as a king." They say, however, he has excellent 
 stuff in him. 
 
 We can speak as little of Marcos de Obregon, of which a 
 translation appeared a little while ago. We have read it, and, if 
 we remember rightly, were pleased ; but want of memory on 
 these occasions is not a good symptom. Quevedo, no ordinary 
 person, is very amusing. His "Visions of Hell," in particular, 
 though of a very different kind from Dante's, are more edifying. 
 But our business at present is with his " History of Paul the 
 Spanish Sharper, the Pattern of Rogues and Mirror of Vaga- 
 bonds." We do not know that he deserves these appellations so 
 much as some others ; but they are to be looked upon as titular 
 ornaments, common to the Spanish A7^//^fr«r)/. He is extremely 
 pleasant, especially in his younger days. His mother, who is no 
 better than the progenitor of such a personage ought to be, 
 happens to have the misfortune one day of being carted. Paul, 
 who was then school-boy, was elected king on some boyish 
 holiday ; and riding out upon a half-starved horse, it picked up 
 a small cabbage as they went through the market. The mar- 
 ket-women began pelting the king with rotten oranges and 
 turnip-tops ; upon which, having feathers in his cap, and getting 
 a notion in his head that they mistook kim for his mother, who, 
 agreeably to a Spanish custom, was tricked out in the same
 
 Io6 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 manner when she was carted, he hallooed out, "Good women, 
 though I wear feathers in my cap, I am none of Alonza Saturno 
 de Rebillo. She is my mother." 
 
 Paul used to be set upon unlucky tricks by the son of a man 
 of rank, who preferred enjoying a joke to getting punished for it. 
 Among others, one Christmas, a counsellor happening to go by 
 of the name of Pontio de Auguirre, the little Don told his 
 companion to call Pontius Pilate, and then to run away. He 
 did so, and the angry counsellor followed after him with a knife 
 in his hand, so that he was forced to take refuge in the house of 
 the schoolmaster. The lawyer laid his indictment, and Paul got 
 a hearty flogging, during which he was enjoined never to call 
 Pontius Pilate again ; to which he heartily agreed. The 
 consequence was, that next day, when the boys were at prayers, 
 Paul, coming to the belief, and thinking that he was never again 
 to name Pontius Pilate, gravely said, " Suffered under Pontio de 
 Auguirre ;" which evidence of his horror of the scourge so in- 
 terested the pedagogue, that by a Catholic mode of dispen- 
 sation, he absolved him from the next two whippings he should 
 incur. 
 
 But we forget that our little picaro was a thief. One specimen 
 of his talents this way, and we have done with the Spaniards. 
 He went with young Don Diego to the university ; and here 
 getting applause for some tricks he played people, and dandling, 
 as it were, his growing propensity to theft, he invited his com- 
 panions one evening to see him steal a box of comfits from a 
 confectioner^s. He accordingly draws his rapier, which was stiff 
 and well-pointed ; runs violently into the shop ; and exclaiming, 
 " You 're a dead man ! " makes a fierce lunge at the confectioner 
 between the body and arm. Down drops the man, half dead 
 with fear : the others rush out. But what of the box of comfits ? 
 "Where is the box of comfits, Paul?" said the rogues : "we do 
 not see what you have done aftet all, except frighten the fellow." 
 " Look here, my boys ! " answered Paul. They looked, and at the 
 end of his rapier beheld, with shouts of laughter, the vanquished
 
 THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. I07 
 
 box. He had marked it out on the shelf, and, under pre- 
 tence of lounghig at the confectioner, pinked it away hke a 
 muffin. 
 
 Upon turning to Quevedo, we find that the story has grown a 
 little upon our memory, as to detail ; but this is the spirit of it. 
 The prize here, it is to be observed, is something eatable ; and 
 the same yearning is a predominant property of Ouevedo's 
 sharpers, as well as the others. 
 
 Adieu, ye pleasant rogues of Spain ! ye surmounters of bad 
 government, hunger, and misery, by the mere force of a light 
 climate and fingers ! The dinner calls ; — and to talk about you 
 before it, is as good as taking a ride on horseback. 
 
 THIRD PAPER. 
 
 We must return a moment to the Italian thieves, to relate 
 a couple of stories related of Ariosto and Tasso. The for- 
 mer was for a short period governor of Grafagnana, a dis- 
 turbed district in the Apennines, which his prudent and 
 gentle policy brought back from its disaffection. Among its 
 other troubles were numerous bands of robbers, two of the 
 names of whose leaders, Domenico Maroco, and FiHppo Pac- 
 chione, have come down to posterity. Ariosto, during the first 
 days of his government, was riding out with a small retinue, when 
 he had to pass through a number of suspicious-looking armed 
 men. The two parties had scarcely cleared each other, when 
 the chief of the strangers asked a servant, who happened to be at 
 some distance behind the others, who that person was. " It is 
 the captain of the citadel here," said the man, " Lodovico 
 Ariosto." The stranger no sooner heard the name, than he 
 went running back to overtake the governor, who, stopping his 
 horse, waited with some anxiety for the event. " I beg your
 
 I08 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 pardon, sir," said he, " but I was not aware that so great a per- 
 son as the Signor Lodovico Ariosto was passing near me. My 
 name is Filippo Pacchione ; and when I knew who it was, I could 
 not go on without returning to pay the respect due to so illus- 
 trious a name." 
 
 A doubt is thrown on this story, or rather on the particular 
 person who gave occasion to it, by the similarity of an adven- 
 ture related of Tasso. Both of them, however, are very probable, 
 let the similarity be what it may : for both the poets had occa- 
 sion to go through disturbed districts ; robbers abounded in 
 both their times ; and the leaders, being most probably men 
 rather of desperate fortunes than want of knowledge, were likely 
 enough to seize such opportunities of vindicating their better 
 habits, and showing a romantic politeness. The enthusiasm, 
 too, is quite in keeping with the national character ; and it is to 
 be observed tJiat the particulars of Tasso's adventure are differ- 
 ent, though the spirit of it is the same. He was journeying, it 
 is said, in company with others, for better security against the 
 banditti who infested the borders of the Papal territory, when 
 they were told that Sciarra, a famous robber, was at hand 
 in considerable force. Tasso was for pushing on, and de- 
 fending themselves if attacked ; but his opinion was over- 
 ruled ; and the company threw themselves for safety into the 
 city of Mola. Here Sciarra kept them in a manner blocked 
 up ; but hearing that Tasso was among the travellers, he sent 
 him word that he should not only be allowed to pass, but should 
 have safe conduct whithersoever he pleased. The lofty poet, 
 making it a matter of delicacy, perhaps, to waive an advantage 
 of which his company could not partake, declined the offer ; 
 upon which Sciarra sent another message, saying, that, upon the 
 sole account of Tasso, the ways should be left open. And they 
 were so. 
 
 We can call to mind no particular German thieves, except 
 those who figure in romances, and in " The Robbers " of Schiller. 
 To say the truth, we are writing just now with but few books to
 
 THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. IO9 
 
 refer to ; and the better-informed reader must pardon any de- 
 ficiencies he meets with in these egregious and furtive memo- 
 randums. Of " The Robbers " of Schiller, an extraordinary effect 
 is related. It is said to have driven a number of wild-headed 
 young Germans upon playing at banditti, not in the bounds of a 
 school or university, but seriously in a forest. The matter-of- 
 fact spirit in which a German sets about being enthusiastic, is a 
 metaphysical curiosity which modern events render doubly in- 
 teresting. It is extremely worthy of the attention of those rare 
 personages, entitled reflecting politicians. But we must take 
 care again. It is very inhuman of these politics, that the habit 
 of attending to them, though with the greatest good-will and 
 sincerity, will always be driving a man upon thinking how his 
 fellow-creatures are going on. 
 
 There is a pleasant, well-known story of a Prussian thief 
 and Frederick II. [The mention, by the way, of these two per- 
 sonages together, puts us in mind of the Scottish answer to 
 travellers about a mile and a bittock, — the said bittock, or little 
 bit, being perhaps three or four miles in addition. 
 
 Reader. There, Mr Indicator, you get upon politics again. 
 
 Indicator. What, sir ! upon modern politics? 
 
 Reader. I think so. 
 
 Indicator. But I cannot help it, you know, if past history ap- 
 plies to present events ; or at least, if your wicked imagination 
 makes it apply. 
 
 Reader. Oh, ho ! you have me there. 
 
 Indicator. I trust you have me everywhere.] 
 
 We forget what was the precise valuable found upon the Prus- 
 sian soldier, and missed from an image of the Virgin Mary ; but 
 we believe it was a ring. He was tried for sacrilege, and the 
 case appeared clear against him, when he puzzled his Catholic 
 judges by informing them that the fact was, the Virgin Mary 
 had given him that ring. Here was a terrible dilemma. To 
 dispute the possibility, or even probability, of a gift from the 
 Virgin Mary, was to deny their religion ; while, on the other
 
 no LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 hand, to let the fellow escape on the pretence, was to canonise 
 impudence itself. The worthy judges, in their perplexity, applied 
 to the king, who, under the guise of behaving delicately to their 
 faith, was not sorry to have such an opportunity of joking it. 
 His Majesty therefore pronounced, with becoming gravity, that 
 the allegation of the soldier could not but have its due weight 
 with all Catholic believers ; but that in future it was forbidden 
 any Prussian subject, military or civil, to accept a present from 
 the Virgin Mary. 
 
 The district formerly rendered famous by the exploits of 
 Scanderbeg, Prince of Epirus, and now become infamous by 
 the tyranny of Ali Bey, has been very fertile in robbers. And 
 no wonder, for a semi-barbarous people so governed become 
 thieves by necessity. The name, indeed, as well as profession, 
 is in such good receipt with an Albanian, that, according to late 
 travellers, it is a common thing for him to begin a story by say- 
 ing, " When I was a robber " We remember reading of 
 
 some Albanian or Sclavonian leader of banditti, who made his 
 enemies suppose he had a numerous force with him, by distri- 
 buting military caps upon the hedges. 
 
 There are some other nations who are all thieves, more or 
 less ; or comprise such numbers of them as very much militate 
 against the national character. Such are the piratical Malays ; 
 the still more infamous Algerines ; the mongrel tribes between 
 Arabia and Abyssinia. As to the Arabs, they have a prescrip- 
 tive right, from tradition as well as local circumstances, to plun- 
 der everybody. The sanguinary ruffians of Ashantee and other 
 black empires on the coast of Guinea are more like a govern- 
 ment of murderers and ogres than thieves. They are the next 
 ruffians, perhaps, in existence to slave-dealers. The gentlest 
 nation of pilferers are the Otaheiteans ; and something is to be 
 said for their irresistible love of hatchets and old nails. Let the 
 European trader, that is without sin, cast the first paragraph at 
 them. Let him think what he should feel inclined to do, were a 
 ship of some unknown nation to come upon his coast, with gold
 
 THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. Ill 
 
 and jewels lying scattered about the deck. For no less precious 
 is iron to the South Sea Islander. A paradisaical state of 
 existence would be to him, not the golden, but the iron age. 
 An Otaheitean Jupiter would visit his Danae in a shower of 
 tenpenny nails. 
 
 We are now come to a very multitudinous set of candidates 
 for the halter — the thieves of our own beloved country. For 
 what we know of the French thieves is connected with them, 
 excepting Cartouche ; and we remember nothing of him, but 
 that he was a great ruffian, and died upon that worse ruffian, 
 the rack. 
 
 There is, to be sure, a very eminent instance of a single theft 
 in the " Confessions of Rousseau ;" and it is the second greatest 
 blot in his book, for he suffered a girl to be charged with and 
 punished for the theft, and maintained the lie to her face, though 
 she was his friend, and appealed to him with tears. But it may 
 be said for him, at any rate, that the world would not have 
 known the story but for himself; and if such a disclosure be 
 regarded by some as an additional offence (which it may be 
 thought by some very delicate as well as dishonest people), we 
 must recollect that it was the object of his book to give a plain, 
 unsophisticated account of a human being's experiences, and 
 that many persons of excellent repute would have been found to 
 have committed actions as bad, had they given accounts of 
 themselves as candid. Dr Johnson was of opinion that all 
 children were thieves and liars ; and somebody, we believe a 
 Scotchman, answered a fond speech about human nature, by 
 exclaim.ing, that " human nature was a rogue and a vagabond, 
 or so many laws would not have been necessary to restrain it." 
 We venture to differ, on this occasion, with both Englishman 
 and Scotchman. Laws in particular, taking the bad with the 
 good, are quite as likely to have made rogues as restrained 
 them. But we see, at any rate, what has been suspected of 
 more onhodox persons than Rousseau ; to say nothing of less 
 charitable advantages which might be taken of such ojjinions.
 
 112 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 He committed a petty theft ; and miserably did his false shame, 
 the parent of so many crimes, make him act. But he won back 
 to their infants' hps the bosoms of thousands of mothers. He 
 restored to their bereaved and helpless owners thousands of 
 those fountains of health and joy ; and before he is abused, 
 even for worse things than the theft, let those whose virtue 
 consists in custom think of this. 
 
 As we have mixed fictitious with real thieves in this article, in 
 a manner, we fear, somewhat uncritical (and yet the fictions are 
 most likely founded on fact ; and the life of a real thief is a kind 
 of dream and romance), we will despatch our fictitious English 
 thieves before we come to the others. And we must make 
 shorter work of it than we intended, or we shall never come to 
 our friend Du Val. The length to which this article has 
 stretched out, week after week, will be a warning to us how we 
 render our paper liable to be run away with in future. 
 
 There is a very fine story of three thieves in Chaucer, which 
 we must tell at large another time. The most prominent of the 
 fabulous thieves in England is that bellipotent and immeasur- 
 able wag, Falstaff. If, for a momentary freak, he thought it 
 villainous to steal, at the next moment he thought it villainous 
 not to steal. 
 
 " Hal, I pr'ythee, trouble me no more with vanity, I would 
 to God thou and I knew where a commodity of good names 
 were to be bought. An old lord of the council rated me the 
 other day in the street about you, sir ; but I marked him not. 
 And yet he talked very wisely ; but I regarded him not. And 
 yet he talked wisely; and in the street too. 
 
 " P. Henry. Thou didst well ; for ' Wisdom cries out in the 
 streets, and no man regards it.' 
 
 " Falstaff. Oh, thou hast damnable iteration ; and art, indeed, 
 able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me, 
 Hal ; God forgive thee for it ! Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew 
 nothing ; and now am I, if a man should speak truly, little 
 better than one of the wicked. I must give over this life, and I
 
 THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. II3 
 
 will give it over : by the Lord, an I do not, I am a villain : I '11 
 be damned for never a king's son in Christendom. 
 
 "/'. Henry. Where shall we take a purse to-morrow, Jack? 
 
 ^^ Falstaff. Where thou wilt, lad ; I '11 make one : an I do not, 
 call me villain, and baffle me." 
 
 We must take care how we speak of Macheath, or we shall be 
 said to be getting political again. Fielding's " Jonathan Wild 
 the Great" is also, in this sense, "caviare to the multitude." 
 But we would say more of him, if we had room. Count Fathom, 
 a dehberate scoundrel, compounded of the Jonathan Wilds and 
 the more equivocal Cagliostros and other adventurers, is a thief 
 not at all to our taste. We are continually obliged to call his 
 mother to our recollection, in order to bear him. The only 
 instance in which the character of an absolute profligate pick- 
 pocket was ever made comparatively welcome to our graver 
 feelings, is in the extraordinary novel of " Manon L'Escaut" by 
 the Abb^ Prevost. It is the story of a young man so passion- 
 ately in love with a profligate female, that he follows her through 
 every species of vice and misery, even when she is sent as a 
 convict to New Orleans. His love, indeed, is returned. He is 
 obliged to subsist upon her vices ; and, in return, is induced to 
 help her with his own, becoming a cheat and a swindler to 
 supply her outrageous extravagances. On board the convict 
 ship (if we recollect) he waits on her through every species of 
 squalidness ; the convict-dress and her shaved head only re- 
 doubling his love by the help of pity. This seems a shocking 
 and very immoral book ; yet multitudes of very reputable people 
 have found a charm in it. The fact is, not only that Manon is 
 beautiful, sprightly, really fond of her lover, and, after all, be- 
 comes reformed ; but that it is delightful, and ought to be so, 
 to the human heart, to see a vein of sentiment and real goodness 
 looking out through all this callous surface of guilt. It is like 
 meeting with a tree in a squalid hole of a city, — a flower, or a 
 frank face, in a reprobate purlieu. The capabilities of human 
 nature are not compromised. The virtue alone seems natural ; 
 
 H
 
 114 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 the guilt, as it so often is, seems artificial, and the result of some 
 bad education, or other circumstance. Nor is anybody injured. 
 It is one of the shallowest of all shallow notions to talk of the 
 harm of such works. Do we think nobody is to be harmed but 
 the virtuous ? Or that there are not privileged harms and vices 
 to be got rid of, as well as unprivileged ? No good-hearted 
 person will be injured by reading "Manon L'Escaut." There 
 is the belief in goodness in it ; a faith, the want of which 
 does so much harm both to the vicious and to the over- 
 righteous. 
 
 The prince of all robbers, English or foreign, is undoubtedly 
 Robin Hood. There is a worthy Scottish namesake of his, 
 Rob Roy, who has lately had justice done to all his injuries 
 by a countryman ; and the author, it seems, has now come down 
 from the borders to see the Rob of the elder times well treated. 
 We were obliged to tear ourselves away from his first volume,* 
 to go to this ill-repaying article. But Robin Hood will still 
 remain the chief and " gentlest of thieves." He acted upon a 
 larger scale, or in opposition to a larger injustice, — to a whole 
 political system. He "shook the superflux" to the poor, 
 " and showed the heavens more just." However, what we have 
 to say of him we must keep till the trees are in leaf again, and 
 the greenwood shade delightful. 
 
 We dismiss, in one rabble-like heap, the real Jonathan Wilds, 
 Abershaws, and other heroes of the Newgate Calendar, who 
 have no redemption in their rascality. And after them, for 
 gentlemen-valets, may go the Barringtons, Major Semples, and 
 Dther sneaking rogues, who held on a tremulous career of 
 iniquity, betwixt pilfering and repenting. Yet Jack Sheppard 
 must not be forgotten, with his ingenious and daring breaks out 
 of prison ; nor Turpin, who is said to have ridden his horse with 
 such swiftness from York to London, that he was enabled to set 
 lip an alibi. We have omitted to notice the celebrated Bucca- 
 neers of America ; but these are fellows with regard to whom 
 
 * Of " Ivanhoe."
 
 THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. II5 
 
 we are willing to take Dogberry's advice, and "steal out of their 
 company." 
 
 All hail, thou most attractive of scapegraces; — thou most 
 accomplished of gentlemen of the road ; — thou, worthy to be 
 called one of " the minions of the moon," — Monsieur Claude Dii 
 Val, — whom we have come such a long and dangerous journey 
 to see ! 
 
 Claude Du Val, according to a pleasant account of him, in 
 the " Harleian Miscellany," was born at Domfront in Normandy, 
 in the year 1643, of Pierre du Val, miller, and Marguerite de la 
 Roche, the fair daughter of a tailor. Being a sprightly boy, he 
 did not remain in the country, but became servant to a person 
 of quality at Paris ; and with this gentleman he came over to 
 England at the time of the Restoration. It is difficult to say, 
 which came over to pick the most pockets and hearts,- — Charles 
 II., or Claude Du Val. Be this as it may, his "courses" of 
 life (" for," says the contemporary historian, " I dare not call 
 them vices"), soon reduced him to the necessity of going upon 
 the road; and here "he quickly became so famous, that in 
 a proclamation for the taking several notorious highwaymen, 
 he had the honour to be named first." He took, says his bio- 
 grapher, "the generous way of padding;" that is to say, he 
 behaved with exemplary politeness to all coaches, especially 
 those in which there were ladies ; making a point of frightening 
 them as amiably as possible ; and insisting upon returning any 
 favourite trinkets or keepsakes for which they chose to appeal 
 to him with " their most sweet voices." 
 
 It was in this character that he performed an exploit which 
 is the eternal feather in the cap of highway gentility. We will 
 relate it in the words of our informer. Riding out with some of 
 his confederates, "he overtakes a coach, which they had set 
 overnight, having intelligence of a booty of /400 in it. In the 
 coach was a knight, his lady, and only one serving-maid, who, 
 perceiving five horsemen making up to them, presently imagined 
 that they were beset ; and they were confirmed in this appre-
 
 Il6 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 hension, by seeing them whisper to one another, and ride 
 backwards and forwards. The lady, to show she was not afraid, 
 takes a flageolet out of her pocket, and plays : Du Val takes the 
 hint, plays also, and excellently well, upon a flageolet of his own ; 
 and in this posture he rides up to the coach-side. ' Sir,' says he, 
 to the person in the coach, ' your lady plays excellently, and I 
 doubt not but that she dances as well; will you please to walk 
 out of the coach, and let me have the honour to dance one 
 currant with her upon the heath ?' ' Sir,' said the person in 
 the coach, ' I dare not deny anything to one of your quality 
 and good mind ; you seem a gentleman, and your request is 
 very reasonable :' which said, the lacquey opens the boot, out 
 comes the knight, Du Val leaps lightly off his horse, and hands 
 the lady out of the coach. They danced, and here it was that 
 Du Val performed marvels ; the best master in London, except 
 those that are French, not being able to show such footing as he 
 did in his great riding French boots. The dancing being over, 
 he waits on the lady to her coach. As the knight was going in, 
 says Du Val to him, ' Sir, you have forgot to pay the music' 
 ' No, I have not,' replies the knight, and, putting his hand under 
 the seat of the coach, pulls out a hundred pounds in a bag, and 
 delivers it to him ; which Du Val took with a very good grace, 
 and courteously answered, ' Sir, you are liberal, and shall have 
 no cause to repent your being so ; this liberality of yours shall 
 excuse you the other £300,' and, giving him the word, that if 
 he met with any more of the crew, he might pass undisturbed, 
 he civilly takes his leave of him. 
 
 "This story, I confess, justifies the great kindness the ladies 
 had for Du Val ; for in this, as in an epitome, are contained 
 all things that set a man off advantageously, and make him 
 appear, as the phrase is, much a gentleman. First, here was 
 valour, that he and but four more durst assault a knight, a lady, 
 a waiting gentlewoman, a lacquey, a groom that rid by to open 
 the gates, and the coachman, they being six to five, odds at foot- 
 ball ; and, besides, Du Val had much the worst cause, and
 
 THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. II7 
 
 reason to believe that whoever should arrive would range them- 
 selves on the enemy's party. Then he showed his invention 
 and sagacity, that he could, stir le chatnp, and without study-' 
 ing, make that advantage of the lady's playing on the flageolet. 
 He evinced his skill in instrumental music by playing on his 
 flageolet ; in vocal by his singing ; for (as I should have told 
 you before), there being no violins, Du Val sung the currant 
 himself. He manifested his agility of body by lightly dismount- 
 ing off his horse, and with ease and freedom getting up again 
 when he took his leave ; his excellent deportment, by his in- 
 comparable dancing, and his graceful manner of taking the 
 hundred pounds ; his generosity in taking no more ; his wit 
 and eloquence, and readiness at repartees, in the whole dis- 
 course with the knight and lady, the greatest part of which I 
 have been forced to omit." 
 
 The noise of the proclamation made Du Val return to Paris ; 
 but he came back in a short time for want of money. His 
 reign, however, did not last long after his restoration. He 
 made an unlucky attack, not upon some ill-bred passengers, 
 but upon several bottles of wine, and was taken, in consequence, 
 at the Hole-in-the-Wall, in Chandos Street. His life was inter- 
 ceded for in vain. He was arraigned and committed to New- 
 gate, and executed at Tyburn in the twenty-seventh year of his 
 age — showers of tears from fair eyes bedewing his fate, both 
 while alive in prison, and while dead at the fatal tree. 
 
 Du Val's success with the ladies of those days, whose amatory 
 taste was of a turn more extensive than enlarged, seems to have 
 made some very well-dressed English gentlemen jealous. The 
 writer of Du Val's life, who is a man of wit, evidently has some- 
 thing of bitterness in his railleries upon this point ; but he 
 manages them very pleasantly. He pretends that he is an old 
 bachelor, and has never been able to make his way with his fair 
 countrywomen on account of the French valets that have stood 
 in his way. He says he had two objects in writing the book, 
 " One is, that the next Frencnman that is hanged may not
 
 Il8 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 cause an uproar in this imperial city, which I doubt not but I 
 have effected. 
 
 " The other is a much harder task : to set my countrymen 
 on even terms with the French as to the Enghsh ladies' affec- 
 tions. If I should bring this about, I should esteem myself to 
 have contributed much to the good of this kingdom. 
 
 " One remedy there is which, possiblj', may conduce some- 
 thing towards it. 
 
 " I have heard that there is a new invention of transfusing 
 the blood of one animal into another, and that it has been ex- 
 perimented by putting the blood of a sheep into an Englishman. 
 I am against that way of experiments, for, should we make all 
 Englishmen sheep, we should soon be a prey to the loiire. 
 
 " I think I can propose the making that experiment a more 
 advantageous way. I would have all gentlemen who have been 
 a full year, or more, out of France, be let blood weekly, or 
 oftener, if they can bear it. Mark how much they bleed ; 
 transfuse so much French lacquey's blood into them ; replenish 
 these last out of the English footmen, for it is no matter what 
 becomes of them. Repeat this operation toties quoiies, and, in 
 process of time, you will find this event : Either the English 
 gentlemen will be as much beloved as the French lacqueys, or 
 the French lacqueys as little esteemed as the English gentle- 
 men." 
 
 Butler has left an ode, sprinkled with his usual wit, " To the 
 Happv Memory of the Most Renowned Du Val," who 
 
 " Like a pious man, some years before 
 
 The arrival of his fatal hour. 
 
 Made every day he had to live 
 
 To his last minute a preparative ; 
 
 Taught the wild Arabs on the road 
 
 To act in a more gentle mode ; 
 
 Take prizes more obligingly than those 
 
 Who never had been hTcdJJloiis: 
 
 And how to hang in a more graceful fashion 
 Than e'er was known before to the dull English nation." 
 
 As it may be thought proper that we should end this lawless
 
 THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 
 
 119 
 
 article with a good moral, we will give it two or three sentences 
 from Shakspeare worth a whole volume of sermons against 
 thieving. The boy, who belongs to FalstafTs companions, and 
 who begins to see through the shallowness of their cunning and 
 way of life, says that Bardolph stole a lute-case, carried it 
 twelve miles, and sold it for three-halfpence.
 
 A FEW THOUGHTS ON SLEEP, 
 
 THIS is an article for the reader to think of when he or she 
 is warm in bed, a Httle before he goes to sleep, the clothes 
 at his ear, and the wind moaning in some distant crevice. 
 " Blessings," exclaimed Sancho, " on him that first invented 
 sleep ! It wraps a man all round like a cloak." It is a delicious 
 moment certainly, that of being well nestled in bed, and feeling 
 that you shall drop gently to sleep. The good is to come — not 
 past : the limbs have been just tired enough to render the re- 
 maining in one posture delightful ; the labour of the day is done. 
 A gentle failure of the perceptions comes creeping over one : 
 the spirit of consciousness disengages itself more and more, with 
 slow and hushing degrees, like a mother detaching her hand from 
 that of her sleeping child ; the mind seems to have a balmy lid 
 closing over it, like the e^e. 'Tis closing — 'tis more closing — 'tis 
 closed. The mysterious spirit has gone to take its airy rounds. 
 It is said that sleep is best before midnight; and Nature her- 
 self, with her darkness and chilling dews, informs us so. There 
 is another reason for going to bed betimes ; for it is universally 
 acknowledged that lying late in the morning is a great shortener 
 of life — at least, it is never found in company with longevity. 
 It also tends to make people corpulent. But these matters be^ 
 long rather to the subject of early rising than of sleep. 
 
 Sleep at a late hour in the morning is not half so pleasant as 
 the more timely one. It is sometimes, however, excusable, espe-
 
 A FEW THOUGHTS ON SLEEP. 121 
 
 cially to a watchful or over-worked head ; neither can we deny 
 the seducing merits of " t' other dose "■ — the pleasing wilfulness 
 of nestling in a new posture, when you know you ought to be up, 
 like the rest of the house. But then you cut up the day, and 
 your sleep the next night. 
 
 In the course of the day, few people think of sleeping, except 
 after dinner; and then it is often rather a hovering and nodding 
 on the borders of sleep than a sleep itself. This is a privilege 
 allowable, we think, to none but the old, or the sickly, or the 
 very tired and care-worn ; and it should be well understood be- 
 fore it is exercised in company. To escape into slumber from 
 an argument, or to take it as an affair of course, only between 
 you and your biliary duct, or to assent with involuntary nods to 
 all that you have just been disputing, is not so well; much less 
 to sit nodding and tottering beside a lady, or to be in danger of 
 dropping your head into the fruit-plate or your host's face, or of 
 waking up, and saying, " Just so," to the bark of a dog, or " Yes, 
 madam," to the black at your elbow. 
 
 Care-worn people, however, might refresh themselves oftener 
 with day-sleep than they do, if their bodily state is such as to 
 dispose them to it. It is a mistake to suppose that all care is 
 wakeful. People sometimes sleep, as well as wake, by reason of 
 their sorrow The difference seems to depend upon the nature 
 of their temperament, though, in the most excessive cases, sleep 
 is perhaps Nature's never-failing relief, as swooning is upon the 
 lack. A person with jaundice in his blood shall lie down and 
 go to sleep at noonday, when another of a different complexion 
 shall find his eyes as uncloseable as a statue's, though he has 
 had no sbep for nights together. Without meaning to lessen 
 the dignity of suffering, which has quite enough to do with its 
 waking hours, it is this that may often account for the profound 
 sleeps enjoyed the night before hazardous battles, executions, 
 and other demands upon an over-excited spirit. 
 
 The most complete and healthy sleep that can be taken in the 
 day is in summer-time, out in a field. There is perhaps no
 
 122 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 solitary sensation so exquisite as that of slumbering on the grass 
 or hay, shaded from the hot sun by a tree, with the conscious- 
 ness of a fresh but light air ninning through the wide atmosphere, 
 and the sky stretching far overhead upon all sides. Earth, and 
 heaven, and a placid humanity, seem to have the creation to 
 themselves. There is i^othing between the slumberer and the 
 naked and glad innocence of nature. 
 
 Next to this, but at a long interval, the most relishing snatch 
 of slumber out of bed is the one which a tired person takes be- 
 fore he retires for the nijht, while lingering in his sitting-room. 
 The consciousness of being very sleepy, and of having the power 
 to go to bed immediately, gives great zest to the unwillingness to 
 move. Sometimes he sits nodding in his chair; but the sudden 
 and leaden jerks of the head, to which a state of great sleepiness 
 renders him liable, are generally too painful for so luxurious a 
 moment ; and he gets into a more legitimate posture, sitting 
 sideways with his head on the chair-back, or throwing his legs 
 up at once on another chair, and half reclining. It is curious, 
 however, to find how long an inconvenient posture Avill be borne 
 for the sake of this foretaste of repose. The worst of it is, that on 
 going to bed the charm sometimes vanishes — perhaps from the 
 colder temperature of the chamber, for a fireside is a great opiate. 
 
 Speaking of the painful positions into which a sleepy lounger 
 will get himself, it is amusing to think of the more fantastic 
 attitudes that so often take place in bed. If we could add any- 
 thing to the numberless things that have been said about sleep 
 by the poets, it would be upon this point. Sleep never shows 
 himself a greater leveller. A man in his waking moments may 
 look as proud and self-possessed as he pleases. He may walk 
 proudly, he may sit proudly, he may eat his dinner proudly, he 
 may shave himself with an air of infinite superiority ; in a word, 
 he may show himself grand and absurd upon the most trifling 
 occasions. But sleep plays the petrifying magician. Rearrests 
 the proudest lord as well as the humblest clown in the most 
 ridiculous postures ; so that if you could draw a grandee from
 
 A FEW THOUGHTS ON SLEEP. 1 23 
 
 his bed without waking him, no hmb-twisting fool in a panto- 
 mime should create wilder laughter. The toy with the string 
 between its legs is hardly a posture-master more extravagant. 
 Imagine a despot lifted up to the gaze of his valets, with his eyes 
 shut, his mouth open, his left hand under his right ear, his other 
 twisted and hanging helplessly before him like an idiot's ; one 
 knee lifted up, and the other leg stretched out, or both knees 
 huddled up together. What a scarecrow to lodge majestic 
 power in ! 
 
 But Sleep is kindly, even in his tricks; and the poets have 
 treated him with proper reverence. According to the ancient 
 mythologists, he had even one of the Graces to wife. He had 
 a thousand sons, of whom the chief were Morpheus, or the 
 Shaper ; Icelos, or the Likely ; Phantasus, the Fancy ; and 
 Phobetor, the Terror. His dwelling some writers place in a 
 dull and darkling part of the earth ; others, with greater compli- 
 ment, in heaven ; and others, with another kind of propriety, by 
 the sea-shore. There is a good description of it in Ovid ; but in 
 these abstracted tasks of poetry, the moderns outvie the ancients ; 
 and there is nobody who has built his bower for him so finely as 
 Spenser. Archimago, in the first book of the " Faery Queene" 
 (canto I, St. 39), sends a little spirit down to Morpheus to fetch 
 him a dream. 
 
 " He, making speedy way through spersed ayre, 
 
 And through the world of waters wide and deepo. 
 
 To Morpheus' house doth hastily repaire. 
 
 Amid the bowels of the earth full steepe, 
 
 And low, where dawning day doth never peepe, 
 
 His dwelling is. There, Tethys his wet bed 
 
 Doth ever wash ; and Cynthia still doth steepe 
 
 In silver dew his ever-drouping head, 
 Whiles sad Night over him her mantle black doth spred. 
 
 " And more to lull him in his slumber soft, 
 A trickling streame, from high rocke tumbling downc. 
 And ever-drizzling rain upon the loft, 
 Mix'd with a murmuring winde, much like the sounc 
 Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swoune.
 
 124 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 No other noise, nor people's troublous cryes, 
 As still are wont to annoy the walled towne, 
 Might there be heard ; but carelesse Quiet lyes, 
 Wrapt in eternall silence, farre from enimyes." 
 
 Chaucer has drawn the cave of the same god with greater sim- 
 phcity ; but nothing can have a more deep and sullen effect than 
 his chffs and cold running waters. It seems as real as an 
 actual solitude, or some quaint old picture in a book of travels 
 in Tartary. He is telling the story of Ceyx and Alcyone in the 
 poem called his " Dream." Juno tells a messenger to go to 
 Morpheus, and "bid him creep into the body'' of the drowned 
 king, to let his wife know the fatal event by his apparition. 
 
 "This messenger tooke leave, and went 
 Upon his way ; and never he stent 
 Till he came to the dark valley, 
 That stant betwixtin rockis twey. 
 There never yet grew corne, ne gras, 
 Ne tree, ne nothing that aught was, 
 Ne beast, ne man, ne naught else ; 
 Save that there weren a few wells 
 Came renning fro the cliffs adowne, 
 That made a deadly sleeping soune. 
 And rennen downe right by a cave. 
 That was under a rocke ygrave. 
 Amid the valley, wonder-deepe, 
 There as these goddis lay asleepe, 
 Morpheus and Eclympasteyre, 
 That was the god of Slep'is heire. 
 That sleptc, and did none other worke." 
 
 Where the credentials of this new son and heir, Eclympasteyre, 
 are to be found, we know not ; but he acts very much, it must 
 be allowed, like an heir presumptive, in sleeping, and doing 
 " none other work." 
 
 We dare not trust ourselves with many quotations upon sleep 
 from the poets ; they are so numerous as well as beautifuk We 
 must content ourselves with mentioning that our two most 
 favourite passages are one in the Philoctetes of Sophocles, admir- 
 able for its contrast to a scene of terrible agony, which it closes : 
 and the other the following address in Beaumont and Fletcher's
 
 A FEW THOUGHTS ON SLEEP. I?5 
 
 tragedy of " Valentinian," the hero o£ which is also a sufferer 
 under bodily torment. He is in a chair, slumbering ; and these 
 most exquisite lines are gently sung with music :— 
 
 "Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes. 
 Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose 
 On this afflicted prince. Fall like a cloud 
 In gentle showers : give nothing that is loud 
 Or painful to his slumhers : easy, sweet, 
 And as a purling stream, thou son of Night, 
 Pass by his troubled senses : sing his pain, 
 Like hollow murmuring wind, or silver rain : 
 Into this prince, gently, oh gently slide, 
 And kiss him into slumbers, like a bride." 
 
 How earnest and prayer-like are these pauses ! How lightly 
 sprinkled, and yet how deeply settling, like rain, the fancy ! 
 How quiet, affectionate, and perfect the conclusion ! 
 
 Sleep is most graceful in an infant ; soundest, in one who has 
 been tired in the open air ; completest, to the seaman after a 
 hard voyage ; most welcome, to the mind haunted with one idea ; 
 most touching to look at, in the parent that has wept ; lightest, 
 in the playful child ; proudest, in the bride adored. 
 
 [Note. — It should be observed that there are two poems of Chaucer's 
 with similar titles — "Chaucer's Dreame" and "The Dreame of 
 Chaucer." The passage quoted above is from the latter. The fore- 
 going essay on Sleep was Hazlitt's favourite among the Indicator papers ; 
 "perhaps," says Leigh Hunt, in his " Autobiography" (Chap. XVI.), 
 " because there is a picture in it of a sleeping despot ; though he re- 
 peated, with more enthusiasm than he was accustomed to do, the con- 
 clusion about the parent and the bride." — E. O.]
 
 THE FAIR REVENGE. 
 
 THE elements of this story are to be found in the old poem 
 called " Albion's England." 
 Aganippus, king of Argos, dying without heirs male, 
 bequeathed his throne to his only daughter, the beautiful and 
 beloved Daphles. This female succession was displeasing to a 
 nobleman who held large possessions on the frontiers ; and he 
 came for the first time towards the court, not to pay his respects 
 to the new Queen, but to give her battle. Doracles (for that was 
 his name) was not much known by the people. He had distin- 
 guished himself for as jealous an independence as a subject 
 could well assume ; and, though he had been of use in repelling 
 invasion during the latter years of the King, had never made his 
 appearance to receive his master's thanks personally. A cor- 
 respondence, however, was understood to have gone on between 
 him and several noblemen about the court ; and there were 
 those who, in spite of his inattention to popularity, suspected 
 that it would go hard with the young Oueen when the two 
 armies came face to face. 
 
 But neither these subtle statesmen, nor the ambitious young 
 soldier Doracles, were aware of the eiTects to be produced by a 
 strong personal attachment. The young Queen, amiable as she 
 was beautiful, had involuntarily baffled his expectations from 
 her courtiers, by exciting in the minds of some a real disin- 
 terested regard, while others nourished a hope of sharing het
 
 THE FAIR REVENGE. 127 
 
 throne instead. At least, they speculated upon becoming, each 
 the favourite minister ; and held it a better thing to reign under 
 that title and a charming mistress, than be the servants of a 
 master, wilful and domineering. By the people she was adored ; 
 and when she came riding out of her palace, on the morning of 
 the fight, with an unaccustomed spear standing up in its rest by 
 her side, her diademed hair flowing a little off into the wind, her 
 face paler than usual, but still tinted with its roses, and a look in 
 which confidence in the love of her subjects, and tenderness for the 
 wounds they were going to encounter, seemed to contend for the 
 expression, — the shout which they sent up would have told a 
 stouter heart than a traitor's, that the royal charmer was secure. 
 The Queen, during the conflict, remained in a tent upon an 
 eminence, to which the younger leaders vied who should best 
 spur up their smoking horses, to bring her good news from time 
 to time. The battle was short and bloody. Doracles soon 
 found that he had miscalculated his point ; and all his skill and 
 resolution could not set the error to rights. It was allowed, 
 that if either courage or military talent could entitle him to the 
 throne, he would have had a right to it ; but the popularity of 
 Daphles supplied her cause with all the ardour which a lax 
 state of subjection on the part of the more powerful nobles might 
 have denied it. When her troops charged, or made any other 
 voluntary movement, they put all their hearts into their blows ; 
 and when they were compelled to await the enemy, they stood as 
 inflexible as walls of iron. It was like hammering upon metal 
 statuary ; or staking their fated horses upon spears riveted in 
 stone. Doracles was taken prisoner. The Queen, reissuing 
 from her tent, crowned with laurel, came riding down the emi- 
 nence, and remained at the foot with her generals, while the 
 prisoners were taken by. Her pale face kept as royal a counte- 
 nance of composed pity as she could manage, while the com- 
 moner rebels passed along, aching with their wounded arms 
 fastened behind, and shaking back their bloody and Winding 
 locks for want of a hand to part them. But the blood mounted
 
 128 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 to her cheeks when the proud and handsome Doracles, whom 
 she now saw for the first time, blushed deeply as he cast a 
 glance at his female conqueror, and then stepped haughtily along, 
 handling his gilded chains as if they were an indifferent orna- 
 ment. " I have conquered him," thought she : " it is a heavy 
 blow to so proud a head ; and as he looks not unamiable, it 
 might be politic as well as courteous and kind in me to turn his 
 submission into a more willing one." Alas ! pity was helping 
 admiration to a kinder set of offices than the generous-hearted 
 Queen suspected. The captive went to his prison, a conqueror 
 after all ; for Daphles loved him. 
 
 The second night, after having exhibited in her manners a 
 strange mixture of joy and seriousness, and signified to her 
 counsellors her intention of setting the prisoner free, she released 
 him with her own hands. Many a step did she hesitate as she 
 went down the stairs ; and when she came to the door, she shed 
 a full, but soft, and, as it seemed to her, a wilful and refreshing 
 flood of tears, humbling herself for her approaching task. 
 When she had entered, she blushed deeply, and then turning as 
 pale, stood for a minute silent and without motion. She then 
 said, " Thy Queen, Doracles, has come to show thee how kindly 
 she can treat a great and gallant subject, who did not know her ; " 
 and with these words, and almost before she was aware, the 
 prisoner was released and preparing to go. He appeared sur- 
 prised, but not off his guard, nor in any temper to be over-grate- 
 ful. '• Name," said he, " O Queen, the conditions on which I 
 depart, and they will be faithfully kept." Daphles moved her lips, 
 but they spoke not. She waved her head and hand with a deadly 
 smile, as if freeing him from all conditions ; and he was turning 
 to go, when she fell senseless on the floor. The haughty warrior 
 raised her with more impatience than good-will. He could 
 guess at love in a woman ; but he had but a mean opinion both 
 of it and her sex ; and the deadly struggle in the heart of Daphles 
 did not help him to distinguish the romantic passion which had 
 induced her to put all her past and virgin notions of love into his
 
 THE FAIR REVENGE. 1 29 
 
 person, from the commonest liking that might flatter his soldierly 
 vanity. 
 
 The Queen, on awaking from her swoon, found herself com- 
 pelled, in very justice to the intensity of a true passion, to explain 
 how pity had brought it upon her. " I might ask it," said she, 
 " Doracles, in return ; " and here she resumed something of her 
 queen-like dignity ; " but I feel that my modesty will be suffi- 
 ciently saved by the name of your wife ; and a substantial throne, 
 with a return that shall nothing perplex or interfere with thee, 
 I do now accordingly offer thee, not as the condition of thy free- 
 dom, but as a diversion of men's eyes and thoughts from what 
 they will think ill in me, if they find me rejected.'' And in get- 
 ting out that hard word, her voice faltered a little, and her eyes 
 filled with tears. 
 
 Doracles, with the best grace his lately-defeated spirit could 
 assume, spoke in willing terms of accepting her offer. They left 
 the prison ; and his full pardon having been proclaimed, the 
 courtiers, with feasts and entertainments, vied who should seem 
 best to approve their mistress's choice ; for so they were quick to 
 understand it. The late captive, who was really as graceful and 
 accomplished as a proud spirit would let him be, received and 
 returned all their attention in princely sort ; and Daphles was be- 
 ginning to hope that he might turn a glad eye upon her some day, 
 when news was brought her that he had gone from court, nobody 
 knew whither. The next intelligence was too certain. He had 
 passed the frontiers, and was leaguing with her enemies for 
 another struggle. 
 
 From that day, gladness, though not kindness, went out of the 
 face of Daphles. She wrote him a letter, without a word of re- 
 proach in it, enough to bring back the remotest heart that had 
 the least spark of sympathy ; but he only answered it in a spirit 
 which showed that he regarded the deepest love but as a wanton 
 trifle. That letter touched her kind wits. She had had a paper 
 drawn up, leaving him her throne in case she should die ; but 
 some of her ministers, availing themselves of her enfeebled 
 
 I
 
 130 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 spirit, had summoned a meeting of the nobles, at which she was 
 to preside in the dress she wore on the day of victory ; the sight 
 of which, it was thought, with the arguments which they meant to 
 use, would prevail upon the assembly to urge her to a revocation 
 of the bequest. Her women dressed her, while she was almost 
 unconscious of what they were doing, for she had now begun to 
 fade quickly, body as well as mind. They put on her the 
 white garments edged with silver waves, in remembrance of the 
 stream of Inachus, the founder of the Argive monarchy ; the 
 spear was brought out, to be stuck by the side of the throne, in- 
 stead of the sceptre ; and their hands prepared to put the same 
 laurel on her head which bound its healthy white temples, when 
 she sat on horseback, and saw the prisoner go by. But at 
 sight of its twisted and withered green, she took it in her hand ; 
 and, looking about her in her chair with an air of momentary 
 recollection, began picking it, and letting the leaves fall upon the 
 floor. She went on thus, leaf after leaf, looking vacantly down- 
 wards ; and when she had stripped the circle half round, she 
 leaned her cheek against the side of her sick chair; and shutting 
 her eyes quietly, so died. 
 
 The envoys from Argos went to the court of Calydon, where 
 Doracles then was ; and, bringing him the diadem upon a black 
 cushion, informed him at once of the death of the Queen, and 
 her nomination of him to the throne. He showed little more 
 than a ceremonious gravity at the former news ; but could ill 
 contain his joy at the latter, and set off instantly to take posses- 
 sion. Among the other nobles who feasted him was one who, 
 having been the particular companion of the late king, had be- 
 come like a second father to his unhappy daughter. The new 
 prince, observing the melancholy which he scarcely affected to 
 repress, and seeing him look up occasionally at a picture which 
 had a veil over it, asked him what the picture was that seemed 
 to disturb him so, and why it was veiled. " If it be the portrait 
 of the late king," said Doracles, " pray think me worthy of doing 
 honour to it, for he was a noble prince. Unveil it, pray. I in-
 
 THE FAIR REVENGE, I3I 
 
 sist upon it. What ? Am I not worthy to look upon my pre- 
 decessors, Phorbas ?" And at these words he frowned impa- 
 tiently. Phorbas, with a trembling hand, but not for want of 
 courage, withdrew the black covering ; and the portrait of 
 Daphles, in all her youth and beauty, flashed upon the eyes of 
 Doracles. It was not a melancholy face. It was drawn before 
 misfortune had touched it, and sparkled with a blooming beauty, 
 in wliich animal spirits and good-nature contended for predo- 
 minance. Doracles paused, and seemed struck. " The possessor 
 of that face," said he, inquiringly, " could never have been so 
 sorrowful as I have heard?" "Pardon me, sir," answered 
 Phorbas ; " I was as another father to her^ and knew all." " It 
 cannot be," returned the prince. The old man begged his other 
 guests to withdraw a while, and then told Doracles how many 
 fond and despairing things the Queen had said of him, both be- 
 fore her wits began to fail, and after. " Her wits to fail ?" mur- 
 mured the King : " I have known what it is to feel almost a mad 
 impatience of the will ; but I knew not that these gentle creatures, 
 women, could so feel for such a trifle." Phorbas brought out 
 the laurel-crown, and told him how it was that the half of it be- 
 came bare. The impatient blood of Doracles mounted, but not 
 in anger, to his face ; and, breaking up the party, he requested 
 that the picture might be removed to his own chamber, promis- 
 ing to return it. 
 
 A whole year, however, did he keep it, and, as he had no 
 foreign enemies to occupy his time, nor was disposed to enter 
 into the common sports of peace, it was understood that he 
 spent the greatest part of his time, when he was not in council, 
 in the room where the picture hung. In truth, the image of the 
 once-smiling Daphles haunted him wherever he went ; and to 
 ease himself of the yearning of wishing her alive again and see- 
 ing her face, he was in the habit of being with it as much as 
 possible. His self-will turned upon him even in that gentle 
 shape. Millions of times did he wish back the loving author of 
 his fortunes, whom he had treated with so clownish an mgrati-
 
 132 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 tude ; and millions of times did the sense of the impotence of 
 his wish run up in red hurry to his cheeks, and help to pull them 
 into a gaunt melancholy. But this is not a repaying sorrow 
 to dwell upon. He was one day, after being in vain expected 
 at council, found lying madly on the floor of the room, dead. 
 He had torn the portrait from the wall. His dagger was in his 
 heart ; and his cheek lay upon that blooming and smiling face, 
 which, had it been living, would never have looked so at being 
 revenged. 
 
 [Note. — This story was a favourite with Shelly. (See Leigh Hunt's 
 " Autobiography," Chap. XVI.)].
 
 GETTING UP ON COLD MORNINGS. 
 
 AN Italian author — Giulio Cordara, a Jesuit — has written 
 a poem upon insects, which he begins by insisting that 
 those troublesome and abominable little animals were 
 created for our annoyance, and that they were certainly not 
 inhabitants of Paradise. We of the North may dispute this 
 piece of theology ; but, on the other hand, it is as clear as the 
 snow on the house-tops, that Adam was not under the necessity 
 of shaving ; and that when Eve walked out of her delicious 
 bower, she did not step upon ice three inches thick. 
 
 Some people say it is a very easy thing to get up of a cold 
 morning. You have only, they tell you, to take the resolution, 
 and the thing is done. This may be very true ; just as a boy 
 at school has only to take a flogging, and the thing is over. 
 But we have not at all made up our minds upon it ; and we 
 find it a very pleasant exercise to discuss the matter candidly 
 before we get up. This at least is not idling, though it may be 
 lying. It affords an excellent answer to those who ask how 
 lying in bed can be indulged in by a reasoning being, — a rational 
 creature. How ? Why, with the argument calmly at work in 
 one's head, and the clothes over one's shoulder. Oh, it is a 
 fine way of spending a sensible, impartial half-hour. 
 
 If these people would be more charitable, they would get on 
 with their argument better. But they are apt to reason so ill, 
 and to assert so dogmatically, that one could wish to have them
 
 134 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 Stand round one's bed of a bitter morning, and lie before their 
 faces. They ought to hear both sides of the bed, the inside 
 and out. If they cannot entertain themselves with their own 
 thoughts for half an hour or so, it is not the fault of those who 
 can. If their will is never pulled aside by the enticing arms of 
 imagination, so much the luckier for the stage-coachman. 
 
 Candid inquirers into one's decumbency, besides the greater 
 or less privileges to be allowed a man in proportion to his 
 ability of keeping early hours, the work given his faculties, &c., 
 will at least concede their due merits to such representations as 
 the following. In the first place (says the injured but calm 
 appealer), I have been warm all night, and find my system in 
 a state perfectly suitable to a warm-blooded animal. To get 
 out of this state into the cold, besides the inharmonious and 
 uncritical abruptness of the transition, is so unnatural to such a 
 creature that the poets, refining upon the tortures of the damned, 
 make one of their greatest agonies consist in being suddenly 
 transported from heat to cold, — from fire to ice. They are 
 "haled" out of their "beds," says Milton, by "harpy-footed 
 furies," — fellows who come to call them. On my first move- 
 ment towards the anticipation of getting up, I find that such 
 parts of the sheets and bolster as are exposed to the air of the 
 room are stone-cold. On opening my eyes, the first thing that 
 meets them is my own breath rolling forth, as if in the open air, 
 like smoke out of a cottage chimney. Think of this symptom. 
 Then I turn my eyes sideways, and see the window all frozen 
 over. Think of that. Then the servant comes in. " It is very 
 cold this morning, is it not ? " " Very cold, sir." " Very cold 
 indeed, isn't it ?" " Very cold indeed, sir." " More than usually 
 so, isn't it, even for this weather .? " (Here the servant's wit and 
 good-nature are put to a considerable test, and the inquirer lies 
 on thorns for the answer.) " Why, sir, — I think it is." (Good 
 creature ! There is not a better or more truth-telling servant 
 going.) " I must rise, however ; get me some warm water." 
 Here comes a fine interval between the departure of the servant
 
 GETTING UP ON COLD MORNINGS. I35 
 
 and the arrival of the hot water ; during which, of course, it is 
 of " no use " to get up. The hot water comes. " Is it quitehot .'"' 
 " Yes, sir." " Perhaps too hot for shaving ; I must wait a httle ? " 
 " No, sir ; it will just do." (There is an over-nice propriety 
 sometimes, an officious zeal of virtue, a little troublesome.) 
 " Oh, the shirt — you must air my clean shirt ; linen gets very 
 damp this weather." " Yes, sir." Here another delicious five 
 minutes. A knock at the door. " Oh, the shirt— very well. 
 My stockings— I think the stockings had better be aired too." 
 " Very well, sir." Here another interval. At length everything 
 is ready except myself. I now (continues our incumbent) — a 
 happy word, by the bye, for a country vicar) — " I now cannot 
 help thinking a good deal — who can ? — upon the unnecessary 
 and villainous custom of shaving : it is a thing so unmanly 
 (here I nestle closer) — so effeminate (here I recoil from an 
 imlucky step into the colder part of the bed). No wonder that 
 the Queen of France took part with the rebels against that 
 degenerate king, her husband, who first affronted her smooth 
 visage with a face like her own. The Emperor Julian never 
 showed the luxuriancy of his genius to better advantage than in 
 reviving the flowing beard. Look at Cardinal Bembo's picture 
 — at Michael Angelo's — at Titian's — at Shakspeare's — at 
 Fletcher's — at Spenser's — at Chaucer's — at Alfred's — at Plato's. 
 I could name a great man for every tick of my watch. Look at 
 the Turks, a grave and otiose people. Think of Haroun al 
 Raschid, and bed-ridden Hassan. Think of Wortley Montague, 
 the worthy son of his mother, a man above the prejudice of his 
 time. , Look at the Persian gentlemen, whom one is ashamed of 
 meeting about the suburbs, their dress and appearance are so 
 much finer than our own. Lastly, think of the razor itself — how 
 totally opposed to every sensation of bed — how cold, how edgy, 
 how hard ! how utterly different from anything like the warm 
 and circling amplitude, which 
 
 " Sweetly recommends itself 
 Unto our gentle senses I "
 
 136 • LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS, 
 
 Add to this, benumbed fingers, which may help you to cut your- 
 self, a quivering body, a frozen towel, and an ewer full of ice ; 
 and he that says there is nothing to oppose in all this, only 
 shows, at any rate, that he has no merit in opposing it. 
 Thomson the poet, who exclaims in his " Seasons " — 
 
 " Falsely luxurious ! Will not man awake ?" 
 
 used to lie in bed till noon, because he said he had no motive in 
 getting up. He could imagine the good of rising ; but then he 
 could also imagine the good of lying still ; and his exclamation, 
 it must be allowed, was made upon summer-time, not winter. 
 We must proportion the argument to the individual character. 
 A money-getter may be drawn out of his bed by three and four- 
 pence ; but this will not suffice for a student. A proud man 
 may say, " What shall I think of myself if I don't get up?" but 
 the more humble one will be content to waive this prodigious 
 notion of himself, out of respect to his kindly bed. The 
 mechanical man shall get up without any ado at all ; and so 
 shall the barometer. An ingenious lier in bed will find hard 
 matter of discussion even on the score of health and longevity. 
 He will ask us for our proofs and precedents of the ill effects of 
 lying later in cold weather ; and sophisticate much on the 
 advantages of an even temperature of body ; of the natural pro- 
 pensity (pretty universal) to have one's way ; and of the animals 
 that roll themselves up, and sleep all the winter. As to lon- 
 gevity, he will ask whether the longest life is of necessity the 
 best ; and whether Holborn ig the handsomest street in 
 London. 
 
 We only know of one confounding, not to say confounded 
 argument, fit to overturn the huge luxury, the "enormous bliss," 
 of the vice in question. A lier in bed may be allowed to 
 profess a disinterested indifference for his health or longevity ; 
 but while he is showing the reasonableness of consulting his 
 own, or one person's comfort, he must admit the proportionate 
 claim of more than one ; and the best way to deal with him is
 
 GETTING UP ON COLD MORNINGS. I37 
 
 this, especially for a lady ; for we earnestly recommend the use 
 of that sex on such occasions, if not somewhat (?7'^r-persuasive ; 
 since extremes have an awkward knack of meeting. First then, 
 admit all the ingeniousness of what he says, telling him that 
 the bar has been deprived of an excellent lawyer. Then look at 
 him in the most good-natured manner in the world, with a mix- 
 ture of assent and appeal in your countenance, and tell him that 
 you are waiting breakfast for him ; that you never like to break- 
 fast without him; that you really want it too ; that the servants 
 want theirs ; that you shall not know how to get the house into 
 order, unless he rises ; and that you are sure he would do things 
 twenty times worse even than getting out of his warm bed, to 
 put them all into good humour and a state of comfort. Then, 
 after having said this, throw in the comparatively indifferent 
 matter, to him, about his health ; but tell him that it is no in- 
 different matter to you ; that the sight of his illness makes more 
 people suffer than one ; but that if, nevertheless, he really does 
 
 feel so very sleepy and so very much refreshed by Yet stay ; 
 
 we hardly know whether the fraility of a Yes, yes ; say that 
 
 too, especially if you say it with sincerity ; for if the weakness 
 of human nature on the one hand, and the vis inerticE on the 
 other, should lead him to take advantage of it once or twice, 
 good-humour and sincerity form an irresistible junction at 
 last ; and are still better and warmer things than pillows and 
 blankets. 
 
 Other little helps of appeal may be thrown in, as occasion 
 requires. You may tell a lover for instance, that lying in bed 
 makes people corpulent ; a father, that you wish him to complete 
 the fine manly example he sets his children ; a lady, that she 
 will injure her bloom or her shape, which M. or W. admires so 
 much ; and a student or artist, that he is always so glad to have 
 done a good day's work in his best manner. 
 
 Reader. And pray, Mr Indicator, how do /<?« behave yourself 
 in this respect ? 
 
 Indicator. Oh, madam, perfectly, of course ; like all advisers.
 
 138 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 Reader. Nay, I allow that your mode of argument does not 
 look quite so suspicious as the old way of sermonising and 
 severity, but I have my doubts, especially from that laugh of 
 yours. If I should look in to-morrow morning . 
 
 Indicator. Ah, madam, the look in of a face like yours does 
 anything with me. It shall fetch me up at nine, if you please 
 > six, I meant to say.
 
 HATS, NEW AND ANCIENT. 
 
 WE know not what will be thought of our taste in so im- 
 portant a matter, but we must confess we are not 
 fond of a new hat. There is a certain insolence about 
 it : it seems to value itself upon its finished appearance, and 
 to presume upon our liking before we are acquainted with it. 
 In the first place, it comes home more like a marmot, or some 
 other living creature, than a manufacture. It is boxed up, and 
 wrapped in silver paper, and brought delicately. It is as sleek as 
 a lap-dog. Then we are to take it out as nicely, and people are 
 to wonder how we shall look in it. Maria twitches one this 
 ■way, and Sophia that, and Caroline that, and Catharine t'other. 
 \Vc have the difficult task, all the while, of looking easy, till the 
 approving votes are pronounced : our only resource (which is 
 also difficult) is to say good things to all four ; or to clap the 
 hat upon each of their heads, and see what pretty milk-women 
 they make. At last the approving votes are pronounced ; and 
 (provided it is fine) we may go forth. But how uneasy the 
 sensation about the head ! How unlike the old hat, to which 
 we had become used, and which must now make way for this 
 fop of a stranger ! We might do what we liked with the former. 
 Dust, rain, a gale of wind, a fall, a squeeze, — -nothing affected 
 it. It was a true friend, a friend for all weathers. Its appear- 
 ance only was against it : in everything else it was the better 
 for wear. But if the roads or the streets are too dry, the new
 
 143 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS, 
 
 hat is afraid of getting dusty : if there is wind, and it is not 
 tight, it may be blown off into the dirt : we may have to 
 scramble after it through dust or mud ; just reaching it with 
 our fingers, only to see it blown away again. And if rain comes 
 on! Oh ye gallant apprentices, who have issued forth on a 
 Sunday morning, with Jane or Susan, careless either of storms 
 at night-fall, or toils and scoldings next day ! Ye, who have 
 received your new hat and boots but an hour before ye set 
 out ; and then issue forth triumphantly, the charmer by your 
 side ! She, with arm in yours, and handkerchief in hand, 
 blushing, or eating gingerbread, trips on ; ye, admiring, trudge : 
 Ave ask ye, whether love itself has prevented ye from feeling a 
 certain fearful consciousness of that crowning glory, the new 
 and glossy hat, when the first drops of rain announce the 
 coming of a shower ? Ah, hasten, while yet it is of use to haste ; 
 ere yet the spotty horror fixes on the nap ! Out with the pro- 
 tecting handkerchief, which, tied round the hat, and flowing off 
 in a corner behind, shall gleam through the thickening night 
 like a suburb comet ! Trust not the tempting yawn of stable- 
 yard or gate-way, or the impossible notion of a coach ! The 
 rain will continue ; and alas ! ye are not so rich as in the 
 morning. Hasten ! or think of a new hat's becoming a rain- 
 spout ! Think of its well-built crown, its graceful and well- 
 measured fit, the curved-up elegance of its rim, its shadowing 
 gentility when seen in front, its arching grace over the ear when 
 beheld sideways ! Think of it also the next day ! How altered, 
 how dejected ! 
 
 " How changed from him. 
 That Hfe of measure, and that soul of rim !" 
 
 Think of the paper-like change of its consistence ; of its limp 
 sadness, — its confused and flattened nap ; and of that polished 
 and perfect circle, which neither brush nor hot iron shall restore ! 
 We have here spoken of the beauties of a new hat ; but, ab- 
 stractedly considered, they are very problematical. Fashion 
 makes beauty for a time. Our ancestors found a grace in the
 
 HATS, NEW AND ANCIENT. I4I 
 
 cocked hats now confined to beadles, Chelsea pensioners, and 
 coachmen. They would have laughed at our chimney-tops 
 with a border ; though, upon the whole, we do think them the 
 more graceful of the two. The best modern covering for the 
 head was the imitation of the broad Spanish hat in use about 
 thirty years back, when Mr Stothard made his designs for the 
 Novelist's Magazine. But in proportion as society has been 
 put into a bustle, our hats seem to have narrowed their dimen- 
 sions : the flaps were clipped off more and more till they be- 
 came a rim ; and now the rim has contracted to a mere nothing ; 
 so that, what with our close heads, and our tight, succinct mode 
 of dress, we look as if we were intended for nothing but to 
 dart backwards and forwards on matters of business, with as 
 little hindrance to each other as possible. 
 
 This may give us a greater distaste to the hat than it de- 
 serves ; but, good-looking or not, we know of no situation in 
 which a new one can be said to be useful. We have seen how 
 the case is during bad weather ; but if the weather is in the 
 finest condition possible, with neither rain nor dust, there may 
 be a hot sunshine ; and then the hat is too narrow to shade us: 
 no great evil, it is true ! but we must have our pique out against 
 the knave, and turn him to the only account in our power — 
 we must write upon him. For every other purpose we hold 
 him as naught. The only place a new hat can be carried into 
 with safety, is a church; for there is plenty of room there. 
 There also takes place its only union of the ornamental with the 
 useful, if so it is to be called ; — we allude to the preparatory 
 ejaculation whispered into it by the genteel worshipper, before 
 he turns round and makes a bow to Mr and Mrs Jones and the 
 Misses Thompson. There is a formula for this occasion ; and 
 doubtless it is often used, to say nothing of extempore effusions: 
 but there are wicked imaginations, who suspect that, instead of 
 devouter whisperings, the communer with his lining sometimes 
 ejaculates no more than " Swallow, St James's Street ; " or 
 *'Agarde and Spain, Hatters, No. 51, Oxford Street, London ;"
 
 142 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 — after which he draws up his head with infinite gravity and pre- 
 paration, and makes the gentle recognition aforesaid. 
 
 But, wherever there is a crowd, the new hat is worse than 
 useless. It is a pity that the general retrenchment of people's 
 finances did away with the flat opera hat, which was a very 
 sensible thing. The round one is only in the way. The matting 
 over the floor of the Opera-house does not hinder it from getting 
 dusty, not to mention its chance of a kick from the inconsider- 
 ate. But from the pit of the other theatres you may bring it 
 away covered with sawdust, or rubbed up all the wrong way ot 
 the nap, or monstrously squeezed into a shapeless lump. The 
 least thing to be expected in a pressure is a great poke in its 
 side, like a sunken cheek. 
 
 Boating is a mortal enemy to new hats. A shower has you 
 fast in a common boat ; or a sail-line, or an inexperienced oar, 
 may knock the hat off ; and then fancy it tilting over the water 
 with the tide, soaked all the while beyond redemption, and 
 escaping from the tips of your outstretched fingers, while you 
 ought all to be pulling the contrary way home. 
 
 But of all wrong boxes for a new hat, avoid a mail-coach. If 
 you keep it on, you will begin nodding perhaps at midnight, and 
 then it goes jamming against the side of the coach, to the equal 
 misery of its nap and your own. If you take it off, where is its 
 refuge ? Will the clergyman take the least heed of it, who is 
 snoring comfortably in one corner in his nightcap .'' Or will the 
 farmer, jolting about inexorably ? Or the regular traveller who, 
 in his fur cap and infinite knowledge of highway conveniences, 
 has already beheld it with contempt ? Or the old market- 
 woman, whom it is in vain to request to be tender? Or the 
 young damsel, who wonders how you can think of sleeping in 
 such a thing ? In the morning you suddenly miss your hat, 
 and ask after it with trepidation. The traveller smiles. They 
 all move their legs, but know nothing of it, till the market- 
 woman exclaims, " Deary me ! well — Lord, only think ! A hat is 
 it, sir .'' Why, I do believe — but I 'm sure I never thought o'
 
 HATS, NEW AND ANCIENT. I43 
 
 such a thing more than the child unborn — that it must be a hat 
 then which I took for a pan I 've been abuying ; and so I 've had 
 my warm foot in it, Lord bless us, ever since five o'clock this 
 blessed morning ! " 
 
 It is but fair to add that we happen to have an educated anti- 
 pathy to the hat. At our school no hats were worn, and the cap 
 was too small to be a substitute. Its only use is to astonish the 
 old ladies in the street, who wonder how so small a thing can 
 be kept on ; and to this end it used to be rubbed into the back 
 or side of the head, where it hung like a worsted wonder. It is 
 after the fashion of Katharine's cap in the play. It seems as if 
 
 " Moulded on a porringer : 
 Why, 'tis a cockle, or a walnut-shell, 
 A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby's cap ; 
 A custard cofifin, a bauble." 
 
 But we may not add 
 
 " I love thee well, in that thou lik'st it not." 
 
 Ill befall us, if we ever dislike anything about thee, old nurse of 
 our childhood ! How independent of the weather used we to 
 feel in our friar's dress, our thick shoes^ yellow worsted stock- 
 ings, and coarse long coat or gown ! Our cap was oftener in 
 our hand than on our head, let the weather be what it would. 
 We felt a pride, as well as pleasure, when everybody else was 
 hurrying through the streets, in receiving the full summer 
 showers with uncovered poll, sleeking our glad hair like the 
 feathers of a bird. 
 
 It must be said for hats in general that they are a very 
 ancient part of dress, perhaps the most ancient ; for a negro, 
 who has nothing else upon him, sometimes finds it necessary to 
 guard off the sun with a hat of leaves or straw. The Chinese, 
 who carry their records farther back than any other people, are 
 a hatted race, both narrow-brimmed and broad. We are apt to 
 think of the Greeks as a bare-headed people, and they liked to 
 be so ; but they had hats for journeying in, such as may be seen 
 on the statues of Mercury, who was the god of travellers. They
 
 144 LEIGH HUNT S ESSAYS, 
 
 were large and flapped, and were sometimes fastened round 
 under the chin like a lady's straw-bonnet. The Eastern 
 nations generally wore turbans, and do still, with the ex- 
 ception of the Persians, who have exchanged them for large 
 conical caps of felt. The Romans copied the Greeks in their 
 dress, as in everything else, but the poorer orders wore a cap 
 like their boasted Phrygian ancestors, resembling the one which 
 the reader may now see about the streets upon the busts of 
 Canova's Paris. The others would put their robes about their 
 heads upon occasion, — a custom which probably gave rise to 
 the hoods of the middle ages, and to the cloth head-dresses 
 which we see in the portraits of Dante and Petrarch. From 
 these were taken the draperies on the heads of our old Plan- 
 tagenet kings, and of Chaucer. The velvet cap, which suc- 
 ceeded, appears also to have come from Italy, as in the por- 
 traits of Raphael and Titian, and it would probably have 
 continued till the French times of Charles II. (for our an- 
 cestors, up to that period, were always great admirers of 
 Italy), had not Philip II. of Spain come over to marry our 
 Queen Mary. The extreme heats of Spain had forced the 
 natives upon taking to that ingenious union of the hat and 
 umbrella, still known by the name of the Spanish hat. We 
 know not whether Philip himself wore it. His father, Charles 
 v., who was at the top of the world, is represented as de- 
 lighting in a little humble-looking cap. But we conceive it 
 was either from Philip, or some gentleman in his train, that the 
 hat and feather succeeded among us to the cap and jewels of 
 Henry VIII. The ascendancy of Spain in these times carried 
 it into other parts of Europe. The French, not requiring so 
 much shade from the sun, and always playing with and altering 
 their dress, like a child with his toy, first covered the brim with 
 feathers, then gave them a pinch in front ; then came pinches 
 up at the side ; and at last appeared the fierce and triple-daring 
 cocked hat. This disappeared in our childhood, or only sur- 
 vived among the military, the old, and the reverend, who could
 
 HATS, NEW AND ANCIENT. I45 
 
 not willingly part with their habitual dignity. An old beau or 
 so would also retain it, in memory of its victories when youngs 
 We remember its going away from the heads of the Foot Guards. 
 The heavy dragoons retained it till very lately. It is now almost 
 sunk into the mock-heroic, and confined, as we before observed, 
 to beadles and coachmen, &;c. The modern clerical beaver, 
 agreeably to the deliberation with which our establishments 
 depart from old custom, is a cocked hat with the hind flap let 
 down, and only a slight pinch remaining in front. This is what 
 is worn also by the judges, the lawyers being of clerical extrac- 
 tion. Still, however, the true cocked-hat lingers here and there 
 with a solitary old gentleman ; and wherever it appears in such 
 company, begets a certain retrospective reverence. There was 
 a something in its connexion with the high-bred drawing-room 
 times of the seventeenth century — in the gallant though quaint 
 ardour of its look, and in its being lifted up in salutations with 
 that deliberate loftiness, the arm arching up in front, and slowly 
 raising it by the front angle with finger and thumb — that could 
 not easily die. We remember when our steward at school, re- 
 markable for his inflexible air of precision and dignity, left off 
 his cocked-hat for a round one, there was, undoubtedly, though 
 we dared only half confess it to our minds, a sort of diminished 
 majesty about him. His infinite self-possession began to look 
 remotely finite. His crown-imperial was a little blighted. It 
 was like divesting a column of its capital. But the native state- 
 liness was there, informinfj the new hat. He 
 
 " Had not yet lost 
 All his original beaver ; nor appear'd 
 Less than arch-steward ruin'd, and the excess 
 Of glory obscured." 
 
 Tlie late Emperor Paul had conceived such a sense of the 
 dignity of the cocked-hat, aggravated by its having given way 
 to the round one of the French republicans, that he ordered all 
 persons in his dominions never to dare be seen in public with 
 round hats, upon pain of being knouted and sent to Siberia. 
 
 K
 
 146 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 Hats, being the easiest part of the European dress to be taken 
 off, are doffed among us out of reverence. The Orientals, on 
 the same account, put off their sHppers, instead of turbans ; 
 which is the reason why the Jews still keep their heads covered 
 during worship. The Spanish grandees have the privilege of 
 wearing their hats in the royal presence, probably in commemo- 
 ration of the free spirit in which the Cortes used to crown the 
 sovereign ; telling him (we suppose in their corporate capacity) 
 that they were better men than he, but chose him of their own 
 free will for their master. The grandees only claim to be as 
 good men, unless their families are older. There is a well- 
 known story of a picture, in which the Virgin Mary is repre- 
 sented with a label coining out of her mouth, saying to a Spanish 
 gentleman, who has politely taken off his hat, " Cousin, be 
 covered." But the most interesting anecdote connected with a 
 hat, belongs to the family of the De Courcys, Lord Kinsale. 
 One of their ancestors, at an old period of our history, having 
 overthrown a huge and insolent champion, who had challenged 
 the whole court, was desired by the king to ask him some special 
 favour. He requested that his descendants should have the 
 privilege of keeping their heads covered in the royal presence ; 
 and they do so to this day. The new lord, we believe, always 
 comes to court on purpose to vindicate his right. We have 
 heard, that on the last occasion, probably after a long interval, 
 some of the courtiers thought it might as well have been dis- 
 pensed with ; which was a foolish as well as a jealous thing : 
 for these exceptions only prove the royal rule. The Spanish 
 grandees originally took their privilege, instead of receiving it ; 
 but when the spirit of it had gone, their covered heads were only 
 so many intense recognitions of the king's dignity, which it was 
 thought such a mighty thing to resemble. A Quaker's hat is a 
 more formidable thing than a grandee's.
 
 LADY'S MAID.*— SEAMEN ON SHORE. 
 
 THE sole business of a seaman on shore, who has to go to 
 sea again, is to take as much pleasure as he can. The 
 moment he sets his foot on dry ground, he turns his 
 back on all salt-beef and other salt-water restrictions. His long 
 absence, and the impossibility of getting land pleasures at sea, 
 put him upon a sort of desperate appetite. He lands, like a con- 
 queror taking possession. He has been debarred so long, that he 
 is resolved to have that matter out with the inhabitants. They 
 must render an account to him of their treasures, their women, 
 their victualling-stores, their entertainments, their everything; 
 and in return he will behave like a gentleman, and scatter his gold. 
 
 And first of the common sailor. The moment the common 
 sailor lands, he goes to see the watchmaker, or the old boy at 
 the Ship. 
 
 Reader. What, sir? Before his mistress? 
 
 Indicator. Excuse me, madam. His mistress, christened Eliza- 
 beth Monson, but more familiarly known by the appellation of Bet 
 Monson, has been with him already. You remember the ballad — 
 
 "When black-eyed Susan came on board." 
 
 Lady's Maid. I hope, sir, you are not going to be vulgar in 
 your remarks. 
 
 * The great changes produced in people's fortunes by the nature of the times, 
 have unfortunately rendered this title but too common to a great variety of females ; 
 many of whom will not at all come under our present description. The "Lady's 
 Maid " in the text is heiress to the Honours and Mrs Slipslops of the last century.
 
 148 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 Indicator. Good God, Mrs Jane, why should you think so ! 
 I am sure your lady does not expect it, or I should have had 
 none but men for listeners on this subject. 
 
 Lady's Maid. Oh, sir, if my lady does not think it vulgar, 
 I 'm sure I shan't ; for there isn 't a more delicater nor more 
 genteeler person than my tady in all England, though I say it 
 to her face who shouldn't. But you mentioned something about 
 alehouses, or inns, or something ; and you know they are 
 rather vulgar. 
 
 Indicator. I 'm sure, Mrs Jane, I didn't think so, three years 
 back, when you handed me that frothed glass of porter, with 
 your pretty fingers, on a hot summer's day, under the great elm- 
 tree there, at the door of the Jolly Miller. 
 
 Lady's Maid. Lard in heaven, Mr Hindergaiter, why, I vow 
 you 're a witch ! Who 'd have thought you 'd have ever known 
 that I kept my father-in-law's house for him, while my poor 
 mother was laid up with the rheumatiz, all along of that vixen, 
 (God forgive me !) my own great aunt, who wouldn't let her 
 come home one night in the shay, because she had married 
 Tom Butts after being the wife of a serjeant of dragoons. And 
 yet I must say for Mr Butts, that for a landlord, and a man in 
 a vulgarish situation, he was as well-behaved a man, though a 
 bold one, and might hold up his head as high, and was as kind 
 and good-natured, and was as free from pride, and said as civil 
 things to a body 
 
 Lady. In short, Jane, he was not vulgar, and your dear old 
 vixen of a great aunt was. There is no vulgarity, child, but im- 
 pertinence and common cant ; or being gross and ignorant, and 
 proud of both ; or having a feeling for all, and being ashamed 
 of it. Remember the ragged sailor whom you kissed. 
 
 Lady's Maid. Lord, ma'am, and did you see me kiss my poor 
 brother William 1 For it was my own brother, ma'am, who 
 you 've heard me speak of — in the navy ; and he was so ragged 
 then, because he had to cross the whole country to his home, 
 and had spent all his money at Portsmouth ; and so I gave him
 
 lady's maid. — SEAMEN ON SHORE. 1 49 
 
 my box of half-crowns, and he 's now captain's clerk's man, and 
 it was he as sent me that live tortoise that made me scream so, 
 and the cocoa-cup, and the shawl, and the purse made of grass, 
 and the Hoty-hity feathers ; and I do think, if he was here 
 I could kiss him again, if he was as ragged as a rag-or-a-muffin, 
 before all the world, ay, even before Sally Jones. 
 
 Indicator'. Good. Now there you come round,' Mrs Jane, to 
 the true point of politeness. I thought you better bred than you 
 supposed, since 1 recollected how good-natured you looked at 
 the Jolly Miller. 
 
 Lad^s Maid. Oh, Mr Intricater, you 're such another man ! 
 
 Indicator. Nay, I assure you I do not think you even more 
 genteel than you were then. 
 
 Ladys Maid. Nay, now, Mr Hingy-grater, I'm sure you 
 flatter. 
 
 Indicator. But pray, Mrs Jane, who is the awful presence of 
 Sally Jones ? 
 
 Lady's Maid. Presents, sir ? She never gives no presents, 
 lawful or unlawful, not she ; nor, for that matter, never gets 
 none, as I know of ; except, mayhap, a brass-thimble at Christ- 
 mas, or a two-penny song-book, or a trifle, as they very properly 
 calls It, from Margate, with a piece of looking-glass in the inside, 
 to see her proud, affected, niminypiminy face in. 
 
 Indicator. But why should she object to your kissing your 
 brother William ? 
 
 Lady's Maid. Oh, forsooth, it 's vulgar, sir ! So she said, 
 when I kissed him before her once ; as if one's brother wasn't 
 one's brother; and as for that, she'd kiss her cousin fast 
 enough before twenty people, if he'd make anything like an 
 advantage. She is but a maid at boarding-school, where I was ; 
 and never writes Miss on my letters ; and yet, whenever she 
 goes home to her father's, who is nothing but a little petty 
 green-grocer in an alley, she insists, forsooth, on my Missing 
 and Missing her, or she won't send me any news of the private 
 theatre ; and she knows that vexes me, because I really have
 
 150 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 a taste for the stage, and once played second part at school to 
 Miss GoUogher. She was the Fair Penitent, sir ; a tall brown 
 girl, HORN-BONE PINE, as the French say ; and a great fortune, 
 though her father did keep a dog-shop. But she called it a 
 managearee. So, sir, MiSS Sarah Jones never condescends to 
 write Miss to me, though she daredn't wear her hair without a 
 cap at boarding-school, to save her head ; and my lady always 
 permits me to wear my hair in a comb, to distinguish me from 
 common helpers, and such like. And besides that, though I have 
 worn a cap, I never wore black worsted stockings, as she does ; nor 
 never set mop upon floor. As to sailors, she cannot abide 'em. 
 
 Indicator. But you, Mrs Jane, can ; and let me tell you, that 
 that is not the least advantage which you have over Miss 
 Sarah Jones. So we will go on with our picture. 
 
 The first object of the seaman on landing is to spend his money ; 
 but his first sensation is the strange firmness of the earth, which 
 he goes treading in a sort of heavy light way, half waggoner and 
 half dancing-master, his shoulders rolling, and his feet touch- 
 ing and going ; the same way, in short, in which he keeps him- 
 self prepared for all the rolling chances of the vessel, when on 
 deck. There is always, to us, this appearance of lightness of 
 foot and heavy strength of upper works, in a sailor. And he 
 feels it himself. He lets his jacket fly open, and his shoulders 
 slouch, and his hair grow long to be gathered into a heavy pig- 
 tail ; but when full dressed, he prides himself on a certain 
 gentility of toe ; on a white stocking and a natty shoe, issuing 
 lightly out of the flowing blue trouser. His arms are neutral, 
 hanging and swinging in a curve aloof; his hands, half open, 
 look as if they had just been handling ropes, and had no object 
 in life but to handle them again. He is proud of appearing in 
 a new hat and slops, with a belcher handkerchief flowing 
 loosely round his neck, and the corner of another out of his 
 pocket. Thus equipped, with pinchbeck buckles in his shoes 
 (which he bought for gold), he puts some tobacco in his mouth, 
 not as if he were going to use it directly, but as if he stuffed it
 
 lady's maid. — SEAMEN ON SHORE. 15I 
 
 in a pouch on one side, as a pelican does fish, to employ it here- 
 after ; and so, with Bet Monson at his side, and perhaps a cane 
 or whanghee twisted under his other arm, sallies forth to take 
 possession of all Lubberland. He buys everything that he comes 
 athwart, — nuts, gingerbread, apples, shoe-strings, beer, brandy, 
 gin, buckles, knives, a watch (two, if he has money enough), 
 gowns and handkerchiefs for Bet, and his mother and sisters, 
 dozens of " superfine best men's cotton stockings," dozens of 
 " superfine best women's cotton ditto," best good check for 
 shirts (though he has too much already), infinite needles and 
 thread (to sew his trousers with some day), a footman's laced 
 hat, bear's grease to make his hair grow (by way of joke), several 
 sticks, all sorts of Jew articles, a flute (which he can't play and 
 never intends), a leg of mutton, which he carries somewhere to 
 roast, and for a piece of which the landlord of the Ship makes 
 him pay twice what he gave for the whole ; — in short, all that 
 Tnoney can be spent upon, which is everything but medicine 
 gratis ; and this he would insist on paying for. He would buy 
 all the painted parrots on an Italian's head, on purpose to 
 break them, rather than not spend his money. He has fiddles 
 and a dance at the Ship, with oceans of flip and grog ; and gives 
 the blind fiddler tobacco for sweatmeats, and a half-crown for 
 treading on his toe. He asks the landlady, with a sigh, after 
 her daughter Nance, who first fired his heart with her silk stock- 
 ings ; and, finding that she is married and in trouble, leaves 
 five crowns for her ; which the old lady appropriates as part 
 payment for a shilling in advance. He goes to the port play- 
 house with Bet Monson, and a great red handkerchief full of 
 apples, gingerbread nuts, and fresh beef ; calls out for the 
 fiddlers and Rule Britannia ; pelts Tom Sikes in the pit ; and 
 compares Othello to the black ship's cook in his white night- 
 cap. When he comes to London, he and some messmates take 
 a hackney-coach, full of Bet Mousons and tobacco-pipes, and 
 go through the streets smoking and lolling out of window. He 
 has ever been cautious of venturing on horseback ; and. among
 
 152 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 his Other sights in foreign parts, relates with unfeigned astonhJi- 
 ment how he has seen the Turks ride, — " Only," says he, guard- 
 ing against the hearei-'s incredulity, " they have saddle-boxes 
 to hold 'em in, fore and aft ; and shovels like for stirrups." He 
 will tell you how the Chinese drink, and the Negurs dance, 
 and the monkeys pelt you with cocoa-nuts : and how King 
 Domy would have built him a mud hut and made him a peer 
 of the realm, if he would have stopped with him and taught 
 him to make trousers. He has a sister at a "School for Young 
 Ladies," who blushes with a mixture of pleasure and shame at 
 his appearance ; and whose confusion he completes, by slipping 
 fourpence into her hand, and saying out loud that he has " no 
 more copper" about him. His mother and elder sisters at 
 home doat on all he says and does, telling him, however, that he 
 is a great sea-fellow, and was always wild ever since he was a 
 hop-o'-my-thumb no higher than the window-locker. He tells 
 his mother that she would be a duchess in Paranaboo ; at which 
 the good old portly dame laughs and looks proud. When his 
 sisters complain of his romping, he says that they are only 
 sorry it is not the baker. He frightens them with a mask made 
 after the New Zealand fashion, and is forgiven for his learning. 
 Their mantel-piece is filled by him with shells and shark's teeth ; 
 and when he goes to sea again, there is no end of tears, and 
 " God-bless-yous ! " and home-made gingerbread. 
 
 His officer on shore does much of all this, only, generally 
 speaking, in a higher taste. The moment he lands, he buys 
 quantities of jewellery and other valuables, for all the females of 
 his acquaintance ; and is taken in for every article. He sends 
 in a cart-load of fresh meat to the Ship, though he is going to 
 town next day ; and, calling in at a chandlei-'s for some candles, is 
 persuaded to buy a dozen of green wax, with which he lights up 
 the ship at evening ; regretting that the fine moonlight hinders 
 the effect of the colour. A man, with a bundle beneath his 
 arm, accosts him in an under-tone ; and, with a look in which 
 respect for his knovvleilge is mixed with an avowed zeal for his.
 
 LADY S MAID. — SEAMEN ON SHORE. I53 
 
 own interest, asks if his honour will just step under the gang- 
 way here, and inspect some real India shawls. The gallant 
 lieutenant says to himself, " This fellow knows what 's what, by 
 his face ;" and so he proves it by being taken in on the spot. 
 When he brings the shawls home, he says to his sister, with an 
 air of triumph, " There, Poll, there 's something for you ; only 
 cost me twelve, and is worth twenty, if it 's worth a dollar." She 
 turns pale. " Twenty what, my dear George .'' Why, you haven't 
 given twelve dollars for it, I hope ?" " Not I, by the Lord." 
 "That's lucky; because you see, my dear George, that all 
 together is not worth more than fourteen or fifteen shillings." 
 " Fourteen or fifteen what ! Why, it's real India, en't it ? Why, 
 the fellow told me so; or I'm sure I 'd as soon" — (Here he tries 
 to hide his blushes with a bluster) — " I 'd as soon have given 
 him twelve douses on the chaps as twelve guineas." " Twelve 
 GUINEAS !" exclaims the sister ; and then, drawling forth, "Why 
 — my — DEAR — George," is proceeding to show him what the 
 articles would have cost at Condell's, when he interrupts her by 
 requesting her to go and choose for herself a tea-table service. 
 He then makes his escape to some messmates at a coffee-house, 
 and drowns his recollection of the shawls in the best wine, and 
 a discussion on the comparative merits of the English and West 
 Indian beauties and tables. At the theatre afterwards, where 
 he has never been before, he takes a lady at the back of one of 
 the boxes for a woman of quality, and when, after returning his 
 long respectful gaze with a smile, she turns aside and puts her 
 handkerchief to her mouth, he thinks it is in derision, till his 
 friend undeceives him. He is introduced to the lady, and ever 
 afterwards, at first sight of a woman of quality (without any dis- 
 paragement either to those charming personages), expects her to 
 give him a smile. He thinks the other ladies much better crea- 
 tures than they are taken for; and, for their parts, they tell him 
 that, if all men were like himself, they would trust the sex again 
 — which, for aught we know, is the truth. He has, indeed, 
 what he thinks a very liberal opinion of ladies in general, judg-
 
 t54 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 ing them all, in a manner, with the eye of a seaman's experience. 
 Yet he will believe, nevertheless, in the "true-love" of any given 
 damsel whom he seeks in the way of marriage, let him roam as 
 much, or remain as long at a distance, as he pleases. It is not 
 that he wants feeling, but that he has read of it, time out of mind, 
 in songs ; and he looks upon constancy as a sort of exploit, 
 answering to those which he performs at sea. He is nice in his 
 watches and linen. He makes you presents of cornelians, 
 antique seals, cocoa-nuts set in silver, and other valuables. 
 When he shakes hands with you, it is like being caught in a 
 windlass. He would not swagger about the streets in his uni- 
 form for the world. Ke is generally modest in company, though 
 liable to be irritated by what he thinks ungentlemanly behaviour. 
 He is also liable to be rendered irritable by sickness — partly be- 
 cause he has been used to command others, and to be served 
 with all possille deference and alacrity, and partly because the 
 idea of suffering pain, without any honour or profit to get by it, 
 is unprofessional, and he is not accustomed to it. He treats 
 talents unlike his own with great respect. He often perceives 
 his own so little felt that it teaches him this feeling for that of 
 others. Besides, he admires the quantity of information which 
 people can get without travelling like himself, especially when 
 he sees how interesting his own becomes to them as well as to 
 everybody else. When he tells a story, particularly if full of 
 wonders, he takes care to maintain his character for truth and 
 simplicity by qualifying it with all possible reservations, con- 
 cessions, and anticipations of objection, such as, " in case, at 
 such time as, so to speak, as it were, at least, at any rate." He 
 seldom uses sea-terms but when jocosely provoked by something 
 contrary to his habits of life ; as, for instance, if he is always 
 meeting you on horseback, he asks if you never mean to walk the 
 deck again ; or if he finds you studying day after day, he says 
 you are always overhauling your log-book. He makes more new 
 acquaintances, and forgets his old ones less, than any other man 
 in the busy world ; for he is so compelled to make his home
 
 lady's maid. SEAMEN ON SHORE. 1 55 
 
 everywhere, remembers his native one as such a place of enjoy- 
 ment, has all his friendly recollections so fixed upon his mind at 
 sea, and has so much to tell and to hear when he returns, that 
 change and separation lose with him the most heartless part of 
 their nature. He also sees such a variety of customs and man- 
 ners, that he becomes charitable in his opinions altogether; and 
 charity, while it diffuses the affections, cannot let the old ones go. 
 Half the secret of human intercourse is to make allowance for 
 each other. 
 
 When the officer is superannuated or retires, he becomes, if 
 intelligent and inquiring, one of the most agreeable old men in 
 the world, equally welcome to the silent for his card-playing, and 
 to the conversational for his recollections. He is fond of as- 
 tronomy and books of voyages, and is immortal with all who 
 know him for having been round the world, or seen the Transit 
 of Venus, or had one of his fingers carried off by a New Zealand 
 hatchet, or a present of feathers from an Otaheitean beauty. If 
 not elevated by his acquirements above some of his humbler 
 tastes, he delights in a corner-cupboard holding his cocoa-nuts 
 and punchbowl, has his summer-house castellated and planted 
 with wooden cannon, and sets up the figure of his old ship, the 
 Dritaujiia or the Lovely Nancy, for a statue in the garden, where 
 it stares eternally with red cheeks and round black eyes, as if in 
 astonishment at its situation. 
 
 Chaucer, who wrote his " Canterbury Tales" about four hun- 
 dred and thirty years ago, has among his other characters in that 
 work a Shipman, who is exactly of the same cast as the modern 
 cailor — the same robustness, courage, and rough-drawn virtue, 
 doing its duty, without being very nice in helping itself to its 
 recreations. There is the very dirk, the complexion, the jollity, 
 the experience, and the bad horsemanship. The plain, unaf- 
 fected ending of the description has the air of a sailor's own 
 speech, while the line about the beard is exceedingly picturesque, 
 poetical, and comprehensive. In copying it out, we shall merely 
 alter the old spelling where the words are still modem.
 
 X56 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 " A Shipman was there, wonned far by woit ; 
 For aught I wot, he was of Dartemouth. 
 He rode upon a rouncie, as he couth,* 
 All in a gown of falding to the knee. 
 A dagger hanging by a lace had he. 
 About his neck, under his arm adown. 
 The hot summer had made his hue all brown; 
 And certainly he was a good felaw. 
 Full maiiy a draught of wine he hadde draw 
 From Bourdeaux ward, while that the chapman sleep. 
 Of nice conscience took he no keep. 
 If that he fought and had the higher hand, 
 By water he sent 'em home to every land. 
 But of his craft, to reckon well his tides. 
 His streames and his strandcs him besides. 
 His harborough, his moon, and his lode manage. 
 There was not such from Hull unto Carthage. 
 Hardy he was, and wise, I undertake ; 
 With many a tempest had his beard been shake. 
 He knew well all the havens, as they were. 
 From Gothland to the Cape de Finisterrc, 
 And every creek in Britain and in Spain. 
 His barge yclep^d was the Magdelain." 
 
 When about to tell his tale, he tells his fellow-travellers that ht 
 shall chink them so merry a bell, 
 
 " That it shall waken all this company : 
 But it shall not be of pliilosophy, 
 Nor of physic, nor of terms quaint of law : 
 There is but little Latin in my maw." 
 
 The story he tells is a well-known one in the Italian novels, 
 of a monk who made love to a merchant's wife, and borrowed a 
 hundred francs of the husband to give her. She accordingly 
 admits his addresses during the absence of her good man on a 
 journey. When the latter returns, he applies to the cunning 
 monk for repayment, and is referred to the lady, who thus finds 
 her mercenary behaviour outwitted. 
 
 • He rode upon a hack-horse, as well as he could.
 
 DEATHS OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 A GRECIAN philosopher, being asked why he wept for the 
 death of his son, since the sorrow was in vain, rephed, 
 " I weep on that very account." And his answer became 
 his wisdom. It is only for sophists to pretend that we, whose 
 eyes contain the fountains of tears, need never give way to them. 
 It would be unwise not to do so on some occasions. Sorrow 
 unlocks them in her balmy moods. The first bursts may be 
 bitter and overwhelming ; but the soil on which they pour 
 would be the worse without them. They refresh the fever of the 
 soul, — the dry misery, which parches the countenance into fur- 
 rows, and renders us liable to our most terrible " flesh-quakes." 
 There are sorrows, it is true, so great, that to give them some 
 of the ordinary vents is to run a hazard of being overthrown. 
 These we must rather strengthen ourselves to resist ; or bow 
 quietly and drily down in order to let them pass over us, as the 
 traveller does the wind of the desert. But where we feel that 
 tears would relieve us, it is false philosophy to deny ourselves at 
 least that first refreshment ; and it is always false consolation to 
 tell people that because they cannot help a thing, they are not 
 to mind it. The true way is, to let them grapple with the 
 unavoidable sorrow and try to win it into gentleness by a 
 reasonable yielding. There are griefs so gentle in their very 
 nature, that it would be worse than false heroism to refuse 
 them a tear. Of this kind are the deaths of infants. Particulai:
 
 15 S LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 circumstances may render it more or less advisable to indulge 
 in grief for the loss of a little child ; but, in general, parents 
 should be no more advised to repress their first tears on such an 
 occasion, than to repress their smiles towards a child surviving, 
 or to indulge in any other sympathy. It is an appeal to the same 
 gentle tenderness ; and such appeals are never made in vain. 
 The end of them is an acquittal from the harsher bonds of afflic- 
 tion, — from the tying down of the spirit to one melancholy idea. 
 It is the nature of tears of this kind, however strongly they 
 may gush forth, to run into quiet waters at last. We cannot 
 easily, for the whole course of our lives, think with pain of any 
 good and kind person whom we have lost. It is the divine 
 nature of their qualities to conquer pain and death itself; to turn 
 the memory of them into pleasure ; to survive with a placid 
 aspect in our imaginations. We are writing, at this moment, 
 just opposite a spot which contains the grave of one inexpres- 
 sibly dear to us. We see from our window the trees about it, 
 and the church-spire. The green fields lie around. The clouds 
 are travelling over-head, alternately taking away the sunshine 
 and restoring it. The vernal winds, piping of the floweiy 
 summer-time, are nevertheless calling to mind the far distant 
 and dangerous ocean, which the heart that lies in that grave 
 had many reasons to think of And yet the sight of this spot 
 does not give us pain. So far from it, it is the existence of that 
 grave which doubles every charm of the spot ; which links the 
 pleasures of our childhood and manhood together ; which puts a 
 hushing tenderness in the winds, and a patient joy upon the 
 landscape ; which seems to unite heaven and earth, mortality 
 and immortality, the grass of the tomb and the grass of the 
 green field, and gives a more maternal aspect to the whole 
 kindness of nature. It does not hinder gaiety itself Happiness 
 was what its tenant, through all her troubles, would have 
 diffused. To diffuse happiness, and to enjoy it, is not only 
 carrymg on her wishes, but realising her hopes ; and gaiety, 
 freed from its only pollutions, malignity and want of sympathy, 
 is but a child playing about the knees of its mother.
 
 DEATHS OF LITTLE CHILDREN. I 59 
 
 The remembered innocence and endearments of a child stand 
 us instead of virtues that have died older. Children have not 
 exercised the voluntary offices of friendship ; they have not 
 chosen to be kind and good to us; nor stood by us, from con- 
 scious will, in the hour of adversity. But they have shared their 
 pleasures and pains vv^ith us as well as they could: the inter- 
 change of good cffices between us has, of necessity, been less 
 mingled with the troubles of the world ; the sorrow arising from 
 their death is the only one which we can associate with their 
 memories. These are happy thoughts that cannot die. Our 
 loss may always render them pensive ; but they will not always 
 be painful. It is a part of the benignity of nature, that pain does 
 not survive like pleasure, at any time ; much less where the 
 cause of it is an innocent one. The smile will remain reflected 
 by memory; as the moon reflects the light upon us, when the 
 sun has gone into heaven. 
 
 When writers like ourselves quarrel with earthly pain (we 
 mean writers of the same intentions, without implying, of course, 
 anything about abilities or otherwise), they are misunderstood if 
 they are supposed to quarrel with pains of every sort. This 
 would be idle and effeminate. They do not pretend, indeed, 
 that humanity might not wish, if it could, to be entirely free 
 from pain ; for it endeavours at all times to turn pain into 
 pleasure, or at least to set off the one with the other ; to make 
 the former a zest, and the latter a refreshment. The most unaf- 
 fected dignity of suffering does this ; and, if wise, acknowledges 
 it. The greatest benevolence towards others, the most unselfish 
 relish of their pleasures, even at its own expense, does but look 
 to increasing the general stock of happiness, though content, if 
 it could, to have its identity swallowed up in that splendid con- 
 templation. We are far from meaning that this is to be called 
 selfishness. We are far, indeed, from thinking so, or of so con- 
 founding words. But neither is it to be called pain, when most 
 unselfish ; if disinterestedness be truly understood. The pain 
 that is in it softens into pleasure, as the darker hue of the 
 rainbow melts into the brighter. Yet even if a harsher line is
 
 l60 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 to be drawn between the pain and pleasure of the most unselfish 
 mind (and ill-health, for instance, may draw it), we should not 
 quarrel with it, if it contributed to the general mass of comfort, 
 and were of a nature which general kindliness could not avoid. 
 Made as we are, there are certain pains without which it would 
 be difficult to conceive certain great and overbalancing plea- 
 sures. We may conceive it possible for beings to be made 
 entirely happy; but in our composition, something of pain 
 seems to be a necessary ingredient, in order that the materials 
 may turn to as fine account as possible ; though our clay, in the 
 course of ages and experience, may be refined more and more. 
 We may get rid of the worst earth, though not of earth itself. 
 
 Now the liability to the loss of children, — or rather what ren- 
 ders us sensible of it, the occasional loss itself, — seems to be one 
 of these necessary bitters thrown into the cup of humanity. We 
 do not mean that everybody must lose one of his children in 
 order to enjoy the rest ; or that every individual loss afflicts us 
 in the same proportion. We allude to the deaths of infants in 
 general. Tnese might be as few as we could render them. But 
 if none at all ever took place, we should regard every little child 
 as a man or woman secured ; and it will easily be conceived, 
 what a world of endearing cares and hopes this security would 
 endanger. The very idea of infancy would lose its continuity with 
 us. Girls and boys would be future men and women, not present 
 children. They would have attained their full growth in our im- 
 aginations, and might as well have been men and women at once. 
 On the other hand, those who have lost an infant are never, as 
 it were, without an infant child. They are the only persons 
 who, in one sense, retain it always ; and they furnish their neigh- 
 bours with the same idea.* The other children grow up to man- 
 hood and womanhood, and suffer all the changes of mortality. 
 This one alone is rendered an immortal child. Death has arrested 
 
 * " I sighed," says old Captain Bolton, " when I envied you the two bonnie 
 children, but I sigh not now to call either the monk or the soldier mine own." — 
 Monastery, vol. iii. p. 341.
 
 DEATHS OF LITTLE CHILDREN. l6l 
 
 it with his kindly harshness, and blessed it into an eternal image 
 of youth and innocence. 
 
 Of such as these are the pleasantest shapes that visit our fancy 
 and our hopes. They are the ever-smiling emblems of joy ; the 
 prettiest pages that wait upon imagination. Lastly, " of these 
 are the kingdom of heaven." Wherever there is a province of 
 that benevolent and all-accessible empire, whether on earth or 
 elsewhere, such are the gentle spirits that must inhabit it. To 
 such simplicity, or the resemblance of it, must they come. Such 
 must be the ready confidence of their hearts, and creativeness of 
 their fancy. And so ignorant must they be of the " knowledge 
 of good and evil," losing their discernment of that self-created 
 trouble by enjoying the garden before them, and not being 
 ashamed of what is kindly and innocent. 
 
 [Note. — The grave alluded to by Leigh Hunt, in one of the most 
 beautiful and touching passages of this most beautiful and touching essay, 
 is that of his mother, in Llampstead churchyard. The memory of his 
 mother was always inexpressibly dear to him. 
 
 The Deaths of Little Children was one of Charles Lamb's favourite 
 papers. — E. O.]
 
 OF STICKS. 
 
 AMONG other comparative injuries which we are accus- 
 tomed to do to the characters of things animate and 
 inanimate, in order to gratify our human vanity, — such 
 as calling a rascal a dog (which is a great compliment), and 
 saying that a tyrant makes a beast of himself (which it would 
 be a very good thing, and a lift in the world, if he could), is a 
 habit, in which some persons indulge themselves, of calling 
 insipid things and persons " sticks." Such and such a one is 
 said to write a stick ; and such another is himself called a 
 stick ; — a poor stick, a mere stick, a stick of a fellow. 
 
 We protest against this injustice done to those genteel, jaunty, 
 useful, and once flourishing sons of a good old stock. Take, for 
 instance, a common cherry-stick, which is one of the favourite 
 sort. In the first place, it is a very pleasant substance to look 
 at, the grain running round it in glossy and shadowy rings. 
 Then it is of primeval antiquity, handed down from scion to 
 scion through the most flourishing of genealogical trees. In 
 the third place, it is of Eastern origin ; of a stock, which it 
 is possible may have furnished Haroun al Raschid with a 
 djereed, or Mohammed with a camel-stick, or Xenophon in his 
 famous retreat with fences, or Xerxes with tent-pins, or Alex- 
 ander with a javelin, or Sardanapalus with tarts, or Solomon 
 with a simile for his mistress's lips, or Jacob with a crook, or 
 Methuselah with shadow, or Zoroaster with mathematical in-
 
 OF STICKS. 163 
 
 struments, or the builders of Babel with scaffolding. Lastly, 
 how do you know but that you may have eaten cherries off this 
 very stick ? for it was once alive with sap, and rustling with 
 foliage, and powdered with blossoms, and red and laughing with 
 fruit. Where the leathern tassel now hangs, may have dangled 
 a bunch of berries ; and instead of the brass ferrule poking in the 
 mud, the tip was growing into the air with its youngest green. 
 
 The use of sticks in general is of the very greatest antiquity. 
 It is impossible to conceive a state of society in which boughs 
 should not be plucked from trees for some purpose of utility or 
 amusement. Savages use clubs, hunters require lances, and 
 shepherds their crooks. Then came the sceptre, which is 
 originally nothing but a staff, or a lance, or a crook, distin- 
 guished from others. The Greek word for sceptre signifies also 
 a walking-stick. A mace, however plumped up and disguised 
 with gilding and a heavy crown, is only the same thing in the 
 hands of an inferior ruler ; and so are all other sticks used in 
 office, from the baton of the Grand Constable of France down to 
 the tipstaff of a constable in Bow Street. As the shepherd's dog 
 is the origin of the gentlest whelp that lies on a hearth-cushion, 
 and of the most pompous barker that jumps about a pair of 
 greys, so the merest stick used by a modern Arcadian, when he 
 is driving his flock to Leadenhall Market with a piece of candle 
 in his hat and No. 554 on his arm, is the first great parent and 
 original of all authoritative staves, from the beadle's cane where- 
 with he terrifies charity-boys who eat bull's-eyes in church-time, 
 up to the silver mace of the verger ; the wands of parishes and 
 governors ; the tasselled staff, wherewith the band-major so 
 loftily picks out his measured way before the musicians, and 
 which he holds up when they are to cease ; the white staff of 
 the Lord Treasurer ; the court-officer emphatically called the 
 Lord Gold Stick ; the bishop's crozier (Pedum Episcopale), 
 whereby he is supposed to pull back the feet of his straying 
 flock ; and the royal and imperial sceptre aforesaid, whose 
 holders, formerly called shepherds of the peopl;; (Uoi./xei'is Aauiy)^
 
 164 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 were seditiously said to fleece more than to protect. The 
 vaulting-staff, a luxurious instrument of exercise, must have 
 been used in times immemorial for passing streams and rough 
 ground with. It is the ancestor of the staff with which pilgrims 
 travelled. The staff and quarter-staff of the country Robin 
 Hoods is a remnant of the war-club. So is the Irish shillelah, 
 which a friend has well defined to be " a stick with two butt- 
 ends." The originals of all these, that are not extant in our 
 own country, may still be seen wherever there are nations un- 
 civilised. The Negro prince, who asked our countrymen what 
 was said of him in Europe, was surrounded in state with a 
 parcel of ragged fellows with shillelahs over their shoulders, — 
 Lord Old Sticks. 
 
 But sticks have been great favourites with civilised as well as 
 uncivilised nations ; only the former have used them more for 
 help and ornament. The Greeks were a sceptropherous people. 
 Homer probably used a walking-stick, because he was blind ; 
 but we have it on authority that Socrates did. On his firs% 
 meeting with Xenophon, which was in a narrow passage, he 
 barred up the way with his stick, and asked him, in his good- 
 natured manner, where provisions were to be had. Xenophon 
 having told him, he asked again, if he knew where virtue and 
 wisdom were to be had ; and this reducing the young man to 
 a non-plus, he said, " Follow me, and learn ;" which Xenophon 
 did, and became the great man we have all heard of The 
 fatherly story of Agesilaus, who was caught amusing his little 
 boy with riding on a stick, and asked his visitor whether he 
 was a father, is too well known for repetition. 
 
 There is an illustrious anecdote connected with our subject 
 in Roman history. The highest compliment which his country- 
 men thought they could pay to the first Scipio was to call 
 him a walking-stick ; for such is the signification of his name. 
 It was given him for the filial zeal with which he used to help 
 his old father about, serving his decrepit age instead of a staff. 
 But the Romans were not remarkable for sentiment. What we
 
 OF STICKS. 165 
 
 hear in generrJ of their sticks, is the thumpings which ser- 
 vants get in their plays ; and, above all, the famous rods which 
 the lictors carried, and which, being actual sticks, must have 
 inflicted horrible dull bruises and malignant stripes. They were 
 pretty things, it must be confessed, to carry before the chief 
 magistrate ; just as if the King or the Lord Chancellor were to 
 be preceded by a cat-o'-nine-tails. 
 
 Sticks are not at all in such request with modern times as 
 they were. Formerly, we suspect most of the poorer ranks in 
 England use to carry them, both on account of the prevalence 
 of manly sports, and for security in travelling : for before the 
 invention of posts and mail-coaches, a trip to Marlowe or St 
 Albans was a thing to make a man write his will. As they 
 came to be ornamented, fashion adopted them. The Cava- 
 liers of Charles I.'s time were a sticked race as well as the 
 apostolic divines and puritans, who appear to have carried 
 staves because they read of them among the patriachs. Charles 
 I., when at his trial, held out his stick to forbid the Attorney- 
 General's proceeding. There is an interesting little story con- 
 nected with a stick, which is related of Andrew Marvell's father 
 (worthy of such a son), and which, as it is little known, we will 
 repeat ; though it respects the man more than the machine. 
 He had been visited by a young lady, who, in spite of a stormy 
 evening, persisted in returning across the Humber, because her 
 family would be alarmed at her absence. The old gentleman, 
 high-hearted and cheerful, after vainly trying to dissuade* her 
 from perils which he understood better than she, resolved in 
 his gallantry to bear her company. Pie accordingly walked with 
 her down to the shore, and, getting into the boat, threw his stick 
 to a friend, with a request, in a lively tone of voice, that he 
 would preserve it for a keepsake. He then cried out merrily, 
 " Ho-hoy for heaven!" and put off with his visitor. They 
 were drowned. 
 
 As commerce increased, exotic sticks grew in request from the 
 Indies. Hence the Bamboo ; the Whanghee ; the Jambee, which
 
 l66 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 makes such a genteel figure under Mr Lilly's auspices in the 
 Tatler ; and our light modern cane, which the Sunday stroller 
 buys at sixpence a piece, with a twist of it at the end for a 
 handle. The physicians, till within the last few score of years, 
 retained, among other fopperies which they converted into 
 gravities, the wig and gold-headed cane. The latter had been 
 an indispensable sign-royal of fashion, and was turned to infinite 
 purposes of accomplished gesticulation. One of the most courtly 
 personages in the " Rape of the Lock " is — 
 
 "Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain, 
 And the nice conduct of a clouded cane." 
 
 Sir Richard Steele, as we have before noticed, is reproached by 
 a busy-body of those times for a habit of jerking his stick against 
 the pavement as he walked. When swords were abolished by 
 Act of Parliament, the tavern-boys took to pinking each other, 
 as injuriously as they could well manage, with their v/alking- 
 sticks. Macklin the player was tried for his life for poking a 
 man's eye out in this way. Perhaps this helped to bring the 
 stick into disrepute, for the use of it seems to have declined 
 more and more, till it is now confined to old men, and a few 
 among the younger. It is unsuitable to our money-getting mode 
 of rushing hither and thither. Instead of pinking a man's ribs 
 or so, or thrustirg out his eye from an excess of the jovial, we 
 break his heart with a bankruptcy. 
 
 Canes became so common before the decline of the use of 
 sticks, that whenever a man is beaten with a stick, let it be of 
 what sort it may, it is still common to say that he has had "a 
 caning." Whicli reminds us of an anecdote more agreeable than 
 surprising ; though the patient doubtless thought the reverse. A 
 gentleman, who was remarkable for the amenity of his manners, 
 accompanied by something which a bully might certainly think 
 he might presume upon, found himself compelled to address a 
 person who did not know how to " translate his style," in the 
 following words, which were all delivered in the sweetest tone in 
 the world, with an air of almost hushing gentility : — " Sir, — I
 
 OF STICKS. 167 
 
 am extremely sorry — to be obliged to say, — that you appear to 
 have a very erroneous notion of the manners that become your 
 situation in life ; — and I am compelled, with great reluctance, to 
 add," — (here he became still softer and more delicate,) — " that 
 if you do not think fit, upon reflection, to alter this very extra- 
 ordinary conduct towards a gentleman, I shall be under the 
 
 necessity of caning you." The other treated the thing as 
 
 a joke ; and, to the delight of the by-standers, received a very 
 grave drubbing. 
 
 There are two eminent threats connected with caning in the 
 history of Dr Johnson. One was from himself, when he was 
 told that Foote intended to mimic him on the stage. He replied, 
 that if " the dog " ventured to play his tricks with him, he would 
 step out of the stage-box, chastise him before the audience, and 
 then throw himself upon their candour and common sympathy. 
 Foote desisted, as he had good reason to do. The Doctor 
 would have read him a stout lesson, and then made a speech to 
 the audience as forcible ; so that the theatrical annals have to 
 regret that the subject and Foote's shoulders were not afforded 
 him to expatiate upon. It would have been a fine involuntary 
 piece of acting, — the part of Scipio by Dr Johnson. Tlie other 
 threat was against the doctor himself from Macpherson, the 
 compounder of Ossian. It was for denying the authenticity of 
 that work ; a provocation the more annoying, inasmuch as he 
 did not seem duly sensible of its merits. Johnson replied to 
 Macpherson's letter by one of contemptuous brevity and pith ; 
 and contented himself with carrying about a large stick with 
 which he intended to repel Macpherson in case of an assault. 
 Had they met, it would have been like " two clouds over the 
 Caspian ;" for both were large-built men. 
 
 We recollect another bacular Johnsonian anecdote. When 
 he was travelling in Scotland, he lost a huge stick of his in the 
 little treeless island of Mull. Boswell told him he would recover 
 it ; but the doctor shook his head. " No, no," said he ; "let 
 any body in Mull get possession of it, and it will never be re-
 
 l68 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 Stored. Consider, sir, the value of such a piece of timber 
 here." 
 
 The most venerable sticks now surviving are the smooth 
 amber-coloured canes in the possession of old ladies. They 
 have sometimes a gold head, but oftener a crook of ivory. But 
 they have latterly been much displaced by light umbrellas, the 
 handles of which are imitations of them ; and these are gra- 
 dually retreating before the young parasol, especially about 
 town. The old ladies take the wings of the stage-coaches, and 
 are run away with by John Pullen in a style of infinite conveni- 
 ence. The other sticks in use are for the most part of cherry, 
 oak, and crab, and seldom adorned with more than a leathern 
 tassel — often with nothing. Bamboo and other canes do not 
 abound as might be expected from our intercourse with India ; 
 but commerce, in this as in other respects, has overshot its 
 mark. People cannot afford to use sticks, any more than bees 
 could in their hives. Of the common sabbatical cane we have 
 already spoken. There is a very sufficing little manual, equally 
 light and lissom, yclept an ebony switch ; but we have not seen 
 it often. 
 
 That sticks, however, are not to be despised by the leisurely, 
 any one who has known what it is to want words, or to slice off 
 the head of a thistle, will allow. The utility of the stick seems 
 divisible into three heads. First, to give a general conscious- 
 ness of power ; second, which may be called a part of the first, 
 to help the demeanour ; and third, which may be called a part 
 of the second, to assist a man over the gaps of speech, — the 
 little awkward intervals, called want of ideas. 
 
 Deprive a man of his stick, who is accustomed to carry one, 
 and with what a diminished sense of vigour and gracefulness he 
 issues out of his house ! Wanting his stick, he wants himself. 
 His self-possession, like Acres's on the duel-ground, has gone 
 out of his fingers' ends. But restore it him, and how he re- 
 sumes his energy ! If a common walking-stick, he cherishes 
 the top of it with his fingers, putting them out and back again
 
 OF STICKS. 169 
 
 with a fresh desire to feel it in his palm ! How he strikes it 
 against the ground, and feels power come back to his arm ! 
 How he makes the pavement ring with the ferrule, if in a street ; 
 or decapitates the downy thistles aforesaid, if in a field ! Then, 
 if it be a switch, how firmly he jerks his step at the first infliction 
 of it on the air ! How he quivers the point of it as he goes, hold- 
 ing the handle with a straight-dropped arm and a tight grasp ! 
 How his foot keeps time to the switches ! How the passengers 
 think he is going to ride, whether he is or not ! How he twigs 
 the luckless pieces of lilac or other shrubs, that peep out of a 
 garden railing ! And if a sneaking-looking dog is coming by, 
 how he longs to exercise his despotism and his moral sense at 
 once, by giving him an invigorating twinge ! 
 
 But what would certain men of address do without their cane 
 or switch ? There is an undoubted rhabdosophy, sceptrosophy, 
 or wisdom of the stick, besides the famous divining-rod with 
 which people used to discover treasures and fountains. It sup- 
 plies a man with inaudible remarks, and an inexpressible number 
 of graces. Sometimes, breathing between his teeth, he will twirl 
 the end of it upon his stretched-out toe ; and this means, that he 
 has an infinite number of easy and powerful things to say, if he 
 had a mind. Sometimes he holds it upright between his knees, 
 and tattoos it against his teeth or under lip ; which implies that 
 he meditates coolly. On other occasions, he switches the side ot 
 his boot with it, which announces jauntiness in generah Lastly, 
 if he has not a bon-mot ready in answer to one, he has only to 
 thrust his stick at your ribs, and say, " Ah ! you rogue ! " — which 
 sets him above you in an instant, as a sort of patronising wit, 
 who can dispense with the necessity of joking. 
 
 At the same time, to give it its due zest in life, a stick has its 
 inconveniences. If you have yellow gloves on, and drop it in 
 the mud, a too hasty recovery is awkward. To have it stick be- 
 tween the stones of a pavement is not pleasant ; especially if it 
 snap the ferrule off; or more especially if an old gentleman or 
 lady is coming behind you, and, after making them start back
 
 170 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS, 
 
 with winking eyes, it threatens to trip them up. To lose the 
 ferrule on a country road, renders the end liable to the growth of 
 a sordid brush ; which, not having a knife with you, or a shop in 
 which to borrow one, goes pounding the wet up against your 
 legs. In a crowded street, you may have the stick driven into 
 a large pane of glass ; upon which an unthinking tradesman, 
 utterly indifferent to a chain of events, issues forth, and demands 
 twelve shillings and sixpence. But perhaps we have been 
 anticipated on these points by that useful regulator of the philo- 
 sophy of every-day matters, who wrote a treatise entitled " The 
 Miseries of Human Life," We shall only add, that the stick is 
 never more in the way than when you meet two ladies, your 
 friends, whose arms you are equally bound and beatified to take. 
 It cannot possibly be held in the usual way, to say nothing of 
 its going against the gown or pelisse ; and to carry it over the 
 shoulder, endangers veils and bonnets, besides rendering you 
 liable to the gallant reproaches of the unreflecting; who, thinking 
 you must have walked with the ladies from all eternity, instead 
 of the next street, ask you whether you could not leave your stick 
 at home even for two. But see how situations the most perplex- 
 ing to an unreflecting good-will may change their character before 
 a spirit truly enlightened by the smiles on each side of him ! 
 Now is the time, if the fortunate sceptrosopher wishes to be 
 thought well of in a fair bosom. He throws away the stick. The 
 lady smiles and deprecates, and thinks how generously he could 
 protect her without a stick. 
 
 It was thus that Sir Walter Raleigh, when he was an aspirant 
 at Elizabeth's court at Greenwich, attending her one day on a 
 walk, in company with other fine spirits of that age, and coming 
 upon a plashy strip of ground which put her Majesty's princely 
 foot to a non-plus, no sooner saw her dilemma than he took off a 
 gallant velvet cloak which he had about him, and, throwing it 
 across the mud and dirt, made such a passage for her to go over, 
 as her royal womanhood never forgot.
 
 A NOW. 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE OF A HOT DAY. 
 
 NOW the rosy- (and lazy-) fingered Aurora, issuing from her 
 saffron house, calls up the moist vapours to surround 
 her, and goes veiled with them as long as she can ; till 
 PhcEbus, coming forth in his power, looks everything out of the 
 sky, and holds sharp uninterrupted empire from his throne of 
 beams. Now the mower begins to make his sweeping cuts 
 more slowly, and resorts oftener to the beer. Now the carter 
 sleeps a-top of his load of hay, or plods with double slouch of 
 shoulder, looking out with eyes winking under his shading hat, 
 and with a hitch upward of one side of his mouth. New the 
 little girl at her grandmother's cottage-door watches the coaches 
 that go by, with her hand held up over her sunny forehead 
 Now labourers look well, resting in their white shirts at the 
 doors of rural alehouses. Now an elm is fine there, with a seat 
 under it ; and horses drink out of the trough, stretching their 
 yearning necks with loosened collars ; and the traveller calls 
 for his glass of ale, having been without one for more than ten 
 minutes ; and his horse stands wincing at the flies, giving sharp 
 shivers of his skin, and moving to and fro his ineffectual docked 
 tail ; and now Miss Betty Wilson, the host's daughter, comes 
 streaming forth in a flowered gown and ear-rings, carrying with 
 four of her beautiful fingers the foaming glass, for which, after 
 the traveller has drank it, she receives with an indifferent eye,
 
 I 7 2 LEIGH HUNT S ESSAYS. 
 
 looking another way, the lawful twopence ; that is to say, unless 
 the traveller, noddung his ruddy face, pays some gallant compli- 
 ment to her before he drinks, such as, " I 'd rather kiss you, my 
 dear, than the tumbler," or, " I '11 wait for you, my love, if you 'II 
 marry me ; " upon which, if the man is good-looking, and the 
 lady in good-humour, she smiles and bites her lips, and says, 
 "Ah, men can talk fast enough;" upon which the old stage- 
 coachman, who is buckling something near her, before he sets 
 off, says in a hoarse voice, " So can women too, for that matter," 
 and John Boots grins through his ragged red locks, and doats 
 on the repartee all the day after. Now grasshopers " fry," as 
 Dryden says. Now cattle stand in water, and ducks are envied. 
 Now boots and shoes, and trees by the road-side, are thick with 
 dust ; and dogs, rolling in it, after issuing out of the water, into 
 which they have been thrown to fetch sticks, come scattering 
 horror among the legs of the spectators. Now a fellow who 
 finds he has three miles farther to go in a pair of tight shoes is 
 in a pretty situation. Now rooms with the sun upon them 
 become intolerable ; and the apothecary's apprentice, with a 
 bitterness beyond aloes, thinks of the pond he used to bathe in 
 at school. Now men with powdered heads (especially if thick) 
 envy those that are unpowdered, and stop to wipe them up hill, 
 with countenances that seem to expostulate with destiny. Now 
 boys assemble round the village pump with a ladle to it, and 
 delight to make a forbidden splash, and get wet through the 
 shoes. Now also they make suckers of leather, and bathe all 
 day long in rivers and ponds, and follow the fish into their cool 
 corners, and say millions of " My eyes ! " at " tittle-bats." Now 
 the bee, as he hums along, seems to be talking heavily of the 
 heat. Now doors and brick-walls are burning to the hand ; 
 and a walled lane, with dust and broken bottles in it, near a 
 brick-field, is a thing not to be thought of. Now a green lane, 
 on the contrary, thick set with hedgerow elms, and having the 
 noise of a brook " rumbling in pebble-stone," is one of the plea- 
 iantest things in the world. Now youths and damsels walk
 
 A NOW. 173 
 
 tliroiigh hay-fields by chance ; and the latter say, " Ha' done 
 then, William ; " and the overseer in the next field calls out to 
 " let thic thear hay thear bide ; " and the girls persist, merely 
 to plague "such a frumpish old fellow." 
 
 Now, in town, gossips talk more than ever to one another in 
 rooms, in door-ways, and out of window, always beginning the 
 conversation with saying that the heat is overpowering. Now 
 blinds are let down, and doors thrown open, and flannel waist- 
 coats left off, and cold meat preferred to hot, and wonder 
 expressed why tea continues so refreshing ; and people delight 
 to sliver lettuces into bowls, and apprentices water door-ways 
 with tin canisters, that lay several atoms of dust. Now the 
 water-cart, jumbling along the middle of the street, and jolting 
 the showers out of its box of water, really does something. Now 
 boys delight to have a water-pipe let out, and see it bubbling 
 away in a tall and frothy volume. Now fruiterers' shops and 
 dairies look pleasant, and ices are the only things to those who 
 can get them. Now ladies loiter in baths ; and people make 
 presents of flowers ; and wine is put into ice ; and the after- 
 dinner lounger recreates his head with applications of perfumed 
 water out of long-necked bottles. Now the lounger, who cannot 
 resist riding his new horse, feels his boots burn him. Now 
 buck-skins are not the lawn of Cos. Now jockies, walking in 
 great-coats to lose flesh, curse inwardly. Now five fat people 
 in a stage coach hate the sixth fat one who is coming in, and 
 think he has no right to be so large. Now clerks in offices do 
 nothing but drink soda-water and spruce-beer, and read the 
 newspaper. Now the old clothes-man drops his solitary cry 
 more deeply into the areas on the hot and forsaken side of the 
 street ; and bakers look vicious ; and cooks are aggravated ; 
 and the steam of a tavern kitchen catches hold of one like the 
 breath of Tartarus. Now delicate skins are beset with gnats; 
 and boys make their sleeping companion start up, with playing 
 a burning-glass on his hand ; and blacksmiths are super-car- 
 bonated ; and cobblers in their stalls almost feci a wish to be
 
 174 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 transplanted ; and butter is too easy to spread ; and the drngoon'j 
 wonder whether the Romans hked their hehnets ; and old ladies, 
 with their lappets unpinned, walk along in a state of dilapida- 
 tion ; and the servant-maids are alraid they look vulgarly hot ; 
 and the author, who has a plate of strawberries brought him, 
 finds that he has come to the end of his writing. 
 
 We cannot conclude this article, however, without returning 
 thanks, both on our own account and on that of our numerous 
 predecessors who have left so large a debt of gratitude unpaid, 
 to this very useful and ready monsyllable — "Now." We are 
 sure that there is not a didactic poet, ancient or modern, who, 
 if he possessed a decent share of candour, would not be happy 
 to own his acknowledgments to that masterly conjunction, which 
 possesses the very essence of wit, for it has the talent of bring- 
 ing the most remote things together. And its generosity is in 
 due proportion to its talent, for it always is most profuse of its 
 aid where it is most wanted. 
 
 We must enjoy a pleasant passage with the reader on the 
 subject of this "eternal Now" in Beaumont and Fletcher's play 
 of the " Woman-hater." Upon turning to it, we perceive that 
 our illustrious particle does not make quite so great a figure as 
 we imagined ; but the whole passage is in so analogous a taste, 
 and affords such an agreeable specimen of the wit and humour 
 with which fine poets could rally the commonplaces of their 
 art, that we cannot help proceeding with it. Lazarillo, a foolish 
 table-hunter, has requested an introduction to the Duke of 
 Milan, who has had a fine lamprey presented him. Before the 
 introduction takes place, he finds that the Duke has given the 
 fish away ; so that his wish to be known to him goes with it ; 
 and part of the drollery of the passage arises from his uneasiness 
 at being detained by the consequences of his own request, and 
 his fear lest he should be too late for the lamprey elsewhere. 
 
 " Count. [As/de to the Duke.] 
 
 " Let me entreat your Grace to stay a little, 
 To know a gentleman, to whom yourself
 
 A NOW. 175 
 
 Is much beholden. He hath made the sport 
 
 For your whole court these eight years, on my knowledge. 
 
 " Duke. His name ? 
 
 " Count. Lazarillo. 
 
 " Dtike. I heard of him this morning. Which is he ? 
 
 " Coicut. [Aside to Laz.] Lazarillo, pluck up thy spirits. Thy 
 fortunes are now rising. The Duke calls for thee, and thou 
 shalt be acquainted with him. 
 
 '■'■Laz. He's going away, and I must of necessity stay here 
 upon business. 
 
 " Count. 'Tis all one ; thou shalt know him first. 
 
 " Laz. Stay a little. If he should offer to take me with him, 
 and by that means I should lose that I seek for ! But if he 
 should, I will not go with him. 
 
 " Count. Lazarillo, the Duke stays. Wilt thou lose this oppor- 
 tunity ? 
 
 " Laz. How must I speak to him .'' 
 
 " Count. 'Twas well thought of. You must not talk to him as 
 you do to an ordinary man, honest plain sense ; but you must 
 wind about him. For example, if he should ask you what o'clock 
 it is, you must not say, ' If it please your Grace, 'tis nine ; ' 
 but thus — ' Thrice three o'clock, so please my Sovereign ; ' or 
 thus — 
 
 ' Look how many Muses there doth dwell 
 Upon the sweet banks of the learned well, 
 And just so many strokes the clock hath struck ; ' — 
 
 and so forth. And you must now and then enter into a descrip- 
 tion. 
 
 " Laz. I hope I shall do it. 
 
 '■^ Count. Come! — May it please your Grace to take note of 
 a gentleman, well seen, deeply read, and thoroughly grounded, 
 in the hidden knowledge of all sallets and pot-herbs whatso- 
 ever ? 
 
 " Duke. I shall desire to know him more inwardly. 
 
 " Laz. I kiss the ox-hide 0^ your Grace's foot.
 
 176 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 " Count. [^Aside to Laz.] Very well. Will your Grace ques- 
 tion him a little ? 
 
 " Duke. How old are you ? 
 
 " Laz. Full eight-and-twenty several almanacs 
 Have been compiled, all for several years, 
 Since first I drew this breath. Four 'prenticeships 
 Have I most truly servdd in this world : 
 And eight-and-twenty times hath Phcebus' car 
 Run out his yearly course, since 
 
 '■''Duke. I understand you, sir. 
 
 " Lucio. How like an ignorant poet he talks ! 
 
 " Duke. You are eight-and-twenty years old ? What time of 
 the day do you hold it to be ? 
 
 " Laz. About the time that mortals whet their knives 
 On thresholds, on their shoe-soles, and on stairs. 
 Now bread is grating, and the testy cook 
 Hath much to do now . now the tables all 
 
 " Duke. 'Tis almost dinner-time ? 
 
 " Laz. Your Grace doth apprehend me very rightly." 
 
 [Note. — Keats was much pleased with this paper, and, being with 
 Leigh Hunt at the time he was writing it, contributed one or two of the 
 passages. (See the "Autobiography," chap. XVI.) One would like to 
 Icnow which were Keats's "bits." But the whole article is full of the 
 finest and most vivid word-painting, the most picturesque and concen- 
 trated description, and the finest humour. We feel the heat upon out 
 faces as we read, and see the golden glow of the sunlight. — E. O.]
 
 COACHES AND THEIR HORSES. 
 
 FIRST PAPER. 
 
 ACCORDING to the opinion commonly entertained re- 
 specting an author's want of ready money, it may be 
 allowed us to say that we retain from childhood a con- 
 siderable notion of "a ride in a coach." Nor do we hesitate to 
 confess, that by coach we especially mean a hired one, from the 
 eauivocal rank of the post-chaise down to that despised old cast- 
 away, the hackney. 
 
 It is true that the carriage, as it is indifferently called (as if 
 nothing less genteel could carry any one), is a more decided 
 thing than the chaise ; it may be swifter even than the mail, 
 leaves the stage at a still greater distance in every respect, and 
 (forgetting what it may come to itself) darts by the poor old 
 lumbering hackney with immeasurable contempt. It rolls with 
 a prouder ease than any other vehicle. It is full of cushions and 
 comfort : elegantly coloured inside and out ; rich, yet neat ; 
 light and rapid, yet substantial. The horses seem proud to draw 
 it. The fat and fair-wigged coachman "lends his sounding lash," 
 his arm only in action, and that little, his body well-set with its 
 own weight. The footman, in the pride of his nonchalance, 
 holding by the straps behind, and glancing down sideways be- 
 twixt his cocked-hat and neckcloth, stands swinging from east to 
 west upon his springy toes. The horses rush along amidst their 
 glancing harness. Spotted dogs leap about them, barking with 
 a princely superfluity of noise. The hammercloth trembles
 
 T78 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 through all its fringe. The paint flashes in the sun. We, con- 
 temptuous of everything less convenient, bow backwards and 
 forwards with a certain indifferent air of gentility infinitely pre- 
 dominant. Suddenly, with a happy mixture of turbulence and 
 truth, the carriage dashes up by the curb-stone to the very point 
 desired, and stops with a lordly wilfulness of decision. The 
 coachman looks as if nothing had happened. The footman is 
 down in an instant ; the knocker reverberates into the farthest 
 corner of the house ; doors, both carriage and house, are open. 
 We descend, casting a matter-of-course eye at the by-standers ; 
 and the moment we touch the pavement, the vehicle, as if con- 
 scious of what it has carried, and relieved from the weight of our 
 importance, recovers from its sidelong inclination with a jerk, 
 tossing and panting, as it were, for very breath, like the proud 
 heads of the horses. 
 
 All this, it must be owned, is very pretty ; but it is also gouty 
 and superfluous. It is too convenient, too exacting, too exclusive. 
 We must get too much for it, and lose too much by it. Its 
 plenty, as Ovid says, makes us poor. We neither have it in the 
 republic of letters, nor would desire it in any less Jacobinical 
 state. Horses, as many as you please, provided men have 
 enough to eat ; hired coaches, a reasonable number ; but health 
 and good-humour at all events. 
 
 Gigs and curricles are things less objectionable, because they 
 cannot be so relied upon as substitutes for exercise. Our taste 
 in them, we must confess, is not genuine. How shall we own it ? 
 We like to be driven, instead of drive ; to read or look about us, 
 instead of keeping watch on a horse's head. We have no relish 
 even for vehicles of this description, that are not safe. Danger 
 is a good thing for giving a fillip to a man's ideas ; but even 
 danger, to us, must come recommended by something useful. We 
 have no ambition to have Tandem written on our tombstone. 
 
 The prettiest of these vehicles is undoubtedly the curricle, 
 which is also the safest. There is something worth looking at 
 in the pair of horses, with that sparkling pole of steel laid across
 
 COACHES AND THEIR HORSES. I 79 
 
 them. Il is like a bar of music, comprising their harmonious 
 course. But, to us, even gigs are but a sort of unsuccessful run 
 at gentility. The driver, to all intents and purposes, had better 
 be on the horse. Horseback is the noblest way of being carried 
 in the world. It is cheaper than any other constant mode of rid- 
 ing, it is common to all ranks, and it is manly, graceful, and 
 healthy. The handsomest mixture of danger with dignity, in 
 the shape of a carriage, was the tall phaeton, with its yellow 
 wings. We remember looking up to it with respect in our 
 childhood — partly for its own loftiness, partly for its name, and 
 partly, perhaps, for the figure it makes in the prints to novels of 
 that period. The most gallant figure which mere modern driving 
 ever cut was in the person of a late Duke of Hamilton, of whom 
 we have read or heard somewhere, that he used to dash round the 
 streets of Rome, with his horses panting and his hounds barking 
 about his phaeton, to the equal fright and admiration of the 
 Masters of the World, who were accustomed to witness nothing 
 higher than a lumbering old coach or a cardinal on a mule. 
 
 A post-chaise involves the idea of travelling, which, in the 
 company of those we love, is home in motion. The smooth 
 running along the road, the fresh air, the variety of scene, the 
 leafy roads, the bursting prospects, the clatter through a town, 
 the gaping gaze of a village, the hearty appetite, the leisure (your 
 chaise waiting only upon your own movements), even the little 
 contradictions to home-comfort, and the expedients upon which 
 they set us, all put the animal spirits at work, and throw a novelty 
 over the road of life. If anything could grind us young again, 
 it would be the wheels of a post-chaise. The only monotonous 
 sight is ttie perpetual up-and-down movement of the postilion, 
 who, we wish exceedingly, could take a chair. His occasional 
 retreat to the bar, which occupies the place of a box, and his 
 affecting to sit upon it, only reminds us of its exquisite want of 
 accommodation. But some have given the bar, lately, a surrep- 
 titious squeeze in the middle, and fiattened it a little into some- 
 thing obliquely resembling an inconvenient seat.
 
 l8o LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 If we are.- to believe the merry Columbus of Down-Hall, cal- 
 ashes, now almost obsolete for any purpose, used to be hired 
 for travelling occasions a hundred years back ; but he preferred 
 a chariot ; and neither was good. But see how pleasantly 
 good-humour rides over its inconveniences: — 
 
 " Then answer'd Squire Morley, ' Pray get a calash. 
 That in summer may burn, and in winter may splash ; 
 I love dirt and dust ; and 'tis always my pleasure 
 To take with me much of the soil that I measure.' 
 
 " But Matthew thought better ; for Matthew thought right, 
 And hired a chariot so trim and so tight, 
 That extremes both of winter and summer might pass ; 
 For one window was canvas, the other was glass. 
 
 " 'Draw up,' quoth friend Matthew ; ' Pull down,' quoth friend Johu, 
 'We shall be both hotter and colder anon.' 
 Thus, talking and scolding, they forward did speed ; 
 And Ralpho paced by under Newman the Swede. 
 
 "Into an old inn did this equipage roll. 
 At a town they call Hodson, the sign of the Bull ; 
 Near a nymph with an urn that divides the highway, 
 And into a puddle throws mother of tea. 
 
 " ' Come here, my sweet landlady, pray how d'ye do? 
 Where is Cicely so cleanly, and Prudence, and Sue! 
 And where is the widow that dwelt here below? 
 And the hostler that sung .about eight years ago? 
 
 " ' And where is your sister, so mild and so dear. 
 Whose voice to her maids like a trumpet was clear?' 
 ' By my troth,' she replies, 'you grow younger I think; 
 And pray, sir, what wine does the gentleman drink ? 
 
 " ' Why now let me die, sir, or live upon trust. 
 If I know to which question to answer you first : 
 >Vhy things, since I saw you, most strangely have variod } 
 The hostler is hang'd, and the widow is married. 
 
 " ' And Prue left a child for the parish to nurse, 
 And Cicely went off with a gentleman's purse ; 
 And as to my sister, so mild and so dear, 
 She has lain in the churchyard full many a year.' 
 
 *' ' Well , peace to her ashes ! What signifies giief? 
 She roasted red veal, and she powder'd lean beef; 
 F"ull nicely she knew to cook up a fine dish ; 
 Nor tough were her pullets, and tender her fish.' " — PriiOK.
 
 COACHES AND THEIR HORSES. ibl 
 
 This quotation reminds us of a little poem by the same 
 author, entitled " The Secretary," which, as it is short, and runs 
 upon chaise-wheels, and seems to have slipped the notice it 
 deserves, we will do ourselves the pleasure of extracting also. 
 It was written when he was Secretary of Embassy at the Hague, 
 where he seems to have edified the Dutch with his insisting 
 upon enjoying himself. The astonishment with which the good 
 Hollander and his wife look up to him as he rides, and the 
 touch of yawning dialect at the end, are extremely pleasant. 
 
 " While with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix. 
 And in one day atone for the business of six. 
 In a little Dutch chaise on a Saturday night, 
 On my left hand my Horace, a nymph on my right : 
 No memoirs to compose, and no poht-boy to move. 
 That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love , 
 For her, neither visits, nor parties at tea, 
 Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugee : 
 This night and the next shall be hers, shall be mine ; 
 To good or ill-fortune the third we resign : 
 Thus scorning the world and superior to fate, 
 I drive on my car in processional state. 
 So with Phia through Athens Pisistratus rode ; 
 Men thought her Minerva, and him a new god. 
 But why should I stories of Athens rehearse, 
 Where people knew love, and were partial to verse ; 
 Since none can with justice my pleasures oppose. 
 In Holland half drowned in interest and prose ? 
 By Greece and past ages what need I be tried. 
 When the Hague and the present are both on my side I 
 And is it enough for the joys of the day, 
 To think what Anacreon or Sappho would say? 
 When good Vandergoes, and his provident vroiv. 
 As they gaze on my triumph, do freely allow. 
 That, search all the province, you'll find no man dir is 
 So blest as the Englishen Heer Sccretat' is." 
 
 If Prior had been living now, he would have found the want 
 of travelling accommodation flourishing most in a country for 
 whose graver wants we have to answer, without having her wit 
 to help us. There is a story told of an Irish post-chaise, the 
 occupier of which, without quitting it, had to take to his heels. 
 It was going down hill, as fast as wind and the impossibility of
 
 162 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 stopping could make it, when the foot passengers observed a 
 couple of legs underneath, emulating, with all their might, the 
 rapidity of the wheels. The bottom had come out ; and the 
 gentleman was obliged to run for his life. 
 
 We must relate another anecdote of an Irish post-chaise, 
 merely to show the natural tendencies of the people to be law- 
 less in self-defence. A fiiend of ours, who was travelling 
 among them, used to have this proposition put to him by the 
 postilion, whenever he approached a turnpike — " Plase your 
 honour, will I drive at the pike 1" The pike hung loosely across 
 the road. Luckily, the rider happened to be of as lawless a 
 turn for justice as the driver, so the answer was always a cor- 
 dial one : — " Oh yes — drive at the pike." The pike made way 
 accordingly ; and in a minute or two, the gate people were 
 heard and seen, screaming in vain after the illegal charioteers. 
 
 " Fertur equis auriga, neque audit currus." 
 
 Virgil. 
 The driver's borne beyond their swearing, 
 And the post-chaise is hard of hearing. 
 
 As to following them, nobody in Ireland thinks of moving too 
 much, legal or illegal. 
 
 The pleasure to be had in a mail-coach is not so much at 
 one's command as that in a post-chaise. There is generally too 
 little room in it, and too much hurry out of it. The company 
 must not lounge over their breakfast, even if they are all agreed. 
 It is an understood thing that they are bound to be uncom- 
 fortably punctual. They must get in at seven o'clock, though 
 they are all going upon business they do not like or care about, 
 or will have to wait till nine before they can do anything. 
 Some persons know how to manage this haste, and breakfast 
 and dine in the cracking of a whip. They stick with their fork, 
 they joint, they sliver, they bolt. Legs and wings vanish before 
 them, like a dragon's before a knight-errant. But if one is not 
 a clergyman, or a regular jolly fellow, one has no chance this 
 way. To be diffident or polite, is fatal. It is a merit eagerly
 
 COACHES AND THEIR HORSES. 183 
 
 acknowledged, and as quickly set aside. At last you begin 
 upon a leg, and are called off. A very troublesome degree of 
 science is necessary for being well settled in the coach. We re- 
 member travelling in our youth, upon the north road, with an 
 orthodox elderly gentleman of very venerable peruke, who 
 talked much with a grave-looking young man about universities, 
 and won our inexperienced heart with a notion that he was deep 
 in Horace and Virgil. He was much deeper in his wig. To- 
 wards evening, as he seemed restless, we asked, with much diffi- 
 dence, whether a change even for the worse might not relieve 
 him ; for we were riding backwards, and thought that all elderly 
 people disliked that way. He insinuated the very objection ; 
 so we recoiled from asking him again. In a minute or two, 
 however, he insisted that we were uneasy ourselves, and that he 
 must relieve us for our own sake. We protested as filially as 
 possible against this ; but at last, out of mere shame of disput- 
 ing the point with so benevolent an elder, we changed seats 
 with him. After an interval of bland meditation, we found the 
 evening sun full in our face. His new comfort set him dozing ; 
 and every now and then he jerked his wig in our eyes, till we 
 had the pleasure to see him take out a night-cap, and look ex- 
 tremely ghastly. The same person, and his serious young com- 
 panion, tricked us out of a good bed we happened to get at the 
 inn. 
 
 The greatest peculiarity attending a mail-coach arises from its 
 travelling at night. The gradual decline of talk, the incipient 
 snore, the rustling and alteration of legs and nightcaps, the 
 cessation of other noises on the road, the sound of the wind or 
 rain, of the moist circuit of the wheels, and of the time-beating 
 tread of the horses, — all dispose the traveller, who cannot sleep, 
 to a double sense of the little that is left him to observe. The 
 coach stops, the door opens ; a rush of cold air announces at 
 once the demands and merits of the guard, who is taking his 
 leave, and is anxious to remember us. The door is clapped to 
 again ; the sound of everything outside becomes dim ; and voices
 
 loA LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 are heard knocking up the people of the inn, and answered by 
 issuing yawns and excuses. Wooden shoes clog heavily about 
 The horses' mouths are heard swilling up the water out of tubs. 
 All is still again ; and some one in the coach takes a long 
 breath. The driver mounts, and we resume our way. It 
 happens that we can sleep anywhere except in a mail-coach ; so 
 that we hate to see a prudent, warm old fellow, who has been 
 eating our fowls and intercepting our toast, put on his night-cap 
 in order to settle himself till morning. We rejoice in the digs 
 that his neighbour's elbow gives him, and hail the long-legged 
 traveller that sits opposite. A passenger of our wakeful descrip- 
 tion must try to content himself with listening to the sounds 
 above mentioned ; or thinking of his friends ; or turning verses, 
 as Sir Richard Blackmore did, " to the rumbling of his coach's 
 wheels ;" or chatting with the servant-girl who is going to place ; 
 (may nobody get her dismissed nine months hence !) or protect- 
 ing her against the Methodist in the corner ; or, if alone with 
 her, and she has a kind face, protecting her against a much 
 more difficult person,— himself. Really, we must say, that 
 enough credit is not given to us lawless persons who say eJl we 
 think, and would have the world enjoy all it could. There is the 
 author of " The Mail-coach Adventure," for instance. With all 
 his amorous verses, his yearnings after the pleasant laws of the 
 Golden Age, and even his very hymns (which, we confess, are a 
 little mystic), we would rather trust a fair traveller to his keep- 
 ing, than some much graver writers we have heard of. If he 
 forgot himself, he would not think it a part of virtue to forget 
 her. But his absolution is not ready at hand, as for graver 
 sinners. The very intensity of the sense of pleasure will often 
 keep a man from destroying its after-thoughts in another ; when 
 harsher systems will forget themselves, only to confound brut- 
 ality with repentance. 
 
 The stage-coach is a very great and unpretending accommo- 
 dation. It is a cheap substitute, notwithstanding all its eighteen- 
 penny and two and sixpenny temptations, for keeping a carriage
 
 COACHES AND THEIR HORSES. 1 85 
 
 or a horse ; and we really think, in spite of its gossiping, is no 
 mean help to village liberality ; for its passengers are so mixed, 
 so often varied, so little yet so much together, so compelled to 
 accommodate, so willing to pass a short time pleasantly, and so 
 liable to the criticism of strangers, that it is hard if they do not 
 get a habit of speaking, or even thinking, more kindly of one 
 another than if they mingled less often, or under other circum- 
 stances. The old and infirm are treated with reverence ; the 
 ailing sympathised with ; the healthy congratulated ; the rich 
 not distinguished; the poor well-met; the young, with their 
 faces conscious of ride, patronised and allowed to be extra. 
 Even the fiery, nay, the fat, learn to bear with each other ; and 
 if some high-thoughted persons will talk now and then of their 
 great acquaintances, or their preference of a carriage, there is 
 an instinct which tells the rest that they would not make such 
 appeals to their good opinion, if they valued it so little as might 
 be supposed. Stoppings and dust are not pleasant ; but the 
 latter may be had on much grander occasions ; and if any one 
 is so unlucky as never to keep another stopping himself, he 
 must be content with the superiority of his virtue. The mail or 
 stage-coachman, upon the whole, is no inhuman mass of great- 
 coat, gruffness, civility, and old boots. The latter is the politer, 
 from the smaller range of acquaintance, and his necessity for 
 preserving them. His face is red, and his voice rough, by the 
 same process of drink and catarrh. He has a silver watch with 
 a steel chain, and plenty of loose silver in his pocket mixed with 
 halfpence. He serves the houses he goes by for a clock. He 
 takes a glass at every ale-house ; for thirst, when it is dry, and 
 for warmth when it is wet. He likes to show the judicious 
 reach of his whip, by twigging a dog or a goose on the road, or 
 children that get in the way. His tenderness to descending old 
 ladies is particular. He touches his hat to Mr Smith. He 
 gives "the young woman" a ride; and lends her his box-coat 
 in the rain. His liberality in imparting his knowledge to any 
 one that has the good fortune to ride on the box with him, is a
 
 l86 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 happy mixture of deference, conscious possession, and famili- 
 arity. His information chiefly hes in the occupancy of houses 
 on the road, prize-fighters. Bow Street runners, and accidents. 
 He concludes that you know Dick Sams, or Old Joey; and 
 proceeds to relate some of the stories that relish his pot and 
 tobacco in the evening. If any of the four-in-hand gentry go 
 by, he shakes his head, and thinks they might find something 
 better to do. His contempt for them is founded on modesty. 
 He tells you that his ofif-hand horse is as pretty a goer as ever 
 was, but that Kitty — " Yeah now there, Kitty — can't you be 
 still? — Kitty's a devil, sir, — for all you wouldn't think it." He 
 knows the boys on the road admire him, and gives the horses 
 an indifferent lash with his whip as they go by. If you wish 
 to know what rain and dust can do, you should look at his old 
 hat. There is an indescribably placid and paternal look in 
 the position of his corduroy knees and old top-boots on the 
 foot-board, with their pointed toes, and never-cleaned soles. 
 His beau-ideal of appearance is a frock-coat with mother-o'- 
 pearl buttons, a striped yellow waistcoat, and a flower in his 
 mouth. 
 
 " But all our praises why for Charles and Robert ? 
 Rise, honest Mews, and sing the classic Bobart." 
 
 Is the quadrijugal virtue of that learned person still extant? 
 That Olympic and Baccalaureated charioteer? — that best- 
 educated and most erudite of coachmen, of whom Dominie 
 Sampson is alone worthy to speak? — that singular punning and 
 driving commentary on the " Sunt quos curriculo collegisse," 
 — in short, the worthy and agreeable Mr Bobart, Bachelor of 
 Arts, who drove the Oxford stage some years ago, capped verses 
 and the front of his hat with equal dexterity, and read Horace 
 over his brandy and water of an evening ? We once had the 
 pleasure of being beaten by him in that capital art, he having 
 brought up against us an unusual number of those cross-armed 
 letters, as puzzling to verse-cappers as iron-cats unto cavalry, 
 yclept X's ; which said warfare he was pleased to call to mind
 
 COACHES AND THEIR HORSES. 1S7 
 
 in after times unto divers of our comrades. The modest and 
 natural greatness with which he used to say " Yait " to his 
 horses, and then turn round with his rosy gills, and an eye like 
 a fish, and give out the required verse, can never pass away 
 from us, as long as verses or horses run. 
 
 Of the hackney-coach we cannot make as short work as 
 many persons like to make of it in reality. Perhaps, indeed, it 
 is partly a sense of the contempt it undergoes which induces us 
 to endeavour to make the best of it. But it has its merits, as 
 we shall show presently. In the account of its demerits, we 
 have been anticipated by a new, and we are sorry to say a very 
 
 good poetess, of the name of Lucy V L , who has 
 
 favoured us with a sight of a manuscript poem, in which they 
 are related with great nicety and sensitiveness. 
 
 Reader. What, sir, sorry to say that a lady is a good poetess? 
 
 Indicator. Only inasmuch, madam, as the lady gives such 
 authority to the anti-social view of this subject, and will not agree 
 with us as to the beatitude of the hackney-coach. But hold !^ 
 upon turning to the manuscript again, we find that the objections 
 are put into the mouth of a dandy courtier. This makes a 
 great difference. The hackney resumes all which it had lost 
 in the good graces of the fair authoress. The only wonder is, 
 how the courtier could talk so well. Here is the passage — 
 
 " Eban, untempted by the pastry-cooks, 
 (Of pastry he got store within the palace,) 
 With hasty steps, wrapp'd cloak, and solemn looks, 
 Incognito upon his errand sallies, 
 His smelling-bottle ready for the alleys : 
 He pass'd the hurdy-gurdies with disdain. 
 Vowing he 'd have them sent on board the galleys : 
 Just as he made his vow, it 'gan to rain ; 
 Therefore he call'd a coach, and bade it drive amain. 
 
 ' ' I'll pull the string,' said he, and further said, 
 
 ' Polluted Jarvey ! Ah, thou filthy hack ! 
 Whose springs of life are all dried up and dead. 
 Whose linsey-wolsey lining hangs all slack.
 
 l88 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 Whose rug is straw, whose wholeness is a crast J 
 And evermore thy steps go clatter-clitter ; 
 Whose glass once up can never be got back, 
 Who prov'st, with jolting arguments and bitter, 
 Tliat 'tis of vile no-use to travel in a litter. 
 
 " ' Thou inconvenience ! thou hungry crop 
 For all corn ! thou snail-creepcr to and fro, 
 Who while thou goest ever seem'st to stop, 
 And fiddle-faddle standest while you go ; 
 I' the morning, freighted with a weight of woe. 
 Unto some Lazar-house thou journiest, 
 And in the evening tak'st a double row 
 Of dowdies, for some dance or party drest, 
 Besides the goods meanwhile thou movest east and west. 
 
 " ' By thy ungallant bearing and sad mien, 
 
 An inch appears the utmost thou couldst budge ; 
 Yet at the slightest nod, or hint, or sign, 
 Round to the curb-stone patient dost thou trudge, 
 School'd in a beckon, learned in a nudge ; 
 A dull-eyed Argus watching for a fare ; 
 • Quiet and plodding thou dost bear no grudge 
 
 To whisking tilburies, or phaetons rare. 
 Curricles, or mail-coaches, swift beyond compare.' 
 
 " Philosophising thus, he puU'd the check. 
 And bade the coachman wheel to such a street ; 
 Who turning much his body, more his neck, 
 Louted full low, and hoarsely did him greet." 
 
 The tact here is so nice, of all the infirmities which are but too 
 likely to beset our poor old friend, that we should only spoil i' 
 to say more. To pass then to the merits. 
 
 SECOND PAPER. 
 
 One of the greatest helps to a sense of merit in other things 
 is a consciousness of one's own wants. Do you despise a hack- 
 ney-coach ? Get tired ; get old ; get young again ! Lay down 
 your own carriage, or make it less uneasily too easy. Have to 
 stand up half an hour, out of a storm, under a gateway. Be ill, 
 and wish to visit a friend who is worse. Fall in love, and want
 
 COACHES AND THEIR HORSES. I 89 
 
 to sit next your mistress ! Or, if all this will not do, fall in a 
 cellar, 
 
 Ben Jonson, in a fit of indignation at the niggardliness of 
 James I., exclaimed, " He despises me, I suppose, because I 
 live in an alley : tell him his soul lives in an alley." We think 
 we see a hackney-coach moved out of its ordinary patience, and 
 hear it say, " You there, who sit looking so scornfully at me out 
 of your carriage, you are yourself the thing you take me for. 
 Your understanding is a hackney-coach. It is lumbering, 
 rickety, and at a stand. When it moves, it is drawn by things 
 like itself. It is at once the most stationary and the most 
 servile of commonplaces. And when a good thing is put into 
 it, it does not know it." 
 
 But it is difficult to imagine a hackney-coach under so irrit- 
 able an aspect. It is Hogarth, we think, who has drawn a set 
 of hats or wigs with countenances of their own. We have 
 noticed the same thing in the faces of houses, and it some- 
 times gets in one's way in a landscape-painting, with the out- 
 lines of the massy trees. A friend tells us that the hackney- 
 coach has its countenance, with gesticulation besides ; and, 
 now he has pointed it out, we can easily fancy it. Some of them 
 look chucked under the chin, some nodding, some coming at 
 you sideways. We shall never find it easy, however, to fancy 
 the irritable aspect above mentioned. A hackney-coach always 
 appeared to us the most quiescent of moveables. Its horses 
 and it, slumbering on a stand, are an emblem of all the patience 
 in creation, animate and inanimate. The submission with which 
 the coach takes every variety of the weather, dust, rain, and 
 wind, never moving but when some eddying blast makes its old 
 body seem to shiver, is only surpassed by the vital patience of 
 the horses. Can anything better illustrate the poet's line about 
 
 " Years that bring the philosophic mind," 
 
 than the still-hung head, the dim indifferent eye, the dragged 
 and blunt-cornered mouth, and the gaunt imbecility of body,
 
 igo LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 dropping its weight on three tired legs in order to give repose 
 to the lame one ? When it has Winkers on, they seem to be 
 shuttmg up its eyes for death, like the windows of a house. 
 Fatigue, and the habit of suffering, have become as natural to 
 the creature as the bit to its mouth. Once in half an hour it 
 moves the position of its leg, or shakes its drooping old ears. 
 The whip makes it go, more from habit than from pain. Its 
 coat has become almost callous to minor stings. The blind and 
 staggering fly in autumn might come to die against its cheek. 
 
 Of a pair of hackney-coach horses, one so much resembles 
 the other, that it seems unnecessary for them to compare notes. 
 They have that within which is beyond the comparative. They 
 no longer bend their heads towards each other as they go. 
 They stand together as if unconscious of one another's com- 
 pany, but they are not. An old horse misses his companion 
 like an old man. The presence of an associate, who has gone 
 through pain and suffering with us, need not say anything. It 
 is talk, and memory, and everything. Something of this it may 
 be to our old friends in harness. What are they thinking of 
 while they stand motionless in the rain ? Do they remember ? 
 Do they dream ? Do they still, unperplexed as their old blood 
 is by too many foods, receive a pleasure from the elements ; a 
 dull refreshment from the air and sun ? Have they yet a palate 
 for the hay which they pull so feebly ? or for the rarer grain, 
 which induces them to perform their only voluntary gesture of 
 any vivacity, and toss up the bags that are fastened on their 
 mouths, to get at its shallow feast .'' 
 
 If the old horse were gifted with memory — and who shall say 
 he is not, in one thing as well as another ? — it might be at once 
 the most melancholy and pleasantest feeling he has : for the 
 commonest hack has very likely been a hunter or racer; has had 
 his days of lustre and enjoyment ; has darted along the course, 
 and scoured the pasture ; has carried his master proudly, or his 
 lady gently ; has pranced, has galloped, has neighed aloud, has 
 dared, has forded, has spurned at mastery, has graced it and
 
 COACHES AND THEIR HORSES. I9I 
 
 made it proud, has rejoiced the eye, has been crovvded to as an 
 actor, has been all instinct with life and quickness, has had its 
 very fear admired as courage, and been sat upon by valour as 
 its chosen seat. 
 
 " His cars up-prick'd ; his braided hanging mane 
 Upon his compass'd crest now stands on end ; 
 His nostrils drinlc the air ; and forth again, 
 As from a furnace, vapours doth he send ; 
 
 His eye, which glisters scornfully like fire, 
 Shows his hot courage and his high desire. 
 
 " Sometimes he trots as if he told the steps, 
 With gentle majesty, and modest pride ; 
 Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps. 
 
 As who would say, Lo ! thus my strength is try'd ; 
 And thus I do to captivate the eye 
 Of the fair breeder that is standing by. 
 
 " What recketh he his rider's angry stir, 
 
 His flattering holloa, or his Statid, I sciy t 
 What cares he now for curb, or pricking spur? 
 For rich caparisons, or trappings gay ? 
 
 He sees his love, and nothing else he sees, 
 For nothing else with his proud sight agrees. 
 
 " Look, when a painter would surpass the life, 
 
 In limning out a well-proportion'd steed, 
 
 His art with Nature's workmanship at strife. 
 
 As if the dead the living should exceed ; 
 
 So did this horse excel a common one. 
 
 In shape, in courage, colour, pace, and bono. 
 
 " Round-hoord, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long ; 
 Broad breast, full eyes, small head, and nostril wide ; 
 High crest, short ears, straight legs, and passing strong, 
 Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide ; 
 
 Look, what a horse should have, he did not lack, 
 Save a proud rider on so proud a back." 
 
 Alas! his only riders now are the rain and a sordid hnrness! 
 I'he least utterance of the wretchedest voice makes him stop, 
 and become a fixture. His loves were in existence at the time 
 the old sign, fifty miles hence, was first painted. His nostrils 
 drink nothing but what they cannot help, — the water out of an 
 old tub. Not all the hounds in the world could make his ears
 
 192 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 attain any eminence. His mane is scratchy and lax ; his shape 
 an anatomy; his name a mockery. The same great poet who 
 wrote the triumphal verses for him and his loves, has written 
 their living epitaph : — 
 
 " The poor jades 
 Lob down their heads, dropping the hides and hips ; 
 The gum down-roping from their pale, dead eyes ; 
 And in their pale, dull mouths the gimmal bit 
 Lies foul with chew'd grass, still and motionless." 
 
 King Henry V., A:t iv. 
 
 There is a song called "The High-mettled Racer," describing 
 the progress of a favourite horse's life, from its time of vigour 
 and glory, down to its furnishing food for the dogs. It is not 
 as good as Shakspeare ; but it will do, to those who are half 
 as kind as he. We defy anybody to read that song, or be in 
 the habit of singing it or hearing it sung, and treat horses as 
 they are sometimes treated. So much good may an author 
 do who is in earnest, and does KOt go a pedantic way to work. 
 We will not say that Plutarch's good-natured observation about 
 taking care of one's old horse did more for that class of retired 
 servants than all the graver lessons of philosophy. For it is 
 philosophy which first sets people thinking ; and then some of 
 them put it in a more popular shape. But we will venture to say, 
 that Plutarch's observation saved many a steed of antiquity a 
 superfluous thump ; and in this respect, the author of the "High- 
 mettled Racer" (Mr Dibdin, we believe, — no mean man, after 
 all, in his way) may stand by the side of the illustrious biographer. 
 Next to ancient causes, to the inevitable progress of events, and 
 to the practical part of Christianity (which persons the most 
 accused of irreligion have preserved like a glorious infant, 
 through ages of blood and fire), the kindliness of modern philo- 
 sophy is more immediately owing to the great national writers 
 of Europe, in whose schools we have all been children ;— to 
 Voltaire in France, and Shakspeare in England. Shakspeare, 
 in his time, obliquely pleaded the cause of the Jew, and got him 
 set on a common level with humanity. The Jew has since been
 
 COACHES AND THEIR HORSES. I93 
 
 Tiot onlv allowed to be human, but some have undertaken, to 
 show liim as '• the best good Christian, though he knows it not." 
 We sliall not dispute the title with him, nor with the other 
 worshippers of Mammon, who force him to the same shrine. 
 We allow, as things go in that quarter, that the Jew is as great 
 a Christian as his neighbour, and his neighbour as great a Jew 
 as he. There is neither love nor money lost between them. 
 Ikit, at all events, the Jew is a man ; and, with Shakspeare's 
 assistance, the time has arrived when we can afford to acknow- 
 ledge the horse for a fellow-creature, and treat him as one. We 
 may say for him, upon precisely the same grounds, and to the 
 same purpose, as Shakspeare said for the Israelite, " Hath not 
 a horse organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions ? — hurt 
 with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by 
 the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and 
 summer, as a Christian is ?" Oh, but (some are always at hand 
 to cry out) it would be effeminate to think too much of these 
 things ! Alas ! we have no notion of asking the gentlemen to 
 think too much of anything. If they will think at all, it will be 
 a great gain. As to effeminacy (if we must use that ungallant 
 and partial word, for want of a better), it is cruelty that is effem- 
 inate. It is selfishness that is effeminate. Anything is effeminate, 
 which would get an excitement, or save a proper and manly 
 trouble, at the undue expense of another. How does the case 
 stand then between those who ill-treat their horses, and those 
 who spare them ? 
 
 To return to the coach. Imagine a fine coach and pair, which 
 are standing at the door of a house, in all the pride of their sleek 
 strength and beauty, converted into what they may both really 
 become, a hackney and its old shamblers. Such is one of the 
 meditations of the philosophic eighteenperny rider. A hackney- 
 coach has often the arms of nobility on it. As we are going to 
 get into it, we catch a glimpse of the faded lustre of an earl's or 
 marquis's coronet, and think how many light or proud hearts 
 have ascended those now rickety steps. In this coach, perhaps,
 
 194 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS- 
 
 an elderly lady once rode to her wedding, a blooming and blush- 
 ing girl. Her mother and sister were on each side of her ; the 
 bridegroom opposite in a blossom-coloured coat. They talk of 
 everything in the world, of which they are not thinking. The 
 sister was never prouder of her. The mother with difficulty 
 represses her own pride and tears. The bride, thinking he is 
 looking at her, casts down her eyes, pensive in her joy. The 
 bridegroom is at once the proudest, and the humblest, and the 
 happiest man in the world. For our parts, we sit in a corner, 
 and are in love with the sister. We dream she is going to 
 speak to us in answer to some indifferent question, when a 
 hoarse voice comes in at the front window, and says, "Where- 
 abouts, sir.'"' 
 
 And grief has consecrated thee, thou reverend dilapidation, as 
 well joy ! Thou hast carried unwilling as well as willing hearts ; 
 hearts that have thought the slowest of thy paces too fast ; 
 faces that have sat back in a corner of thee, to hide their tears 
 from the very thought of being seen. In thee, the destitute have 
 been taken to the poor-house, and the wounded and sick to the 
 hospital ; and many an arm has been round many an insensible 
 waist. Into thee, the friend or the lover has hurried, in a pas- 
 sion of tears, to lament his loss. In thee, he has hastened to 
 console the dying or the wretched. In thee, the father or 
 mother, or the older kinswoman, more patient in her years, has 
 taken the little child to the grave, like a human jewel that must 
 be parted with. 
 
 But joy appears in thee again, like the look-in of the sunshine. 
 If the lover has gone in thee unwillingly, he has also gone will- 
 ingly. How many friends hast thou not carried to merry-meet- 
 ings ! How many young parties to the play! How many 
 children, whose faces thou has turned in an instant from the 
 extremity of lachrymose weariness to that of staring delight ! 
 Thou hast contained ?is many different passions in thee as a 
 human heart ; and for the sake of the human heart, old body, 
 thou art venerable. Thou shalt be as respectable as a reduced
 
 COACHES AND THEIR HORSES. 1 95 
 
 Old gentleman, whose very slovenliness is pathetic. Thou shaft 
 be made gay, as he is over a younger and richer table, and thou 
 shalt be still more touching for the gaiety. 
 
 We wish the hackney-coachman were as interesting a machiDe 
 as either his coach or horses ; but it must be owned, that of all 
 the driving species, he is the least agreeable specimen. This is 
 partly to be attributed to the life which has most probably put 
 him into his situation ; partly to his want of outside passengers 
 to cultivate his gentility; and partly to the disputable nature 
 of his fare, which always leads him to be lying and cheating. 
 The waterman of the stand, who beats him if possible in sordid- 
 ness of appearance, is more respectable. He is less of a vaga- 
 bond, and cannot cheat you. Nor is the hackney-coachman 
 only disagreeable in himself, but, like Falstaff reversed, the cause 
 of disagreeableness in others ; for he sets people upon disput- 
 ing with him in pettiness and ill-temper. He induces the mer- 
 cenary to be violent, and the violent to seem mercenary. A man 
 whom you took for a pleasant laughing fellow, shall all of a 
 sudden put on an irritable look of calculation, and vow that he 
 will be charged with a constable rather than pay the sixpence. 
 Even fair woman shall waive her all-conquering softness, and 
 sound a shrill trumpet in reprobation of the extortionate 
 charioteer, who, if she were a man, she says, she would expose. 
 Being a woman, then, let her not expose herself. Oh, but it is 
 intolerable to be so imposed upon ! Let the lady then get a 
 pocket-book, if she must, with the hackney-coach fares in it ; or 
 a pain in the legs, rather than the temper ; or, above all, let her 
 get wiser, and have an understanding that can dispense with 
 the good opinion of hackney-coachmen. Does she think that 
 her rosy lips were made to grow pale about two and sixpence .'* 
 or that the cut of them will ever be like her cousin Fanny's, if 
 she goes on ? 
 
 The stage-coachman likes the boys on the road, because he 
 knows they admire him. The hackney-coachman knows that 
 they cannot admire him, and that they can get up behind his
 
 ig6 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 coach ; which makes him very savage. The cry of " cut be- 
 hind," from the mahcious urchins on the pavement, wounds at 
 once his self-love and his interest. He would not mind over- 
 loading his master's horses for another sixpence ; but to do it 
 for nothing is what shocks his humanity. He hates the boy for 
 imposing upon him, and the boys for reminding him that he has 
 been imposed upon ; and he would willingly twinge the cheeks 
 of all nine. The cut of his whip over the coach is very malig- 
 nant. He has a constant eye to the road behind him. He has 
 also an eye to what may be left in the coach. He will under- 
 take to search the straw for you, and miss the half-crown on 
 purpose. He speculates on what he may get above his fare, 
 according to your manners or company ; and knows how much 
 to ask for driving faster or slower than usual. He does not 
 like wet weather so much as people suppose ; for he says it rots 
 both his horses and harness, and he takes parties out of town 
 when the weather is fine ; which produces good payments in a 
 lump. Lovers, late supper-eaters, and girls going home from 
 boarding-school, are his best pay. He has a rascally air of 
 remonstrance when you dispute half the overcharge ; and, ac- 
 cording to the temper he is in, begs you to consider his bread, 
 hopes you will not make such a fuss about a trifle, or tells you 
 you may take his number, or sit in the coach all night. 
 
 Lady. There, sir ! 
 
 Indicatoi'. [Looking all about him.'] Where, ma'am .? 
 
 Lady. The coachman, sir ! 
 
 Indicator. Oh, pray, madam, don't trouble yourself. Leave 
 the gentleman alone with him. Do you continue to be delight- 
 ful at a little distance. 
 
 A great number of ludicrous adventures must have taken 
 place in which hackney-coaches were concerned. The story of 
 the celebrated harlequin, Lunn, who secretly pitched himself 
 out of one into a tavern window, and when the coachman was 
 about to submit to the loss of l.;s fare, astonished him by call- 
 ing out again from the inside, is too well known for repetition.
 
 COACHES AND THEIR HORSES. I97 
 
 There i? ?ne of Swift, not perhaps ro common. He was going, 
 one dark evening, to dine with some great man, and was ac- 
 compained with some other clergymen, to whom he gave their 
 cue. They were all in their canonicals. When they arrive at 
 the house, the coachman opens the door, and lets down the 
 steps. Down steps the Dean, veiy reverendly, in his black robes ; 
 after him comes another personage, equally black and dignified; 
 then another ; then a fourth. The coachman, who recollects 
 taking up no greater number, is about to put up the steps, when 
 another clergyman descends. After giving way to this other, 
 he proceeds with great confidence to toss them up, when lo ! 
 another comes. Well ; there cannot, he thinks, be well more 
 than six. He is mistaken. Down comes a seventh ; then an 
 eighth ; then a ninth, all with decent intervals, the coach in the 
 meantime rocking as if it were giving birth to so many demons. 
 The coachman can conclude no less. He cries out, " The 
 devil ! the devil ! " and is preparing to run away, when they all 
 burst into laughter at the success of their joke. They had gone 
 round as they descended, and got in at the other door. 
 
 We remember in our boyhood an edifying comment on the 
 proverb of " All is not gold that glistens." The spectacle made 
 such an impression upon us, that we recollect the very spot, 
 which was at the corner of a road in the way from Westminster 
 to Kennington, near a stone-mason's. It was a severe winter ; 
 and we were out on a holiday, thinking perhaps of the gallant 
 hardships to which the ancient soldiers used to accustom them- 
 selves, when we suddenly beheld a group of hackney-coach- 
 men, not, as Spenser says of his witch, 
 
 " Busy, as seemed, about some wicked gin," 
 
 but pledging each other in what appeared to us to be little glasses 
 of cold water. What temperance ! thought we. What extra- 
 ordinary and noble content ! What more than Roman sim- 
 plicity ! There are a set of poor Englishmen, of the homeliest 
 order, in the very depth of v.inter, quenching their patient and
 
 tgS LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 honourable thirst with modicums of cold water ! O true virtue' 
 nnd courage ! O sight worthy of the Timoleons and Epaminon- 
 dases ! We know not how long we remained in this error ; but 
 the first time we recognised the white devil for what it was,— 
 the first time we saw through the crystal purity of its appear- 
 ance, — was a great blow to us. We did not then know what the 
 drinkers went through ; and this reminds us that we have 
 omitted one great redemption of the hackney-coachman's 
 character, — his being at the mercy of all sorts of chances and 
 weathers. Other drivers have their settled hours and pay. He 
 only is at the mercy of every call and every casualty ; he only 
 is dragged, without notice, like the damned in Milton, into the 
 extremities of wet and cold, from his alehouse fire to the freez- 
 ing rain ; he only must go anywhere, at what hour, and to 
 whatever place you choose, his old rheumatic limbs shaking 
 under his weight of rags, and the snow and sleet beating into 
 his puckered face, through streets which the wind scours like a 
 channel. 
 
 [Note. — The hero of the Irish "pike" anecdote was Shelley. The 
 real author of the unpublished poem from which a rather long quotation 
 is made was Keats, who wrote it under the assumed name of Miss Lucy 
 Vaughan Lloyd. It was published among the poet's "remains" by Mr 
 Monckton Milnes (now Lord Houghton) in his "Life and Letters of 
 Keats" (1S48). The reader must needs have admired in this essay the 
 beautiful passage about the worn-out old hackney-coach horse — one 
 of the finest pieces of pathetic writing in the language. — E. 0.]
 
 OF THE SIGHT OF SHOPS. 
 
 FIRST PAPER. 
 
 THOUGH we are such lovers of the country, we can ad- 
 mire London in some points of view; and among others, 
 for the entertainment to be derived from its shops. 
 Their variety and brilliancy can hardly fail of attracting the 
 most sluggish attention ; and besides reasons of this kind, we 
 can neA"er look at some of them without thinking of the gallant 
 figure they make in the "Arabian Nights," with their bazaars and 
 bezesteins ; where the most beautiful of unknowns goes shop- 
 ping in a veil, and the most graceful of drapers is taken blind- 
 fold to see her. He goes, too, smitten at heart to thinlf of the 
 danger of his head ; and finds her seated among her slaves 
 (exquisite themselves, only very inferior), upon which she en- 
 courages him to sit near her, and lutes are played ; upon which 
 he sighs, and cannot help looking tenderly ; upon which she 
 chips her hands, and a charming collation is brought in ; upon 
 which they eat, but not much. A dance ensues, and the ocular 
 sympathy is growing tenderer, when an impossible old woman 
 appears, and says that the Sultan is coming. Alas ! how often 
 have we been waked up, in the person of the young draper 
 or jeweller, by that ancient objection ! How have we received 
 the lady in her veil, through which we saw nothing but her dark 
 eyes and rosy cheeks ! How have we sat cross-legged on 
 cushions, hearing or handling the lute, whose sounds faded away 
 like our enamoured eyes ! How often have we not lost our hearts
 
 200 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 and left hands, like one of the Calenders ? Or an eye, like 
 another? Or a head ; and resumed it at the end of the story ? 
 Or slept (no, not slept) in the Sultan's garden at Schirazwith the 
 Fair Persian ? 
 
 But to return (as well as such enamoured persons can) to our 
 shops. We prefer the country a million times over for walking 
 in generally, especially if we have the friends in it that enjoy it 
 as well ; but there are seasons when the very streets may vie 
 with it. If you have been solitary, for instance, for a long time, 
 it is pleasant to get among your fellow-creatures again, even to 
 be jostled and elbowed. If you live in town, and the weather 
 is showery, you may get out in the intervals of rain, and find a 
 quickly-dried pavement and a set of brilliant shops very plea- 
 sant. Nay, we have known days, even in spring, when a street 
 may cut-do the finest aspects of the country ; but then it is 
 only when the ladies are abroad, and there happens to be a run 
 of agreeable faces that day. For whether it is fancy or not, or 
 whether certain days do not rather bring out certain people, it is 
 a common remark, that one morning you shall meet a succession 
 of good looks, and another encounter none but the reverse. We 
 do not merely speak of handsome faces ; but of those which are 
 charming, or otherwise, whatever be the cause. We suppose the 
 money-takers are all abroad one day, and the heart-takers the 
 other. 
 
 It is to be observed, that we are not speaking of utility in this 
 article, except indeed of the great utility of agreeableness. A 
 candid leather-cutter, therefore, will pardon us if we do not find 
 anything very attractive in his premises. So will his friend the 
 shoemaker, who is bound to like us rural pedestrians. A sta- 
 tioner too, on obvious accounts, will excuse us for thinking his 
 concern a very dull and bald-headed business. We cannot bear 
 the horribly neat monotony of his shelves, with their loads of 
 virgin paper, their slates and slate-pencils that set one's teeth on 
 edge, their pocket-books (with the exception of "The Literary 
 Pocket-book";, and, above all, the detesta'^le ruled acccuiu-
 
 OF THE SIGHT OF SHOPS. 201 
 
 books, which at once remind one of the necessity of writing, 
 and of the impossibility of writing anything pleasant on such 
 pages. The only agreeable thing in a stationer's shop, when it 
 has it, is the ornamental work, the card-racks, hand-screens, &c., 
 which remind us of the fair morning fingers that paste and gild 
 such things, and surprise their aunts with presents of flowery 
 boxes. But we grieve to add, that the prints which the stationer; 
 furnish for such elegancies are not in the very highest taste. 
 They are apt to deviate too scrupulously from the originals. 
 Their well-known heads become too anonymous. Their young 
 ladies have casts in the eyes, a little too much on one side even 
 for the side-long divinities of Mr Haiiowe. 
 
 Stationer. [To himself i\ I'll not sell this fellow's Indicator. 
 
 Indicator. Yes, but you will. 
 
 Stat. Why should I ? Not, I hope, for a paltry 
 
 Ittdic. [Ititern/pting hint]. Oh no, not for a paltry profit, as 
 you say ; but because you are a man of taste and impartiality. 
 My observations apply generally to the stationers' shops ; but, 
 of course, not to all. 
 
 All the .Stationers. [Severally.] 'Tis undoubtedly a clever 
 thing ; — a very clever and impartial little publication. The 
 profit upon it, as you say, is — not prodigious ; but the price is 
 humble. Besides, my wife likes it. 
 
 Indie. Does she indeed ? Then you must allow me to say 
 that I cannot help liking her. And this reminds me of a peni- 
 tent observation I have to make ; which is, that the letter-paper 
 in your shop forms a very delightful subject of reflection ; — not 
 the common letter-paper, you rogue ; but the love-letter, — the 
 pretty little smooth delicate hot-pressed gilt-edged flower-bordered 
 paper, the only fit ground-work for a crow-quill, fair fingers, and 
 golden sand. I suspect, Mr Stationer, that your shop has as 
 touching memories connected with it, after all, as any in London. 
 
 Stat. Why, I should think perhaps it had, sir. You '11 excuse, 
 sir, that little haste of mine just now 1 
 
 Indie. Oh, by all means j and you must excuse mine, for I
 
 B02 LEIGH HUNT S ESSAYS. 
 
 have many shops to call at. My compliments, if you please, to 
 your wife. By the bye, you ought to know, if you happen not to 
 know it already, that it was for such paper as that which I have 
 been mentioning, that Rousseau describes himself as writing the 
 two first books of his "Heloise," in a state of unspeakable enjoy- 
 ment. The paper was of the finest gilt ; the sand, to dry the ink, 
 azure and silver ; and he had blue ribbon to stitch the sheets 
 together ; " tJiinking," he says, " nothing too gallant, nothing 
 too darlingly delicate, for the charming girls whom I was doat- 
 ing upon like another Pygmalion."* This was in the little 
 sylvan island of Montmorency, widi nothing but silence about 
 him, and the lady, who had given him his hermitage, sending 
 him billets, and portraits, and flannel under-petticoats. 
 Siat Flannel under-petticoats ! 
 
 Iiidic. Yes, to make under-waistcoats. It was winter-time, f 
 
 But there ! love-matters are again interfering with the shop. 
 
 Adieu, Mr Stationer ! We must now shock you, though still, we 
 
 * " Content d'avolr grossierement esquisse mon plan, je revins aux situations de 
 detail que j'avais tracees, et de I'arrangement que le jeur donnai resulterent les 
 deux premieres parties de la Julie, que je fis et mis au net durant cet hiver avec un 
 plai^ir inexprimable, employant pour cela le plus beau papier dore, de la poudre 
 d'.izur et d'argent pciur secher I'ecriture, de la nompareille bleue coudrer mes cahiers ; 
 enfin ne trouvant rien d'assez galant, rien d'assez mignon, pour les charmantes fiUcs 
 dont je raffolais comme un autre Pigmalion." 
 
 t This sort of present touched our Genevese philosopher more than the Hermitage 
 itself, or, indeed, according to his own account, more than anything which the lady 
 in question ever sent him ; and she had all a lover's tendency to give. " Un jour," 
 says he, "qu'il gelait trcs-fort, en ouvrant un paquet qu'elle m'envoyait de plusieurs 
 commissions dont elle s'etait charge'e, j'y trouvai un petit jupon de dessous de flanelle 
 d'Angleterre, qu'elle me marquait avoir porte', et dont elle voulait que je fisse un 
 gilet. Cesoin, plusqu'amical, me parut si tendre, comme si elle se fut depouillee 
 pour me vetir, que dans nion Amotion, je baisai vingt fois en pleurant le billet et 
 jupon : Therese me croyait devenu fou. II est singulier que de toutes les marques 
 
 d'amitie que Madame D' y m'a prodiguees, aucuu ne m'a jamais touche comme 
 
 celle-la, et que meme depuis notre rupture, je n'y ai jamais repensd sans attendrisse- 
 ment. J'ai long-temps conserve son petit billet, et je I'aurais encore, s'il n'eflt eu le 
 srirt de mes autres billets du meme temps." What should have hindered him, even 
 according to his own story, from keeping both the billet and the lady's regards ? But 
 his capricious temperament was always leading him to play the fool with those 
 whom he had enchanted by being tlie genius.
 
 OF THE SIGHT OF SHOPS. 203 
 
 trust, not unpardonably, by objecting to your neighbour the 
 hatter. We really can see nothing in a hatter's shop but the 
 hats, and the reader is acquainted with our pique against them. 
 The beaver is a curious animal, but not entertaining enough, 
 of itself, to make a window full of those very requisite nuisances 
 an agreeable spectacle. It is true a hatter, like some other 
 tradesmen, may be pleasanter himself by reason of the adversity 
 of his situation. We cannot say more for the cruel-shop next 
 door, — a name justly provocative of a pun. It is customary, 
 however, to have sign-paintings of Adam and Eve at these 
 places, which is some relief to the monotony of the windows ; 
 only they remind us but too well of these cruel necessities to 
 which they brought us. The baker's next ensuing is a very 
 dull shop, much inferior to the gingerbread-baker's, whose par- 
 liament we used to munch at school, wiping away the crumbs 
 as they fell upon our " Mysteries of Udolpho." The tailor's 
 makes one as melancholy to look at it as the sedentary persons 
 within. The hosier's is worse, particularly if it has a Golden 
 Leg over it, for that precious limb is certainly not symbolical of 
 the weaver's. The windows, half-board and half-dusty glass, 
 which abound in the city, can scarcely be turned to a purpose of 
 amusement, even by the most attic of drysalters. We own we 
 have half a longing to break them, and let in the light of nature 
 upon their recesses, whether they belong to those more piquant 
 gentlemen, or to bankers, or any other high and wholesale per- 
 sonages. A light in one of these windows at nine o'clock is, to 
 us, one of the very dismallest reflections on humanity. We wish 
 we could say something for a tallow-chandler's, because every- 
 body abuses it ; but we cannot. It must bear its fate like the 
 man. A good deal might be said in behalf of candle-light ; 
 but, in passing from shop to shop, the variety is so great that 
 the imagination has not time to dwell on any one in particular. 
 The ideas they suggest must be obvious, and on the surface. 
 A grocer's and tea-dealer's is a good thing. It fills the mind 
 instantly with a variety of pleasant tastes, as the ladies in Italy,
 
 204 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 on certain holidays, pelt the gentlemen with sweetmeats. An 
 undertaker's is as great a balk to one's spirits as a loose stone 
 to one's foot. It gives one a deadly jerk. But it is refresh- 
 ing upon the whole to see the inhabitant looking carelessly out 
 of doors, or hammering \vhilc humming a tune ; for why should 
 he die a death at every fresh order for a coffin ? An undertaker 
 walking merrily drunk by the side of a hearse is a horrid object ; 
 but an undertaker singing and hammering in hib shop is only 
 rapping death himself on the knuckles. The dead are not there : 
 the altered fellow-creature is not there ; but only the living man, 
 and the abstract idea of death ; and he may defy that as much as 
 he pleases. An apothecary's is the more deadly thing of the two, 
 for the coffin may be made for a good old age, but the draught 
 and the drug are for the sickly. An apothecary's looks well, how- 
 ever, at night-time, on account of the coloured glasses. It is 
 curious to see two or three people talking together in the light 
 of one of them, and looking profoundly blue. There are two 
 good things in an Italian warehouse, — its name and its olives ; 
 but it is chiefly built up of gout. Nothing can be got out of a 
 brazier's windows, except by a thief; but we understand it is a 
 good place to live at for those who cannot procure water falls. 
 A music-shop, with its windows full of title-pages, is provokingly 
 insipid to look at, considering the cjuantity of slumbering en- 
 chantment inside, which only wants waking. A bookseller's is 
 interesting, especially if the books are very old or very new, and 
 have frontispieces. But let no author, with or without money 
 in his pocket, trust himself in the inside, unless, like the book- 
 seller, he has too much at home. An author is like a baker ; it 
 is for him to make the sweets, and others to buy and enjoy 
 them. And yet not so. Let us not blaspheme the " divinity 
 that stirs within us." The old comparison of the bee is better ; 
 for even if his toil at last is his destruction, and he is killed in 
 order to be plundered, he has had the range of nature before he 
 dies. His has been the summer air, and the sunshine, and the 
 flowers ; and gentle ears have listened to him, and gentle eyes
 
 OK THE SIGHT OF SHOPS, 205 
 
 have been upon him. Let others eat his honey that please, so 
 that he has had his morsel and his song. A book-stall is better 
 for an author than a regular shop ; for the books are cheaper, 
 the choice often better and more ancient ; and he may look at 
 them, and move on, without the horrors of not buying anything ; 
 unless, indeed, the master or mistress stands looking at him 
 from the door ; which is a vile practice. It is necessary, we 
 suppose, to guard against pilferers ; but then ought not a stall- 
 keeper, of any perception, to know one of us real magnanimous 
 spoilers of our gloves from a sordid thief ? A tavern and coffee- 
 house is a pleasant sight, from its sociality ; not to mention the 
 illustrious club memories of the times of Shakspeare and the 
 Tatlers. The rural transparencies, however, which they have 
 in their windows, with all our liking of the subject, would 
 perhaps be better in any others ; for tavern sociality is a town- 
 thing, and should be content with town ideas. A landscape in 
 the window makes us long to change it at once for a rural inn ; 
 to have a rosy-faced damsel attending us, instead of a sharp 
 and serious waiter ; and to catch, in the intervals of chat, the 
 sound of a rookery instead of cookery. We confess that the 
 commonest public-house in town is not such an eye-sore to us 
 as it is with some. It may not be very genteel, but neither is 
 everything that is rich. There may be a little too much drink- 
 ing and roaring going on in the middle of the week ; but what, 
 in the meantime, are pride, and avarice, and all the unsocial 
 vices, about ? Before we object to public-houses, and, above all, 
 to their Saturday evening recreations, we must alter the systems 
 that make them a necessary comfort to the poor and laborious. 
 Till then, in spite of the vulgar part of the polite, we shall have 
 an esteem for the Devil and the Bag o' Nails ; and like to hear, 
 as we go along on Saturday night, the applauding knocks on 
 the table that follow the song of " Lovely Nan," or " Brave 
 Captain Death." or "Tobacco is an Indian Weed," or "Why, 
 Soldiers, why ?" or " Says Plato, why should man be vain .'' " or 
 that judicious and unanswerable ditty commencing — ■
 
 2o6 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 " Now what can man more desire 
 Nor sitting by a sea-coal fire ; 
 And on his knees," &c. 
 
 We will even refuse to hear anything against a gin-shop, till 
 the various systems of the moralists and economists are dis- 
 cussed, and the virtuous leave off seduction and old port. 
 In the meantime, we give up to anybody's dislike the butcher's 
 and fishmonger's, with their blood-dropping sheep and their 
 crimped cod. And yet, see how things go by comparison. 
 We remember, in our boyhood, when a lady from the West 
 Indies, of a very delicate and high-bred nature, could find 
 nothing about our streets that more excited her admiration than 
 the butchers' shops. She had no notion, from what she had 
 seen in her own country, that so ugly a business could be carried 
 on with so much neatness, and become actually passable. An 
 open potato-shop is a dull, bleak-looking place, except in the 
 height of summer. A cheesemonger's is then at its height of 
 annoyance, unless you see a paviour or bricklayer coming out 
 with his three-penn'orth on his bread, — a better sight than the 
 glutton's waddling away from the fishmonger's. A poulterer's 
 is a dead-bodied business, with its birds and their lax necks. 
 We dislike to see a bird anywhere but in the open air, alive, and 
 quick. Of all creatures, restraint and death become its winged 
 vivacity the least. For the same reason we hate aviaries. 
 Dog-shops are tolerable. A cook-shop does not mingle the 
 agreeable with the useful. We hate its panes with " ham and 
 beef" scratched upon them in white letters. An ivory-turner's 
 is pleasant, with its red and white chessmen, and little big-headed 
 Indians on elephants. So is a toy-shop, with its endless de- 
 lights for children. A coachmaker's is not disagreeable if you 
 can see the painting and panels. An umbrella-shop only re- 
 minds one of a rainy day, unless it is a shop for sticks also, 
 which, as we have already shown, are meritorious articles. The 
 curiosity-shop is sometimes very amusing, with its mandarins, 
 stuffed birds, odd old carved faces, and a variety of things as
 
 OF THE SIGHT OF SHOPS. 207 
 
 indescribable as bits of dreams. The greengrocer carries his 
 recommendation in his epithet. The hair-dressers are also in- 
 teresting, as far as their hair goes, but not as their heads ; 
 always bearing in mind that we mean the heads in their win- 
 dows. One of the shops we like least is an angling repository, 
 with its rod for a sign, and a fish dancing in the agonies of 
 death at the end of it. We really cannot see what equanimity 
 there is in jerking a lacerated carp out of water by the jaws, 
 merely because it has not the power of making a noise ; for we 
 presume that the most philosophic of anglers would hardly 
 delight in catching shrieking fish. An optician's is not very 
 amusing, unless it has those reflecting glasses in which you 
 see your face run off on each side into attenuated width, or 
 upwards and downwards in the same manner in dreary longi- 
 tude. A saddler's is good, because it reminds one of horses. A 
 Christian sword-maker's or gun-maker's is edifying. A glass-shop 
 is a beautiful spectacle. It reminds one of the splendours of a 
 fairy palace. We like a blacksmith's for the sturdy looks and 
 thumpings of the men, the swarthy colour, the fiery sparkles, and 
 the thunder-breathing throat of the furnace. Of other houses of 
 traffic, not common in the streets, there is something striking to 
 us in the large well-conditioned horses of the brewers, and the 
 rich smoke rolling from out their chimneys. We also greatly 
 admire a wharf, with its boats, barrels, and packages, and 
 the fresh air from the water ; not to mention the smell of 
 pitch. It carries us at once a hundred miles over the water. 
 For similar reasons, the crabbedest old lane has its merits in 
 our eyes, if there is a sail-maker's in it, or a boat-builder's, and 
 water at the end. How used old Roberts of Lambeth to gratify 
 the aspiring modesty of our school-coats, when he welcomed us 
 down to his wherries and captains on a holiday, and said "Blue 
 against Black at any time," meaning the Westminster boys ! 
 And the colleges will ratify his praise, taking into consideration 
 the difference of the numbers that go there from either cloisters. 
 But of all shops in the streets, a print-seller's pleases us most.
 
 208 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 We would rather pay a shilling to Mr Colnaghi of Cockspur 
 Street, or Mr Molteno of Pall Mall, to look at his windows on 
 one of their best-furnished days, than we would for many an 
 exhibition. We can see fine engravings there, — translations 
 from Raphael and Titian, which are newer than hundreds of 
 originals. We do not despise a pastry-cook's, though we would 
 rather not eat tarts and puffs before the half-averted face of the 
 prettiest of accountants ; especially with a beggar watching and 
 praying all the while at the door. We need not expatiate on the 
 beauties of a florist's, where you see unwithering leaves, and 
 roses made immortal. We think they would do their trade more 
 good if they hung their windows with a greater number of 
 flowers, ticketing some of them with their names and prices, and 
 announcing crowns and wreaths for hanging up in rooms as 
 well as wearing on the head. A dress warehouse is sometimes 
 really worth stopping at, for its flowered draperies and richly- 
 coloured shawls. But one's pleasure is apt to be disturbed (ye 
 powers of gallantry ! bear witness to the unwilling pen that 
 writes it) by the fair faces that come forth, and the half-polite, 
 half-execrating expression of the tradesman that bows them out ; 
 — for here takes place the chief enjoyment of the mystery yclept 
 "shopping ;"and here, while some ladies give the smallest trouble 
 unwillingly, others have an infinity of things turned over, for the 
 mere satisfaction of wasting their own time and the shopman's. 
 We have read of a choice of a wife by cheese. It is difficult 
 to speak of preference in such matters, and all such single modes 
 of trial must be something equivocal : but we must say, that, of 
 all modes of the kind, we should desire no better way of seeing 
 what ladies we admired most and whom least, than by witness- 
 ing this trial of them at a linen-draper's counter. It is on such 
 occasions, we presume, that snuff-takers delight to solace them- 
 selves with a pinch of Thirty-seven ; and we accordingly do so 
 in imagination at our friend Gliddon's in Tavistock Street, who 
 is a higher kind of Lilly to the Indicator, — our papers lying 
 among the piquant snuffs, as those of our illustrious predecessor,
 
 OF THE SIGHT OF SHOPS. 209 
 
 the Taller, did among Mr Lilly's perfumes at the corner of 
 Beaufort Buildings. Since the peace with France, the shops of 
 our tobacconists have become as amusing as print-shops ; 
 though not always, it must be confessed, in a style of delicacy 
 becoming their enamoured boxes. At our friend's in Tavistock 
 Street everything is managed in a way equally delicate and 
 cordial ; and while the leisurely man of taste buys his " Paris" 
 or his Indicator^ the busier one may learn how to set up his gas- 
 light in good classical style, and both see how completely even 
 a woman, of true feelings, can retain the easiest and pleasantest 
 good-breeding in the midst of observant eyes and a huiable 
 occupation. 
 
 SECOND PAPER, 
 
 In the general glance we took in our last paper at shops, we 
 found ourselves unwillingly compelled to pass some of them too 
 quickly. It is the object, therefore, of the present article to 
 enter into those more attractive thresholds, and look a little 
 about us. We imagine a fine day ; time, about noon ; scene, 
 any good brilliant street. The ladies are abroad in white and 
 green ; the beaux lounging, conscious of their waists and neck- 
 cloths ; the busy pushing onward, conscious of their bills. 
 
 To begin then, where our shopping experience began, with 
 the toy-shop. 
 
 " Visions of glory, spare our acliing; sight I 
 Ye just-breech'd ages, ciowd not on our soul I" 
 
 We still seem to have a lively sense of the smell of that gorgeous 
 red paint which was on the handle of our first wooden sword ! 
 The pewter guard also,— how beautifully fretted and like silver 
 did it look ! How did we hang it round our shoulder by the 
 proud belt of an old ribbon ; then feel it well suspended ; then 
 draw it out of the sheath, eager to cut down four savage men for 
 ill-using ditto of damsels ! An old muff made an excellent 
 
 O
 
 210 LEIGH HUNT S ESSAYS. 
 
 grenadier's cap ; or one's hat and feather, with the assistance of 
 three surreptitious large pins, became fiercely modern and mili- 
 tary. There it is, in that corner of the window, — the same 
 identical sword, to all appearance, which kept us awake the 
 first night behind our pillow. We still feel ourselves little boys, 
 while standing in this shop ; and for that matter, so we do on 
 other occasions. A field has as much merit in our eyes, and 
 gingerbread almost as much in our mouths, as at that daisy- 
 plucking and lemon-cake-munching period of life. There is the 
 trigger-rattling gun, — fine of its kind, but not so complete a 
 thing as the sword. Its memories are not so ancient ; for 
 Alexander or St George did not fight with a musket. Neither 
 is it so true a thing ; it is not " like life." The trigger is too 
 much like that of a cross-bow ; and the pea which it shoots, 
 however hard, produces even in the imaginative faculties of boy- 
 hood a humiliating flash of the mock-heroic. It is difficult to 
 fancy a dragon killed with a pea ; but the shape and appurte- 
 nances of the sword being genuine, the whole sentiment of 
 massacre is as much in its wooden blade as if it were steel ot 
 Damascus. The drum is still more real, though not so heroic. 
 In the corner opposite are battle-doors and shuttle-cocks, which 
 have their maturer beauties ; balls, which have the additional 
 zest of the danger of breaking people's windows ; ropes, good 
 for swinging and skipping, especially the long ones which others 
 turn for you, while you run in a masterly manner up and down, 
 or skip in one spot with an easy and endless exactitude of toe, 
 looking alternately at their conscious faces ; blood-allies, with 
 which the possessor of a crisp finger and thumb-knuckle causes 
 the smitten marbles to vanish out of the ring ; kites, which 
 must appear to more vital birds a very ghastly kind of fowl, 
 ft'ith their grim long white faces, no bodies, and endless tails ; 
 cricket-bats, manly to handle ; trap-bats, a genteel inferiority ; 
 ;»wimming-corks, despicable ; horses on wheels, an imposition 
 on the infant public ; rocking-horses, too much like Pegasus, 
 ardent, yet never getting on ; Dutch toys, so like life, that they
 
 OF THE SIGHT OF SHOPS. 211 
 
 ought to be better ; Jacob's ladders, flapping down one over 
 another their tintinnabulary shutters ; dissected maps, from 
 which the infant statesmen may learn how to dovetail provinces 
 and kingdoms ; paper posture-makers, who hitch up their knees 
 against their shoulder-blades, and dangle their legs like an 
 opera-dancer ; Lilliputian plates, dishes, and other household 
 utensils, in which a grand dinner is served up out of half an 
 apple ; boxes of paints, to colour engravings with, always 
 beyond the outline ; ditto of bricks, a very sensible and lasting 
 toy, which we except from a grudge we have against the gravity 
 of infant geometries ; whips, very useful for cutting people's 
 eyes unawares ; hoops, one of the most ancient as well as 
 excellent of toys ; sheets of pictures, from A apple-pie up 
 to farming, military, and zoological exhibitions, always taking 
 care that the fly is as large as the elephant, and the letter X 
 exclusively appropriated to Xerxes ; musical deal-boxes, rather 
 complaining than sweet, and more like a peal of bodkins than 
 bells ; penny trumpets, awful at Bartlemy-tide ; Jew's harps, 
 that thrill and breathe between the lips like a metal tongue ; 
 carts, carriages, hobby-horses, upon which the infant equestrian 
 prances about proudly on his own feet ; in short, — not to go 
 through the whole representative body of existence, — dolls, 
 which are so dear to the maternal instincts of little girls. We 
 protest, however, against that abuse of them which makes them 
 full-dressed young ladies in body, while they remain infant in 
 face ; especially when they are of frail wax. It is cultivating 
 finery instead of affection. We like good honest plump limbs 
 of cotton and saw-dust, dressed in baby-linen ; or even our 
 ancient young friends, with their staring dotted eyes, red 
 varnished faces, triangular noses, and Rosinante wooden limbs, 
 — not, it must be confessed, excessively shapely or feminine, 
 but the reverse of fragile beauty, and prepared against all 
 disasters. 
 
 The next step is to the pastry-cook's, where the plain bun is 
 still the plcasantest thing in our eyes, from its respectability in
 
 212 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 those of childhood. The pastry, less patronised by judicious 
 mothers, is only so much elegant indigestion ; yet it is not easy 
 to forget the pleasure of nibbling away the crust all round a 
 raspberry or currant tart, in order to enjoy the three or four 
 delicious semicircular bites at the fruity plenitude remaining. 
 There is a custard with a wall of paste round it, which provokes 
 a siege of this kind; and the cheese-cake has its amenities of 
 approach. The acid flavour is a relief to the mawkishness of 
 the biffin or pressed baked apple, and an addition to the glib and 
 quivering lightness of the jelly. Twelfth-cake, which, when cut, 
 looks like the side of a rich pit of earth covered with snow, is 
 pleasant from warmer associations. Confectionery does not 
 seem in the same request as of old. Its paint has hurt its repu- 
 tation. Yet the schoolboy has still much to say for its humbler 
 suavities, such as elecampane, hardbake, bull's-eyes, comfits, the 
 rocky crystals of sugar-candy, the smooth twist of barley-sugar, 
 which looks like a petrified stream of tea, and the melting 
 powderiness of peppermint. There used to be a mystery called 
 mimpins, which, as Dr Johnson would say, made a pretty sweet- 
 meat. Kisses are very amiable and allegorical. Eight or ten of 
 them, judiciously wrapped up in pieces of letter-paper, have 
 saved many a loving heart the trouble of a less eloquent billet- 
 doux. Candied citron we look upon to be the very acme and 
 atticism of confectionery grace. Preserves are too much of a 
 good thing, with the exception of the jams that retain their fruit- 
 skins. " Jam satis." They qualify the cloying. Yet marmalade 
 must not be passed over in these times, when it has been raised 
 to the dignity of the peerage. There is a Duke of Marmalade 
 m Hayti, and a Count of Lemonade — so called, we presume, 
 from places in which those eminent relishes are manufactured. 
 We have not yet heard of a Lord Viscount Jam. After all, we 
 must own that there is but one thing for which we care much at 
 a pastry-cook's, except our old acquaintance the bun, especially 
 as we can take up that and go on. It is an ice. Fancy a very 
 hot day, the blinds down, the loungers unusually languid, the
 
 OF THE SIGHT OF SHOrS. 213 
 
 pavement burning one's feet, the sun, with a strong outline in the 
 street, baking one whole side of it like a brick-kiln, so that every- 
 body is crowding on the other, except a man going to intercept 
 a creditor bound for the Continent. Then think of a heaped-up 
 ice, brought upon a salver with a spoon. What statesman, of 
 any warmth of imagination, would not pardon the Neapolitans 
 in summer for an insurrection on account of the want of ice ? 
 Think of the first sidelong dip of the spoon in it, bi-inging away 
 a well-sliced lump ; then of the sweet wintry refreshment, that 
 goes lengthening down one's throat ; and lastly, of the sense of 
 power and satisfaction resulting from having had the ice. 
 
 " Not heaven itself can do away that slice ; 
 
 But what has been, has been ; and I have had my ice." 
 
 We have unaccountably omitted two excellent shops — the 
 fruiterer's and the sculptor's. There is great beauty, as well as 
 other agreeableness, in a well-disposed fruiterer's window. Here 
 are the round piled-up oranges, deepening almost into red, and 
 heavy with juice ; the apple, with its brown red cheek, as if it 
 had slept in the sun ; the pear, swelling downwards, and pro- 
 vocative of a huge bite in the side ; thronging grapes, like so 
 many tight little bags of wine ; the peach, whose handsome 
 leathern coat strips off so finely ; the pearly or ruby-like currants, 
 heaped in light, long baskets ; the red little mouthfuls of straw- 
 berries, ditto; the larger purple ones of plums ; cherries, whose 
 old comparison with lips is better than anything new ; mul- 
 berries, dark and rich with juice, fit to grow over what Homer 
 calls the deep black-watered fountains ; the swelling pomp of 
 melons ; the rough, inexorable-looking cocoa-nut, milky at heart ; 
 the elaborate elegance of walnuts ; the quaint cashoo-nut ; al- 
 monds, figs, raisins, tamarinds, green leaves : in short, 
 
 " Whatever Earth, all-bearing mother, yields 
 In India East or West, or middle shore 
 In Pontus or the Punic coast, or where 
 Alcinous reign'd ; fruit of all kinds, in coat 
 Rough, or smooth rind, or bearded huik, or shell.'" 
 
 M'LTO.N'.
 
 214 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 There is something of more refined service in waiting upon a 
 lady in a fruit-shop than in a pastry-cook's. The eating of tarts, 
 as Sir Walter Scott handsomely saith in his " Life of Dryden" 
 (who used to enjoy them, it seems, in company with " Madam 
 Reeves"), is "no inelegant pleasure;" but there is something 
 still more graceful and suitable in the choosing of the natural 
 fruit, with its rosy lips and red cheeks. A white hand looks 
 better on a basket of plums than in the doubtful touching of 
 syrupy and sophisticated pastry. There is less of the kitchen 
 about the fair visitor. She is more Pomona-like, native, and to 
 the purpose. We help her as we would a local deity. 
 
 " Here be grapes, whose lusty blood 
 Is the learned poets' good ; 
 Sweeter yet did never crown 
 The head of Bacchus ; — nuts more brown 
 Than the squirrel's teeth that crack them ; 
 Deign, O fairest fair, to take them. 
 For these, black-eyed Driope 
 Hath oftentimes commanded me 
 With my clasped knee to climb : 
 See how well the lusty time 
 Hath deck'd their rosy cheeks in red. 
 Such as on your lips is spread. 
 Here be berries for a queen, 
 Some be red, some be green : 
 These are of that luscious meat, 
 The great god Pan himself doth eat. 
 All these, and what the woods can yield. 
 The hanging mountain or the field, 
 I freely offer, and ere long 
 Will bring you more, more sweet and strong ; 
 Till when, humbly leave I take. 
 Lest the great Pan do awake. 
 That sleeping lies in a deep glade. 
 Under a broad beech's shade." 
 
 Fletcher's Faithful Shepherded:. 
 
 How the poets double every delight for us, with their imagination 
 and their music ! 
 
 In the windows of some of the sculptors' shops, artificial fruit 
 may be seen It is a better thing to put upon a mantel-piece 
 than many articles of greater fashion ; but it gives an abomin-
 
 OF THE SIGHT OF SHOPS. 215 
 
 able sensation to one's imaginary teeth. The incautious epicure 
 who plunges his teeth into " a painted snow-ball" in Italy (see 
 Brydone's "Tour in Sicily and Malta") can hardly receive so 
 jarring a balk to his gums as the bare apprehension of a bite at 
 a stone peach. But the farther you go in a sculptor's shop the 
 better. Many persons are not aware that there are show-rooms 
 in these places, which are well worth getting a sight of by some 
 small purchase. For the best artistical casts, the Italian shops, 
 such as Papera's in Marylebone Street, Golden Square, are, we 
 believe, the best. We can safely speak as to the pleasant 
 attendance in that shop. Shont in Holborn seems to deal 
 chiefly in modern things ; but he has a room up-stairs, full of 
 casts from the antique, large and small, that amounts to an 
 exhibition. Of all the shop-pleasures that are " not inelegant," 
 an hour or two passed in a place of this kind is surely one of 
 the most polite. Here are the gods and heroes of old, and the 
 more beneficent philosophers, ancient and modern. You are 
 looked upon, as you walk among them, by the paternal majesty 
 of Jupiter, the force and decision of Minerva, the Dtill more 
 arresting gentleness of Venus, the buading compactness of Hebe, 
 the breathing inspiration of Apollo. Here the celestial Venus, 
 naked in heart and body, ties up her locks, her drapery hanging 
 upon her lower limbs. Here the Belvidere Apollo, breathing 
 forth his triumphant disdain, follows with an earnest eye the 
 shaft that has killed the serpent. Here the Graces, linked in an 
 affectionate group, meet you in the naked sincerity of their 
 innocence and generosity, their hands " open as day," and two 
 advancing for one receding. Here Hercules, like the building 
 of a man, looks down from his propping club as if half disdaining 
 even that repose. There Mercury, with his light limbs, seems 
 just to touch the ground, ready to give a start with his foot and 
 be off again. Bacchus, with his riper cheek, and his lazier 
 hanging locks, appears to be eyeing one of his nymphs. The 
 Vatican Apollo near him leans upon the stump of a tree, the 
 hand which hangs upon it holding a bit of his lyre, the other
 
 2l6 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 arm thrown up over his head, as if he felt the air upon his Tbody, 
 and heard it singing through the strings. In a corner, on another 
 side, is the Couching Venus of John of Bologna, shrinking just 
 before she steps into the bath. The Dancing Faun is not far 
 off, with his mere animal spirits ; and the Piping Faun, sedater, 
 because he possesses an art more accomplished. Among the 
 other disunities, we look up with veneration to old Homer's head, 
 resembling an earthly Jupiter. Plato beholds us with a bland 
 dignity, — a beauty unimpairable by years. How different from 
 the brute impiilse of Mars, the bloated self-will of Nero, or the 
 dull and literal effeminacy of some of the other Emperors ! We 
 have before observed, that there is a sort of presence in sculp- 
 ture, more than in any other representations of art. It is curious 
 to see how instinctively people will fall into this sentiment when 
 they come into a place with busts and statues in it, however 
 common. They hush, as if the images could hear them. When 
 we were in our boyhood, some of our most delightful holidays 
 were spent in the gallery of the late Mr West, in Newman Street. 
 It runs a good way back from the street, crossing a small 
 garden, and opening into loftier rooms on the other side of it. 
 We remember how the world used to seem shut out from us, 
 the moment the street door was closed, and we began stepping 
 down those long carpeted aisles of pictures, with statues in the 
 angles where they turned. We had observed everybody walk 
 down them in this way, like the mild possessor of the mansion ; 
 and we went so likewise. We have walked down them with him 
 at night to his painting room, as he went in his white flannel 
 gown with a lamp in his hand, which shot a lustrous twilight 
 upon the pictured walls in passing ; and everything looked so 
 quiet and graceful, that we should have thought it sacrilege to 
 hear a sound beyond the light tread of his footsteps. But it 
 was the statues that impressed us, still more than the pictures. 
 It seemed as if Venus and Apollo waited our turning at the 
 corners ; and there they were, — always the same, placid and 
 intuitive, more human and bodily than the paintings, yet too
 
 OF THB SIGHT OF SHOPS. 217 
 
 divine to be over-real. It is to that house, with the galler)^ in 
 question, and the little green plot of ground surrounded with an 
 arcade and busts, that we owe the greatest part of our love for 
 what is Italian and belongs to the fine arts. And if this is a piece 
 of private history with which the readers have little to do, they 
 will excuse it for the sake of the greatest of all excuses ; which 
 is love. 
 
 [Note. — " Tlie Literaiy Pocket Book," mentioned in the first of 
 these papers about Shops, was edited (and, I believe, projected) by Leigh 
 Hunt himself, and published by my father. It did not last many years, 
 though it contained some admirable writings by Hunt, Shelley, Cowden 
 Clarke, my father, and others, and an immense deal of compendious 
 information, with blank pages for diaries. — E. O.]
 
 TO ANY ONE WHOM BAD WEATHER 
 DEPRESSES. 
 
 IF you are melancholy for the first time, you will find upon a 
 little inquiry that others have been melancholy many times, 
 and yet are cheerful now. If you have been melancholy 
 many times, recollect that you have got overall those times ; and 
 try if you cannot find out new means of getting over them better. 
 
 Do not imagine that mind alone is concerned in your bad 
 spirits. The body has a great deal to do with these matters. 
 The mind may undoubtedly affect the body ; but the body also 
 affects the mind. There is a mutual reaction between them ; 
 and by lessening it on either side, you diminish the pain on 
 both. 
 
 If you are melancholy, and know not why, be assured it must 
 arise entirely from some physical weakness ; and do your best 
 to strengthen yourself. The Llood of a melancholy man is 
 thick and slow. The blood of a lively man is clear and quick. 
 Endeavour, therefore, to put your blood in motion. Exercise 
 is the best way to do it ; but you may also help yourself, in 
 moderation, with wine, or other excitements. Only you must 
 take care so to proportion the use of any artificial stimulus, 
 that it may not render the blood languid by over-exciting it 
 at first ; and that you may be able to keep up, by the natural 
 stimulus only, the help you have given yourself by the artificial. 
 
 Regard the bad weather as somebody has advised us to
 
 TO ANY ONE WHOM BAD WEATHER DEPRESSES. 219 
 
 handle the nettle. In proportion as you are delicate with it, it 
 ■will make you feel ; but 
 
 " Grasp it like a man of mettle. 
 And the rogue obeys you well." 
 
 Do not the less, however, on that account, take all reasonable 
 precaution and arms against it, — your boots, &c., against wet 
 feet, and your great-coat or umbrella against the rain. It is 
 timidity and flight which are to be deprecated, not proper 
 armour for the battle. The first will lay you open to defeat on 
 the least attack. A proper use of the latter will only keep you 
 strong for it. Plato had such a high opinion of exercise that 
 he said it was a cure even for a wounded conscience. Nor is 
 this opinion a dangerous one. For there is no system, even 
 of superstition, however severe or cruel in other matters, that 
 does not allow a wounded conscience to be curable by some 
 means. Nature will work out its rights and its kindness some 
 way or other, through the worst sophistications ; and this is one 
 of the instances in which she seems to raise herself above all 
 contingencies. The conscience may have been wounded by 
 artificial or by real guilt ; but then she will tell it in those ex- 
 tremities that even the real guilt may have been produced by 
 circumstances. It is her kindness alone which nothing can pull 
 down from its predominance. 
 
 See fair play between cares and pastimes. Diminish your 
 mere wants as much as possible, whether you are rich or poor ; 
 for the rich man's wants, increasing by indulgence, are apt to 
 outweigh even the abundance of his means ; and the poor 
 man's diminution of them renders his means the greater. Do 
 not want money, for instance, for money's sake. There is ex- 
 citement in the pursuit ; but it is dashed with more troubles 
 than most others, and gets less happiness at last. On the other 
 hand, increase all your natural and healthy enjoyments. Culti- 
 vate your afternoon fireside, the society of your friends, the com- 
 pany of agreeable children, music, theatres, amusing books, an 
 urbane and generous gallantry. He who thinks any innocent
 
 220 LEIGH HUNT S ESSAYS. 
 
 pastime foolish, has either yet to grow wiser, or is past it. In 
 the one case, his notion of being childish is itself a childish 
 notion. In the other, his importance is of so feeble and hollow 
 a cast, that it dare not move for fear of tumbling to pieces. 
 
 A friend of ours, who knows as well as any man how to 
 unite industry with enjoyment, has set an excellent example to 
 those who can afford the leisure, by taking two Sabbaths every 
 week instead of one ; — not Methodistical Sabbaths, but days of 
 rest which pay true homage to the Supreme Being by enjoying 
 his creation. He will be gratified at reading this paragraph on 
 his second Sunday morning [Wednesday]. 
 
 One of the best pieces of advice for an ailing spirit is to go to 
 no sudden extremes, — to adopt no great and extreme changes 
 in diet or other habits. They may make a man look very great 
 and philosophic to his own mind, but they are not fit for a 
 nature to which custom has been truly said to be a second 
 nature. Dr Cheyne (as we remember reading on a stall) may 
 tell us that a drowning man cannot too quickly get himself out 
 of the water ; but the analogy is not good. If the water has be- 
 come a second habit, he might almost as well say that a fish 
 could not get too quickly out of it. 
 
 Upon this point Bacon says that we should discontinue what 
 we think hurtful by little and little. And he quotes with admi- 
 ration the advice of Celsus, that " a man do vary and inter- 
 change contraries, but with an inclination to the more benign 
 extreme." " Use fasting," he says, " and full eating, but rather 
 full eating ; watching and sleep, but rather sleep ; sitting and 
 exercise, but rather exercise ; and the like. So shall nature be 
 cherished, and yet taught masteries," 
 
 We cannot do better than conclude with one or two other 
 passages out of the same Essay, full of his usual calm wisdom. 
 " If you fly physic in health altogether, it will be too strange for 
 your body when you need it." (He means that a general state 
 of health should not make us over-confident and contemptuous 
 of physic, but that we should use it moderately if required, that
 
 TO ANY ONE WHOM BAD WEATHER DEPRESSES. 221 
 
 it may not be too strange to us when required most.) " If you 
 make it too familiar, it will have no extraordinary effect when 
 sickness cometh. I commend rather some diet for certain sea- 
 sons, than frequent use of physic, except it be grown into a 
 custom, for those diets alter the body more, and trouble it 
 less." 
 
 "As for the passions and studies of the mind," says he, 
 " avoid envy, anxious fears, anger, fretting inwards, subtle and 
 knotty inquisitions, joys and exhilarations in excess, sadness not 
 communicated" (for, as he says finely somewhere else, they 
 who keep their griefs to themselves, are " cannibals of their 
 own hearts"). "Entertain hopes; mirth, rather than joy" 
 (that is to say, cheerfulness rather than what we call boisterous 
 merriment) ; " variety of delights, rather than surfeit of them ; 
 wonder and admiration, and therefore novelties ; studies that 
 fill the mind with splendid and illustrious objects, as histories, 
 fables, and contemplations cf nature."
 
 THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 OUR Old Gentleman, in crder to be exclusively himself, 
 must be either a widower or a bachelor. Suppose the 
 former. We do not mention his precise age, which 
 would be invidious ; nor whether he wears his own hair or a 
 wig, which would be wanting in universality. If a wig, it is a 
 compromise between the more modern scratch and the departed 
 glory of the toupee. If his own hair, it is white, in spite of his 
 favourite grandson, who used to get on the chair behind him, 
 and pull the silver hairs out, ten years ago. If he is bald at top, 
 the hair-dresser, hovering and breathing about him like a second 
 youth, takes care to give the bald place as much powder as the 
 covered ; in order that he may convey to the sensorium within 
 a pleasing indistinctness of idea respecting the exact limits of 
 skin and hair. He is very clean and neat ; and in warm 
 weather is proud of opening his waistcoat half way down, and 
 letting so much of his frill be seen, in order to show his hardi- 
 ness as well as taste. His watch and shirt-buttons are of the 
 best; and he does not care if he has two rings on a finger. If 
 his watch ever failed him at the club or coffee-house, he would 
 take a walk every day to the nearest clock of good character, 
 purely to keep it right. He has a cane at home, but seldom 
 uses it, on finding it out of fashion with his elderly juniors. He 
 has a small cocked hat for gala days, which he lifts higher from 
 his head than the round one, when made a bow to. In his
 
 THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 2?3 
 
 pockets are two handkerchiefs (one for the neck at night-time), 
 liis spectacles, and his pocket-book. The pocket-book, among 
 other things, contains a receipt for a cough, and some verses 
 cut out of an odd sheet of an old magazine, on the lovely 
 Duchess of A., beginning — 
 
 " When beauteous Mira walks the plain." 
 
 He intends this for a commonplace book which he keeps, con- 
 sisting of passages in verse and prose cut out of newspapers and 
 magazines, and pasted in columns ; some of them rather gay. 
 His principal other books are Shakspeare's plays and Milton's 
 " Paradise Lost ; " the Spectator ; the " History of England ;" 
 the works of Lady M. W. Montague, Pope, and Churchill ; 
 Middleton's "Geography;" the GentlcmaiCs Magazine; Sir 
 John Sinclair on Longevity ; several plays with portraits 
 in character; "Account of Elizabeth Canning ;" " Memoirs of 
 George Ann Bellamy ; " " Poetical Amusements at Bath- 
 Easton ; " Blair's works ; " Elegant Extracts ; " " Junius," as 
 originally published ; a few pamphlets on the American War 
 and Lord George Gordon, &c. ; and one on the French 
 Revolution. In his sitting-rooms are some engravings from 
 Hogarth and Sir Joshua; an engraved portrait of the Marquis 
 of Granby ; ditto of M. le Comte de Grasse surrendering to 
 Admiral Rodney ; a humorous piece after Penny ; and a por- 
 trait of himself, painted by Sir Joshua. His wife's portrait is in 
 his chamber, looking upon his bed. She is a little girl, step- 
 ping forward with a smile and a pointed toe, as if going to 
 dance. He lost her when she was sixty. 
 
 The Old Gentleman is an early riser, because he intends to 
 live at least twenty years longer. He continues to take tea for 
 breakfast, in spite of what is said against its nervous effects ; 
 having been satisfied on that point some years ago by Dr John- 
 son's criticism on Hanway, and a great liking for tea previously. 
 His china cups and saucers have been broken since his wife's 
 death, all but one, which is religiously kept for his use. He
 
 224 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 passes his morning in walking or riding, looking in at auctions, 
 looking after his India bonds, or some such money securities, 
 furthering some subscription set on foot by his excellent friend 
 Sir John, or cheapening a new old print for his portfolio. He 
 also hears of the newspapers ; not caring to see them till after 
 dinner at the coffee-house. He may also cheapen a fish or so ; 
 the fishmonger soliciting his doubting eye as he passes, with a 
 profound bow of recognition. He eats a pear before dinner. 
 
 His dinner at the coffee-house is served up to him at the 
 accustomed hour, in the old accustomed way, and by the accus- 
 tomed waiter. If William did not bring it, the fish would be 
 sure to be stale, and the flesh new. He eats no tart ; or, if he 
 ventures on a little, takes cheese with it. You might as soon 
 attempt to persuade him out of his senses, as that cheese is not 
 good for digestion. He takes port ; and if he has drunk more 
 than usual, and in a more private place, may be induced, by 
 some respectful mquiries respecting the old style of music, to 
 sing a song composed by Mr Oswald or Mr Lampe, such as — 
 
 " Chloe, by that borrow'd kiss," 
 
 or — • 
 
 " Come, gentle god of soft repose ; " 
 
 or his wife's favourite ballad, beginning — 
 
 "At Upton on the Hill 
 There lived a happy pair." 
 
 Of course, no such exploit can take place in the coffee-room ; 
 but he will canvass the theory of that matter there with you, or 
 discuss the weather, or the markets, or the theatres, or the 
 merits of '' my Lord North," or " my Lord Rockingham ; " for 
 he rarely says simply lord ; it is generally "my lord," trippingly 
 and genteelly off the tongue. If alone after dinner, his great 
 delight is the newspaper ; which he prepares to read by wiping 
 his spectacles, carefully adjusting them on his eyes, and drawing 
 the candle close to him, so as to stand sideways betwixt his 
 ocular aim and the small type. He then holds the paper at 
 arm's-length, and, dropping his eyelids half down and his
 
 THE OLD GENTLEMAN. ,225 
 
 mouth half open, takes cognizance of the day's information. If 
 he leaves off, it is only when the door is opened by a new comer, 
 or when he suspects somebody is over-anxious to get the paper 
 out of his hand. On these occasions, he gives an important 
 "hem ! " or so, and resumes. 
 
 In the evening, our Old Gentleman is fond of going to the 
 theatre, or of having a game of cards. If he enjoys the latter at 
 his own house or lodgings, he likes to play with some friends 
 whom he has known for many years; but an elderly stranger 
 may be introduced, if quiet and scientific, and the privilege is 
 extended to younger men of letters, who, if ill players, are good 
 losers. Not that he is a miser; but to win money at cards is like 
 proving his victory by getting the baggage, and to win of a 
 younger man is a substitute for his not being able to beat him 
 at rackets. He breaks up early, whether at home or abroad. 
 
 At the theatre, he likes a front row in the pit. He comes early, 
 if he can do so w ilhout getting into a squeeze, and sits patiently 
 waiting for the drawing up of the curtain, with his hands placidly 
 lying, one over the other, on the top of his stick. He generously 
 admires some of the best performers, but thinks them far inferior 
 to Garrick, Woodward, and Clive. During splendid scenes he 
 is anxious that the little boy should see. 
 
 He has been induced to look in at Vauxhall again, but likes 
 it still less than he did years back, and cannot bear it in com- 
 parison with Ranelagh. He thinks everything looks poor, flar- 
 ing, and jaded. " Ah ! " says he, with a sort of triumphant sigh, 
 " Ranelagh was a noble place ! Such taste, such elegance, such 
 beauty ! There was the Duchess of A., the finest woman in 
 England, sir; and Mrs L., a mighty fine creature; and Lady 
 Susan What's-her-name, that had that unfortunate affair with 
 Sir Charles. Sir, they came swimming by you like the swans." 
 
 The Old Gentleman is very particular in having his slippers 
 ready for him at the fire when he comes home. He is also ex- 
 tremely choice in his snuff, and delights to get a fresh boxful in 
 Tavistock Street, on his." way to the theatre. H is box is a curiosity 
 
 I'
 
 2 26 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 from India. He calls favourite young ladies by their Christian 
 names, however slightly acquainted with them, and has a pri- 
 vilege also of saluting all brides, mothers, and indeed every 
 species of lady, on the least holiday occasion. If the husband, 
 for instance, has met with a piece of luck, he instantly moves 
 forward, and gravely kisses the wife on the cheek. The wife 
 then says, " My niece, sir, from the country ;" and he kisses the 
 niece. The niece, seeing her cousin biting her lips at the joke, 
 says, "My cousin Harriet, sir ;" and he kisses the cousin. He 
 never recollects such weather, except during the Great Frost, or 
 when he rode down with Jack Skrimshire to Newmarket. He 
 grows young again in his little grandchildren, especially the one 
 which he thinks most like himself, which is the handsomest. 
 Yet he likes best, perhaps, the one most resembling his wife, 
 and will sit with him on his lap, holding his hand in silence, for 
 a quarter of an hour together. He plays most tricks with the 
 former, and makes him sneeze. He asks little boys in general 
 who was the father of Zcbcdee's children. If his grandsons are 
 at school, he often goes to see them, and makes them blush by 
 telling the master or the upper scholars that they are fine boys, 
 and of a precocious genius. He is much struck when an old 
 acquaintance dies, but adds that he lived too fast, and that poor 
 Bob was a sad dog in his youth — " a very sad dog, sir, mightily 
 set upon a short life and a merry one." 
 
 When he gets very old indeed, he will sit for whole evenings, 
 and say little or nothing; but informs you that there is Mrs Jones 
 (the housekeeper)—" She'll talk"
 
 ON THE REALITIES OF IMAGINATION. 
 
 THERE is not a more unthinkin.cc way of talking than 
 to say such and such pains and pleasures are only 
 imaginary', and therefore to be got rid of or under- 
 valued accordingly. There is nothing imaginary, in the 
 common acceptation of the word. The logic of Moses in the 
 "Vicar of Wakefield" is good argument here: — "Whatever 
 is, is." Whatever touches us, whatever moves us, does touch 
 and does move us. We recognise the reality of it, as we 
 do that of a hand in the dark. We might as well say that a 
 sight which makes us laugh, or a blow which brings tears into 
 our eyes, is imaginary, as that anything else is imaginary which 
 makns us laugh or weep. We can only judge of things by 
 their effects. Our perception consta;_tly deceives us, in things 
 with which we suppose ourselves perfectly conversant ;. but our 
 reception of their effect is a different matter. Whether we are 
 materialists or immaterialists, whether things be about us or 
 within us, whether we think the sun is a substance, or only the 
 image of a divine thought, an idea, a thing imaginary, we are 
 equally agreed as to the notion of its warmth. But, on the other 
 hand, as this warmth is felt differently by different temperaments, 
 so what we call imaginary things affect different minds. What 
 Ave have to do is not to deny their effect, because we do not feel 
 in the same proportion, or whether we even feel it at all ; but to 
 see whether our neighbours may not be moved. If they are, 
 there is, to all intents and purposes, a moving cause. But we 
 do not see it.'' No;— neither, perhaps, do they. They only
 
 2 28 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 feel it ; they are only sentient, — a word which implies the sight 
 given to the imagination by the feelings. But what do you 
 mean, we may ask in return, by seeing? Some rays of light 
 come in contact with the eye ; they bring a sensation to it ; in 
 a word, they touch it ; and the impression left by this touch we 
 call sight. How far does this differ in effect from the impression 
 left by any other touch, however mysterious ? An ox knocked 
 down by a butcher, and a man knocked down by a fit of the apo- 
 plexy, equally feel themselves compelled to drop. The tickling 
 of a straw and of a comedy equally move the muscles about our 
 mouth. The look of a beloved eye will so thrill the whole frame, 
 that old philosophers have had recourse to a doctrine of beams 
 and radiant particles flying from one sight to another. In fine, 
 what is contact itself, and why does it affect us ? There is no 
 one cause more mysterious than another, if we look into it. 
 
 Nor does the question concern us like moral causes. We 
 may be content to know the earth by its fruits ; but how to 
 increase and improve them is a more attractive study If, in- 
 stead of saying that the causes which moved in us this or that 
 pain or pleasure were imaginary, people were to say that the 
 causes themselves were removable, they would be nearer the 
 truth. When a stone trips us up, we do not fall to disputing its 
 existence ; we put it out of the way. In like manner, when we 
 suffer from what is called an imaginary pain, our business is not 
 to canvass the reality of it. Whether there is any cause or not 
 in that or any other perception, or whether everything consists 
 not in what is called effect, it is sufficient for us that the effect 
 is real. Our sole business is to remove those second causes 
 which always accompany the original idea. As in deliriums, 
 for instance, it would be idle to go about persuading the patient 
 that he did not behold the figures he says he does. He might 
 reasonably ask us, if he could, how we know anything about the 
 matter ; or how we can be sure that, in the infinite wonders of 
 the universe, certain realities may not become apparent to cer- 
 tain eyes, whether diseased or not. Our business would be to 
 ■put him into that state of health, in which human beings are not
 
 ON THE REALITIES OF IMAGINATION. 229 
 
 diverted from their offices and comforts by a liability to such 
 imaginations. The best reply to his question would be, that 
 such a morbidity is clearly no more a fit state for a human being 
 than a disarranged or incomplete state of works is for a watch ; 
 and that, seeing the general tendency of nature to this complete- 
 ness or state of comfort, we naturally conclude that the imagin- 
 ations in question, whether substantial or not, are at least not 
 of the same lasting or prevailing description. 
 
 We do not profess metaphysics. We are indeed so little con- 
 versant with the masters of that profound art, that we are never 
 sure whether we are using even its proper terms. All that we 
 may know on the subject comes to us from some reflection and 
 some experience ; and this all may be so little as to make a 
 metaphysician smile ; which, if he be a true one, he will do good- 
 naturedly. The pretender will take occasion from our very 
 confession to say that we know nothing. Our faculty, such as 
 it is, is rather instinctive than reasoning ; rather pliysical than 
 metaphysical ; rather wise because it loves much, than because 
 it knows much ; rather calculated by a certain retention of boy- 
 hood, and by its wanderings in the green places of thought, to 
 light upon a piece of the old golden world, than to tire ourselves, 
 and conclude it unattainable, by too wide and scientific a search. 
 We pretend to see farther than none but the wordly and the 
 malignant. And yet those who see farther may not all see so 
 well. We do not blind our eyes with looking upon the sun in 
 the heavens. We believe it to be there, but we find its light 
 upon earth also ; and we would lead humanity, if we could, out 
 of misery and coldness into the shine of it. Pain might still be 
 there ; must be so, as long as we are mortal — 
 
 " For oft we still must weep, since we aie human : " 
 
 but it should be pain for the sake of others, which is noble ; not 
 unnecessary pain inflicted by or upon them, which it is absurd 
 not to remove. The very pains of mankind struggle towards 
 pleasures ; and such pains as are proper for them have this in- 
 evitable accompaniment of true humanity, — that they cannot but
 
 230 LEIGH HUNT S ESSAYS. 
 
 realise a certain gentleness of enjoyment. Thus the true bearer 
 of pain would come round to us ; and he would not grudge us a 
 share of his burden, though in taking from his trouble it might 
 diminish his pride. Pride is but a bad pleasure at the expense 
 of others. The great object of huinanity is to enrich everybody. 
 If it is a task destined not to succeed, it is a good one from its 
 very nature ; and fulfils at least a glad destiny of its own. To 
 look upon it austerely is in reality the reverse of austerity. It is 
 only such an impatience of the want of pleasure as leads us to 
 grudge it in others ; and this impatience itself, if the sufferer knew 
 how to use it, is but another impulse, in the general yearning, to- 
 wards an equal wealth of enjojment. 
 
 But we shall be getting into other discussions. The ground- 
 work of all happiness is health. Take care of this ground ; and 
 the doleful imaginations that come to warn us against its abuse, 
 will avoid it. Take care of this ground, and let as many glad 
 imaginations throng to it as possible. Read the magical works 
 of the poets, and they will come. If you doubt their existence, 
 ask yourself whether you feel pleasure at the idea of them ; 
 whether you are moved into delicious smiles, or tears as deli- 
 cious. If you are, the result is the same to you, whether 
 they exist or not. It is not mere words to say, that he who 
 goes through a rich man's park, and sees things in it which 
 never bless the mental eyesight of the possessor, is richer than 
 he. He is richer. More results of pleasure come home to him. 
 The ground is actually more fertile to him ; the place haunted 
 with finer shapes. He has more servants to come at his call, 
 and administer to him with full hands. Knowledge, sympathy, 
 imagination, are all divining-i'ods, with which he discovers 
 treasure. Let the painter go through the grounds, and he will 
 see not only the general colours of green and brown, but all their 
 combination and contrasts, and all the modes in which they 
 might again be combined and contrasted. He will also put 
 figures in the landscape if there are none there ; flocks and 
 herds, or a solitary spectator, or Venus lying with her white body
 
 ON THE REALITIES OF IMAGINATION. 2,31 
 
 rmong the violets and primroses. Let a musician go through, 
 and he will hear " difierences discreet " in the notes of the birds 
 and the lapsing of the water-fall. He will fancy a serenade ot 
 wind instruments in the open air at the lady's window, with a 
 voice rising through it ; or the horn of the hunter ; or the musi- 
 cal cry of the hounds — 
 
 " iNIatch'd in mouth, like bells, 
 Each under each ;" 
 
 or a solitary voice in a bower, singing for an expected lover ; or 
 the chapel organ, waking up like the fountain of the winds. Let 
 a poet go through the grounds, and he will heighten and in- 
 crease all these sounds and images. He will bring the colours 
 from heaven, and put an unearthly meaning into the voice. He 
 will have stories of the sylvan inhabitants ; will shift the popula- 
 tion through infinite varieties ; will put a sentiment upon every 
 sight and sound ; will be human, romantic, supernatural ; will 
 make all nature send tribute into that spot. 
 
 " Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures 
 While the landskip round it measures ; 
 Russet lawns, and fallows grey, 
 Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; 
 Mountains, on whose barren breast 
 The labouring clouds do often rest ; 
 Meadows trim with daisies pied. 
 Shallow brooks, and rivers wide : 
 Towers and battlements it sees, 
 Bosom'd high in tufted trees. 
 Where perhaps some Beauty lies, 
 The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes." 
 
 But, not to go on quoting lines which are ever in people's mouths 
 like a popular tune, take a passage from the same poet less 
 famihar to one's every-day recollections. It is in his "Arcadian 
 Mask," which was performed by some of the Derby family at 
 their seat at Harefield, near Uxbridge. The genius of the 
 place, meeting the noble shepherds and shepherdesses, accosts 
 them : — 
 
 " Stay, gentle swsins, for, though in this disguise, 
 I see bright honour sparkle through your eyes.
 
 233 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprung 
 
 Of that renowned flood, so often sung, 
 
 Divine Alpheus, who by secret sluice 
 
 Stole under seas to meet his Arethuse. 
 
 And ye, the breathing roses of the wood, 
 
 Fair silver-buskin'd Nymphs, as great and good J 
 
 I know this quest of yours, and free intent. 
 
 Was all in honour and devotion meant 
 
 To the great mistress of yon princely shrine. 
 
 Whom with low reverence I adore as mine ; 
 
 And with all helpful service will comply 
 
 To further this night's gUd solemnity, 
 
 And lead ye where ye may more near behold 
 
 What shallow-searching Fame hath left untold ; 
 
 Which I, full oft, amidst these shades alone. 
 
 Have sat to wonder at, and gaze upon : 
 
 For know, by lot from Jove I am the Power 
 
 Of this fair wood, and live in ^ aken bower. 
 
 To nurse the saplings tall, and curl the grove 
 
 In ringlets quaint, and wanton windings wove ; 
 
 And all my plants I save from nightly ill 
 
 Of noisome winds, and blasting vapours chill ; 
 
 And from the boughs brush off the evil dew, 
 
 And heal the harms of thwarting thunder bhie. 
 
 Or what the cross dire-looking planet smites. 
 
 Or hurtful worm with canker'd venom bites. 
 
 When evening grey doth rise, I fetch my round 
 
 Over the mount, and all this hallow'd ground ; 
 
 And early, ere the odorous breath of morn 
 
 Awakes the slumbering leaves, or tassel'd horn 
 
 Shakes the high thicket, haste I all about, 
 
 Number my ranks, and visit every sprout 
 
 With puissant words and murmurs made to bleasj- 
 
 Cut else, in deep of night, when drowsiness 
 
 Hath lock'd up mortal sense, then listen I 
 
 To the celestial Syrens' harmony. 
 
 That sit upon the nine-infolded spheres, 
 
 And sing to those that hold the vital shears. 
 
 And turn the adamantine spindle round. 
 
 On which the fate of gods and men is woimd. 
 
 Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie 
 
 To lull the daughters of Necessity, 
 
 And keep unsteady Nature to her law. 
 
 And the low world in measured motion dr.iw 
 
 After the heavenly tune, which none can hear 
 
 Of human mould, with j;ross unpurged car." 
 
 *' Milton's Genius of the Grove," says War'.on, "being a spirit
 
 ON THE REALITIES OF IMAGINATION. 233 
 
 sent from Jove, and commissioned from heaven to exercise a 
 preternatural guardianship over the ' saplings tall,' to avert 
 every noxious influence, and to 'visit every sprout with puissant 
 words, and murmurs made to bless,' had the privilege, not in- 
 dulged to gross mortals, of hearing the celestial Syrens' har- 
 mony. This enjoyment," continues the critic, in the spirit of a 
 true reader luxuriating over a beautiful thought, — " this enjoy- 
 ment, which is highly imagined, was a relaxation from the duties 
 of his peculiar charge, in the depth of midnight, when the world 
 is locked up in sleep and silence." * The music of the spheres 
 is the old Platonic or Pythagorean doctrine, but it remained for 
 Milton to render it a particular midnight recreation to "purged 
 ears," after the earthly toils of the day. And we partake of it 
 with the Genius. We may say of the love of nature, what 
 Shakspeare says of another love, that it 
 
 " Adds a precious seeing to the eye." 
 
 And we may say also, upon the like principle, that it adds a precious 
 hearing to the ear. This, and imagination, which ever follows 
 upon it, are the two purifiers of our sense, which rescue us from 
 the deafening babble of common cares, and enable us to hear 
 all the affectionate voices of earth and heaven. The starry orbs, 
 lapsing about in their smooth and sparkling dance, sing to us. 
 The brooks talk to us of solitude. The birds are the animal 
 spirits of nature, carolling in the air like a careless lass. 
 
 " Gentle gales, 
 Fanning tlieir odoriferous wings, dispense 
 Native perfumes ; and wliisper wiience they stole 
 Those balmy spoils." 
 
 Paradise Lost, Cook IV. 
 
 The poets are called creators (Ilonjra:, Makers) because, with 
 
 * If the reader wishes to indulge himself in a volume full of sheer poetry with ,1 
 pleasant companion, familiar with the finest liaunts of the Muses, he cannot do 
 better than get Warton's edition of the "Minor Poems of Milton." The principal 
 notes have been transferred by Mr Todd to the sixth volume of his own valuable 
 edition of " Milton's Poetical Works , " bi't it is better to have a good thing entire. 
 The two together might be still better; but a work complete now-a-days, in one 
 volume, is — a work complete.
 
 234 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 their magical words, they bring forth to our eyesight the abund- 
 ant images and beauties of creation. They put them there, if 
 the reader pleases, and so are literally creators. But whether 
 put there or discovered, whether created or invented (for inven- 
 tion means nothing but finding out), there they are. If they 
 touch us, they exist to as m.uch purpose as anything else which 
 touches us. If a passage in " King Lear" brings the tears into our 
 eyes, it is as real as the touch of a sorrowful hand. If the flow 
 of a song of Anacreon's intoxicates us, it is as true to a pulse 
 within us as the wine he drank. We hear not their sounds with 
 ears, nor see their sights with eyes ; but we hear and see both 
 so truly, that we are moved with pleasure, and the advantage, 
 nay, even the test, of seeing and hearing at any time, is not in 
 the seeing and hearing, but in the ideas we realise, and the 
 pleasure we derive. Intellectual objects, therefore, inasmuch as 
 they come home to us, are as true a part of the population of 
 nature as visible ones, and they are infinitely more abundant. 
 Between the tree of a country clown, and the tree of a Milton or 
 Spenser, what a difference in point of productiveness ! Between 
 the plodding of a sexton through a church-yard, and the walk of 
 a Gray, what a difference ! What a difference between the 
 Bermudas of a ship-builder, and the Bermoothes of Shak- 
 speare ; the isle 
 
 " Full of noises, 
 Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not ; " 
 
 the isle of elves and fairies, that chased the tide to and fro on 
 the sea-shore ; of coral bones, and the knells of sea-nymphs ; of 
 spirits dancing on the sands, and singing amidst the hushes of 
 the wind ; of Caliban, whose brute nature enchantment had 
 made poetical ; of Ariel, who lay in cowslip-bells, and rode 
 upon the bat ; of Miranda, who wept when she saw Ferdinand 
 work so hard, and begged him to let her help ; telling him — 
 
 " I am your wife, if you will marry me ; 
 
 If not, I '11 die your maid. To be your fellow 
 You may deny me ; but I 'II be your servant. 
 Whether yuu will or uo."
 
 02; THE REALITIES OF IMAGINATION. 235 
 
 Such are the discoveries which the poets make for us ; — worlds, 
 to which that of Columbus was but a handful of brute matter. 
 It began to be richer for us the other day, when Humboldt 
 came back and told us of its luxuriant and gigantic vegetation ; 
 of the myriads of shooting lights which revel at evening in the 
 southern sky ; and of that grand constellation at which Dante 
 seems to have made so remarkable a guess ("Purgatorio/' cant, 
 I. V. 22). The natural warmth of the Mexican and Peruvian 
 genius, set free from despotism, will soon do all the rest for it, 
 awaken the sleeping riches of its eyesight, and call forth the glad 
 music of its affections. 
 
 To return to our parks or landscapes, and what the poets can 
 make of them. It is not improbable that Milton, by his 
 "Genius of the Grove at Harefield," covertly intended him- 
 self. He had been applied to by the Derbys to write some 
 holiday poetry for them. He puts his consent in the mouth of 
 the Genius, whose hand, he says, curls the ringlets of the grove, 
 and who refreshes himself at midnight with listening to the 
 music of the spheres ; that is to say, whose hand confers 
 new beauty on it by its touch, and who has pleasures in 
 solitude far richer and loftier than those of mere patrician 
 mortals. 
 
 See how finely Ben Jonson enlivens his description of Pens- 
 hurst, the family seat of the Sydneys ; now with the creations 
 of classical mythology, and now with the rural manners of the 
 time : — 
 
 " Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show, 
 Or touch, cf marble ; nor canst boast a row 
 Of polish'd pillars, or a roof of gold : 
 Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told ; 
 Or stair, or courts ; but stand'st an ancient pile, 
 And these, grudg'd at, are reverenced the while. 
 Thou joy'stin better marks, of soil, of air. 
 Of wood, of water : therein thou art fair. 
 Thou hast thy walks for health, as well as sport ; 
 Thy mount, to which the Dryads do resort ; 
 Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made. 
 Beneath the broad beech and the chestnut shade :
 
 236 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 That taller tree, which of a nut was set 
 
 At his great birth, where all the Muses met.* 
 
 There, in the writhed bark, are cut the names 
 
 Of many a Sylvan, taken with his flames ; 
 
 And thence the ruddy Satyrs oft provoke 
 
 The lighter Fauns to reach thy lady's oak. 
 
 Thy copse too, named of Gamage, thou hast there. 
 
 That never fails to serve thee season'd deer, 
 
 When thou wouldst feast, or exercise thy friends: 
 
 The lower land, that to the river bends. 
 
 Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed ; 
 
 The middle grounds thy mares and horses breed : 
 
 Each bank doth yield thee conies ; and the tops 
 
 Fertile of wood. Ashore and Sydney copse, 
 
 To crown thy open table, doth provide 
 
 The purple pheasant with the speckled side. 
 
 Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, 
 
 Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours. 
 
 The early cherry, with the later plum. 
 
 Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come : 
 
 The blushing ?pricot, and woolly peach. 
 
 Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach ; 
 
 And though thy walls be of the country stone, 
 
 They're rear'd with no man's ruin, no man's groan. 
 
 There 's none that dwell about them wish them down ; 
 
 But all come in, the farmer and the clown. 
 
 And no one empty-handed, to salute 
 
 Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit. 
 
 Some bring a capon, some a rural cake. 
 
 Some nuts, some apples ; some, that think they make 
 
 The better cheeses, bring them ; or else send 
 
 By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend 
 
 This way to husbands, and whose baskets bear 
 
 An emblem of themselves in plum or pear." 
 
 Imagination enriclies everything, A great library contains not 
 only books, but 
 
 " The assembled souls of all that men held wise." 
 
 Davenant. 
 
 The moon is Homer's and Shakspeare's moon, as well as the 
 one we look at. The sun comes out of his chamber in the east, 
 with a sparkling eye, "rejoicing like a bridegroom." The 
 commonest thing becomes like Aaron's rod, that budded. Pope 
 
 * Sir Philip Sydney
 
 ON THE REALITIES OF IMAGINATION. 237 
 
 cnred up the spirits of the Cabala to wait upon a lock of hair, 
 and justly gave it the honours of a constellation ; for he has 
 hung it, sparkling for ever, in the eyes of posterity. A common 
 meadow is a sorry thing to a ditcher or a coxcomb ; but, by the 
 help of its dews from imagination and the love of nature, the 
 grass brightens for us, the air soothes us, we feel as we did in 
 the daisied hours of childhood. Its verdures, its sheep, its 
 hedge-row elms, — all these, and all else which sight, and sound, 
 and association can give it, are made to furnish a treasure of 
 pleasant thoughts. Even brick and mortar are vivified, as of 
 old, at the harp of Orpheus. A metropolis becomes no longer 
 a mere collection of houses or of trades. It puts on all the 
 grandeur of its history and its literature ; its towers and rivers ; 
 its art, and jewellery, and foreign wealth ; its multitude of 
 human beings, all intent upon excitement, wise, or yet to learn ; 
 the huge and sullen dignity of its canopy of smoke by day ; the 
 wide gleam upwards of its lighted lustre at night-time; and the 
 noise of its many chariots, heard at the same hour, when tlie 
 wind sets gently towards some quiet suburb. 
 
 [Note. — The passage about the great tilings to be done by the 
 Mexicans and Peruvians when "set free from despotism" has a half- 
 mournful, half-ludicrous sound at the present day, when, after nearly 
 half a century of nominal freedom and actual anarchy (especially in 
 Mexico), the Spanish Americans are in as bad a state as they were even 
 under the base and selfish tyranny of the old country. When Leigh 
 Hunt wrote that passage, the Mexicans and Peruvians were struggling 
 for independence ; and there was the same enthusiasm for them in this 
 country as was manifested a few years later on behalf of the Greeks — 
 with as little justification by after facts. Alas ! the cashiering of n 
 monarch is not always enough to regenerate a people ; or the way 
 would be a short one. — E. O.]
 
 SHAKSPEARE'S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 NEXT Friday,* making the proper allowance of twelve 
 days from the 23d of April, according to the change of 
 the style, is the birthday of Shakspeare. Pleasant 
 thoughts must be associated with him in everything. If he is 
 not to be born in April, he must be born in May. Nature will 
 have her with him on her blithest holidays, like her favourite 
 lover. 
 
 O thou divine human creature, — greater name than even 
 divine poet or divine philosopher, — and yet thou v/ast all three ! 
 — a very spring and vernal abundance of all fair and noble 
 things is to be found in chy productions ! They are truly a 
 second nature. We walk in them, with whatever society we 
 please ; either with men, or fair women, or circling spirits, or 
 with none but the whispering airs and leaves. Thou makest 
 worlds of green trees and gentle natures for us, in thy forests of 
 Arden, and thy courtly retirements of Navarre. Thou bringest 
 us among the holiday lasses on the green sward ; laycst us to 
 sleep among fairies in the bowers of midsummer ; wakest us 
 with the song of the lark and the silver-sweet voices of lovers ; 
 bringest more music to our ears, both from earth and from the 
 planets ; anon settest us upon enchanted islands, where it wel- 
 comes us again, from the touching of invisible instruments ; and, 
 after all, restorest us to our still-desired haven, the arms of 
 
 * Tiiis paper originally appeared on Wednesday, May 3, 1820. — Ed.
 
 SnAKSPEARE*S BIRTHDAY. 239 
 
 humanity. Whether grieving us or making us glad, thou makest 
 us kinder and happier. The tears which thou fetchest down 
 are hke the rains of April, softening the times that come after 
 them. Thy smiles are those of the month of love, the more 
 blessed and universal for the tears. 
 
 The birthdays of such men as Shakspeare ought to be kept, 
 in common gratitude and affection, like those of relations whom 
 we love. He has said, in a line full of him, that 
 
 " One touch of nature makes the whole world kin." 
 
 How near does he become to us with his thousand touches ! 
 The lustre and utility of intellectual power is so increasing in 
 the eyes of the world, that we do not despair of seeing the time 
 when his birthday will be a subject of public rejoicing ; when the 
 reg^alar feast will be served up in tavern and dwelling-house, 
 the bust crowned with laurel, and the theatres sparkle with 
 illuminations. The town ir, lucky enough once more to have a 
 manager who is an enthusiast. If Mr Elliston would light up 
 the front of his theatre next Friday with the name of Shak- 
 speare, wc would warrant him a call from the pit, and whole 
 shouts of acknowledgment. 
 
 In the meantime, it is in the power of every admirer of 
 Shakspeare to honour the day privately. Rich or poor, busy 
 or at leisure, all may do it. The busiest finds time to eat his 
 dinner, and may pitch one considerate glass of wine down his 
 throat. The poorest may call him to mind, and drink his 
 memory in honest water. We had mechanically written health, 
 as if he were alive. So he is in spirit ; — and the spirit of such a 
 writer is so constantly with us, that it would be a good thing, a 
 judicious extravagance, a contemplative piece of jollity, to drink 
 his health instead of his memory. But this, we fear, should be 
 an impulse. We must content ourselves with having felt it here, 
 and drinking it in imagination. To act upon it, as a proposal of 
 the day before yesterday, might be too much like getting up an 
 extempore gesture, or practising an unspeakable satisfaction.
 
 240 LEIGH HUNT S ESSAYS. 
 
 An outline, hc.vever, may be drawn of the manner in which 
 such a birthday might be spent. The tone and colouring would 
 be filled up, of course, according to the taste of the parties. If 
 any of our readers, then, have leisure as well as inclination to 
 devote a day to the memory of Shakspeare, we would advise 
 them, in the first place, to walk out, whether alone or in 
 company, and enjoy during the morning as much as possible of 
 those beauties of nature of which he has left us such exquisite 
 pictures. They would take a volume of him in their hands, the 
 most suitable to the occasion ; not to hold themselves bound to 
 sit down and read it, nor even to refer to it, if the original work 
 of nature should occupy them too much ; but to read it, if they 
 read anything, and to feel that Shakspeare was with ihem 
 substantially as well as spiritually — that they had him with 
 them under their arm. There is another thought connected 
 with his presence, which may render the Londoner's walk the 
 more interesting. Shakspeare had neither the vanity which 
 induces a man to be disgusted with what everybody can enjoy ; 
 nor on the other hand the involuntary self-degradation which 
 renders us incapable of enjoying what is abased by our own 
 familiarity of acquaintanceship. About the metropolis, there- 
 fore, there is perhaps not a single rural spot, any more than 
 about Stratford-upon-Avon, which he has not himself enjoyed. 
 The south side of London was the one nearest his theatre. 
 Hyde Park was then, as it is now, one of the fashionable 
 promenades. Richmond also was in high pride of estimation. 
 At Greenwich, Elizabeth held her court, and walked abroad 
 amid the gallant service of the Sydneys and Raleighs. And 
 Hampstead and Highgate, with the country about them, were, 
 as they have been ever since, the favourite resort of the lovers 
 of natural productions. Nay, without repeating what we said 
 in a former essay, about the Mermaid in Cornhill, the Devil 
 tavern in Fleet Street, the Boar's Head in Eastcheap, and other 
 town associations with Shakspeare, the reader who cannot get 
 out of London on his birthday, and who has the luck to be hard
 
 SHAKSPEARE S BIRTHDAY. 24I 
 
 al work in Chancery Lane or the Borough, may be pretty certain 
 that Shakspeare has admired the fields and the May flowers 
 there ; for the fields were close to the latter, perhaps came up to 
 the very walls of the theatre ; and the surburban mansion and 
 gardens of his friend Lord Southampton occupied the spot now 
 called Southampton Buildings. It was really a country neigh- 
 bourhood. The Old Bourne (Holborn) ran by, with a bridge 
 over it ; and Gray's Inn was an academic bower in the fields. 
 
 The dinner does not much signify. The sparest or the most 
 abundant will equally suit the various fortunes of the great poet ; 
 only it will be as well, for those who can afford wine, to pledge 
 Falstaff in a cup of " sherris sack," which seems to have been a 
 sort of sherry negus. After dinner, Shakspeare's volumes will 
 come well on the table ; lying among the dessert like laurels, 
 where there is one, and supplying it where there is not. Instead 
 of songs, the persons present may be called upon for scenes. 
 But no stress need be laid on this proposition, if they do not like 
 to read out loud. The pleasure of the day should be as much at 
 liberty as possible ; and if the company prefer conversation, it 
 will not be very easy for them to touch upon any subjects which 
 Shakspeare shall not have touched upon also. If the enthu- 
 siasm is in high taste, the ladies should be crowned with violets, 
 which (next to the roses of their lips) seem to have been his 
 *a.vourite flower. After tea should come singing and music, 
 especially the songs which Arne set from his plays, and the 
 ballad of " Thou soft-flowing Avon." If an engraving or bust 
 of him could occupy the principal place in the room, it would 
 look like the "present deity" of the occasion; and we have 
 known a very pleasant effect produced by everybody's bringing 
 some quotation applicable to him from his works, and laying it 
 before his image, to be read in the course of the evening.
 
 A RAINY DAY. 
 
 THE day that we speak of is a complete one of its kinfl, 
 beginning with a dark, wet morning, and ending in a 
 drenching night. When you come down-stairs from 
 your chamber, you find the breakfast-room looking dark, the 
 rain-spout pouring away, and, unless you live in a street of 
 traffic, no sound out of doors but a clack of pattens and 
 an occasional clang of milk-pails. (Do you see the rogue 
 of a milkman ? He is leaving them open to catch the rain.) 
 
 We never see a person going to the window on such a morn- 
 ing, to take a melancholy look out at the washed houses and 
 pavement, but we think of a reanimation which we once beheld 
 of old Tate Wilkinson. But observe how sour things may run 
 into pleasant tastes at last. We are by no means certain that 
 the said mimetic antique, Tate Wilkinson, was not patentee 
 of the York Theatre, wore a melancholy hat tied the wrong 
 way, and cast looks of unutterable dissatisfaction at a rainy 
 morning, purely to let his worthy successor and surpasser in 
 mimicry, Mr Charles Mathews, hand down his aspect and 
 countenance for the benefit of posterity. We once fell into 
 company with that ingenious person at a bachelor's house, 
 where he woke us in the morning with the suspicious sound of 
 a child crying in another room. It was having its face washed; 
 and had we been of a scandalising turn, or envied our host for 
 his hospitality, we should certainly have gone and said that
 
 A RAINY DAY, 243 
 
 there was a child in his house who inherited a sorrowful dispo- 
 sition from somebody, and who might be heard (for all the 
 nurse's efforts of a morning) whining and blubbering in the 
 intervals of the wash-towel: now bursting into open-mouthed 
 complaint, as it left him to dip in the water, and anon, as it came 
 over his face again, screwing up its snubbed features and eyes, 
 and making half-stifled, obstinate moan with its tight mouth. 
 The mystery was explained at breakfast ; and as it happened to 
 be a rainy morning, we were entertained with the reanimation 
 of that " living dead man," poor Tate aforesaid, who had been 
 a merry fellow too in his day. Imagine a tall, thin, withered, 
 desponding-looking old gentleman, entering his breakfast-room, 
 with an old hat on, tied under his chin the wrong way of the flap 
 — a beaver somewhat of the epicene order, so that you do not 
 know whether it is his wife's or his own. He hobbles and 
 shrinks up to the window, grunting gently with a sort of prepa- 
 ratory despair, and, having cast up his eyes at the air, and seen 
 the weathercock due east and the rain set in besides, drops the 
 corners of his mouth and eyes into an expression of double 
 despondency, not unmixed (if we may speak unprofanely) with 
 a sort of scornful resentment, and turns off with one solitary, 
 brief, comprehensive, and groaning ejaculation of, " Eh — 
 Christ!" We never see anybody go to the window of a rainy 
 morning but we think of this poor old barometer of a patentee, 
 whose face, we trust, will be handed down in successive fac- 
 similes to posterity, for their edification as well as amusement ; 
 for Tate had cultivated much hypochondriacal knowledge in his 
 time, and been a sad fellow in a merry sense before he took to 
 it in its melancholy one. 
 
 The preparation for a rainy day in town is certainly not the 
 pleasantest thing in the world, especially for those who have 
 neither health nor imagination to make their own sunshine. 
 The comparative silence in the streets, which is made dull by oui 
 knowing the cause of it; the window-panes, drenched and eve^ 
 streaming, like so many helpless cheeks ; the darkened rooms;
 
 244 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS, 
 
 and, in the summer season, the having left off fires; all fall like 
 a chill shade upon the spirits. But we know not how much 
 pleasantry can be made out of unpleasantness till we bestir our- 
 selves. The exercise of our bodies will make us bear the weather 
 better, even mentally, and the exercise of our minds will enable 
 us to bear it with patient bodies in-doors, if we cannot go out. 
 Above all, some people seem to think that they cannot have a fire 
 made in a chill day, because it is summer-time — a notion which, 
 under the guise of being seasonable, is quite the reverse, and 
 one against which we protest. A fire is a thing to warm us when 
 we are cold, not to go out because the name of the month begins 
 with J. Besides, the sound of it helps to dissipate that of the 
 rain. It is justly called a companion. It looks glad in our 
 faces ; it talks to us ; it is vivified at our touch ; it vivifies in re- 
 turn ; it puts life, and warmth, and comfort in the room. A good 
 fellow is bound to see that he leaves this substitute for his com- 
 pany when he goes out — especially to a lady, whose solitary 
 wcrk-table in a chill room on such a day is a very melancholy 
 refuge. We exhort her, if she can afford it, to take a book and 
 a footstool, and plant herself before a good fire. "We know of 
 few balks more complete than coming down of a chill morning 
 to breakfast, turning one's chair, as usual, to the fireside, plant- 
 ing one's feet on the fender and one's eyes on a book, and sud- 
 denly discovering that there is no fire in the grate. A grate, 
 that ought to have a fire in it, and gapes in one's face with none, 
 is like a cold, grinning, empty rascal. 
 
 There is something, we think, not disagreeable in issuing 
 forth during a good, honest, summer rain, with a coat well 
 buttoned up and an umbrella over our heads. The first flash 
 open of the umbrella seems a defiance to the shower, and the 
 sound of it afterwards over our dry heads corroborates the 
 triumph. If we are in this humour, it does not matter how 
 drenching the day is. V/e despise the expensive effeminacy of 
 a coach, have an agreeable malice of self-content at the sight of 
 crowded gateways, and see nothing in the furious little rain-
 
 A RAINY DAY. 245 
 
 spouts but a lively emblem of critical opposition — weak, low, 
 washy, and dirty — gabbling away with a perfect impotence of 
 splutter. 
 
 Speaking of malice, there are even some kinds of legs which 
 afford us a lively pleasure in beholding them splashed. 
 
 Lady. Lord, you cruel man ! 
 
 Indicator. Nay, I was not speaking of yours, madam. How 
 could I wish ill to any such very touching stockings ? And yet, 
 now I think of it, there are very gentle and sensitive legs (I say 
 nothing of beautiful ones, because all gentle ones are beautiful 
 to me) which it is possible to behold in a very earthy plight— 
 at least the feet and ankles. 
 
 Lady. And pray, sir, what are the very agreeable circum- 
 stances under which we are to be mudded 1 
 
 Indie. Fancy, madam, a walk with some particular friend, 
 between the showers, in a green lane ; the sun shining, the hay 
 sweet-smelling, the glossy leaves sparkling like children's cheeks 
 after tears. Suppose this lane not to be got into, but over a 
 bank and a brook, and a good savage assortment of waggon- 
 ruts. Yet the sunny green so takes you, and you are so resolved 
 to oblige your friend with a walk, that you hazard a descent 
 down the slippery bank, a jump over the brook, a leap (that will 
 certainly be too short) over the ploughed mud. Do you think that 
 a good thick-mudded shoe and a splashed instep would not have 
 a merit in his barbarous eyes, beyond even the neat outline of 
 the Spanish leather, and the symbolical whiteness of the stock- 
 ing ? Ask him. 
 
 Lady. Go to your subject, do. 
 
 Indie. Well, I will. You may always know whether a person 
 wishes you a pleasant or unpleasant adventure by the pleasure 
 or pain he has in your company. If he would be with you him- 
 self (and I should like to know the pleasant situation, or even 
 the painful one, if a share of it can be made pleasant, in which 
 we would not have a woman with us), you may rest assured that 
 all the mischief he wishes you is very harmless. At the same
 
 £46 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 time, if there are situations in which one could wish ill even to 
 a lady's lecj, there are legs and stockings which it is possible to 
 fancy well-splashed upon a very different principle. 
 
 Gentlevian. Pray, sir, whose may those be ? 
 
 Indie. Not yours, sir, with that delicate flow of trouser, and 
 that careless yet genteel stretch-out of toe. There is a humanity 
 in the air of it — a graceful but at the same time manly sympathy 
 with the drapery beside it. I allude, sir, to one of those porten- 
 tous legs, which belong to an over-fed money-getter, or to a 
 bulky Methodist parson, who has doating dinners got up for him 
 by his hearers. You know the leg I mean. It is " like unto 
 the sign of the leg," only larger. Observe, I do not mean every 
 kind of large leg. The same thing is not the same thing in 
 every one, if you understand that profound apothegm. As a 
 leg, indifferent in itself, may become very charming, if it belongs 
 to a charming owner ; so, even when it is of the cast we speak 
 of in a man, it becomes more or less unpleasant according to 
 his nature and treatment of it. I am not carping at the leg of 
 an ordinary jolly fellow, which good temper as well as good 
 living helps to plump out, and which he is, after all, not proud 
 of exhibiting ; keeping it modestly in a boot or trousers, and 
 despising the starched ostentation of the other : but at a regular, 
 dull, uninformed, hebetudinous, " gross, open, and palpable " 
 leg, whose calf glares upon you like the ground-glass of a post- 
 chaise lamp. In the parson it is somewhat obscui-ed by a black 
 stocking. A white one is requisite to display it in all its glory. 
 It has a large balustrade calf, an ankle that would be monstrous 
 in any other man, but looks small from the contrast, a tight 
 knee well buttoned, and a seam inexorably in the middle. It is 
 a leg at once gross and symbolical. Its size is made up of 
 plethora and superfluity ; its white cotton stocking affects a 
 propriety ; its inflexible seam and side announce the man of 
 clock-work. A dozen hard-worked dependants go at least to 
 the making up of that leg. If in black, it is the essence of 
 infinite hams at old ladies' Sunday dinners. Now, we like to
 
 A RAINY DAY. 2^7 
 
 see a couple of legs, of this sort, in white, kicking their way 
 through a muddy street, and splashed unavoidably as they go, 
 till their horrid glare is subdued into spottiness. A lamp- 
 lighter's ladder is of use, to give them a passing spurn ; upon 
 which the proprietor, turning round to swear, is run against in 
 front by a wheel-barrow ; upon which, turning round again, to 
 swear worse, he thrusts his heel upon the begirming of a loose 
 stone in the pavement, and receives his final baptism from a 
 fount of mud. 
 
 Our limits compel us to bring this article to a speedier con- 
 clusion than we thought. We must therefore say little of a 
 world of things we intended to descant on ; — of pattens ; and 
 eaves ; and hackney-coaches ; and waiting in vain to go out on 
 a party of pleasure, while the youngest of us insists every minute 
 that " it is going to hold up ; " and umbrellas dripping on one's 
 shoulder ; and the abomination of soaked gloves ; and standing 
 up in gateways, when you hear now and then the passing roar 
 of rain on an umbrella; and glimpses of the green country at 
 ihe end of streets ; and the foot-marked earth of the country 
 roads ; and clouds eternally following each other from the 
 west ; and the scent of the luckless new-mown hay ; and the 
 rainbow ; and the glorious thunder and lightning ; and a party 
 waiting to go home at night ; and last of all, the delicious 
 moment of taking off your wet things, and resting in the dry 
 and warm content of your gown and slippers.
 
 ON THE TALKING OF NONSENSE. 
 
 THERE is no greater mistake in the world than the looking 
 upon every sort of nonsense as want of sense. Nonsense, 
 in the bad sense of the word, like certain suspicious 
 ladies, is very fond of bestowing its own appellation, particularly 
 upon what renders other persons agreeable. But nonsense, in 
 the good sense of the word, is a very sensible thing in its 
 season ; and is only confounded with the other by people of a 
 shallow gravity, who cannot afford to joke. 
 
 These gentlemen live upon credit, and would not have it 
 inquired into. They are perpetual beggars of the question. 
 They are grave, not because they think, or feel the contrast of 
 mirth, for then they would feel the mirth itself; but because 
 gravity is their safest mode of behaviour. They must keep 
 their minds sitting still, because they are incapable of a motion 
 that is not awkward. They are waxen images among the 
 living ; the deception is undone if the others stir ; or hollow 
 vessels covered up, which may be taken for full ones ; the 
 collision of wit jars against them, and strikes but their hollow- 
 ness. 
 
 In fact, the difference between nonsense not worth talking, 
 and nonsense worth it, is simply this : — the former is the result 
 of a want of ideas, the latter of a superabundance of them. 
 This is remarkably exemplified by Swift's " Polite Conversa- 
 tion," in which the dialogue, though intended to be a tissue of
 
 ON THE TALKING OF NONSENSE. 249 
 
 the greatest nonsense in request with shallow merriment, is in 
 reality full of ideas, and many of them very humorous ; but 
 then they are all commonplace, and have been said so often, 
 that the thing uppermost in your mind is the inability of the 
 speakers to utter a sentence of their own ;— they have no ideas 
 at all. Many of the jokes and similes in that treatise are still 
 the current coin of the shallow ; though they are now pretty 
 much confined to gossips of an inferior order, and the upper 
 part of the lower classes. 
 
 On the other hand, the wildest rattling, as it Is called, in which 
 men of sense find entertainment, consists of nothing but a quick 
 and original succession of ideas, — a finding, as it were, of some- 
 thing in nothing, — a rapid turning of the hearer's mind to some 
 new face of thought and sparkling imagery. The man of shallow 
 gravity, besides an uneasy half-consciousness that he has nothing 
 of the sort about him, is too dull of perception to see the delicate 
 links between one thought and another ; and he takes that for a 
 mere chaos of laughing jargon, in which finer apprehensions 
 perceive as much delightful association as men of musical taste 
 do in the most tricksome harmonies and accompaniments of 
 Mozart or Beethoven. Between such gravity and such mirth 
 there is as much difference as between the driest and dreariest 
 psalmody, and that exquisite laughing trio, — " E voi ridete," — 
 which is sung in " Cosi fan tutte." A Quaker's coat and a 
 garden are not more dissimilar ; nor a death-bell and the birds 
 after a sunny shower. 
 
 It is on such occasions, indeed, that we enjoy the perfection 
 of what is agreeable in humanity, — the harmony of mind and 
 body,— intellect, and animal spirits. Accordingly, the greatest 
 geniuses appear to have been proficients in this kind of non- 
 sense, and to have delighted in dwelling upon it, and attributing 
 it to their favourites. Virgil is no joker, but Homer is ; and 
 there is the same difference between their heroes, ^neas and 
 Achilles, the latter of whom is also a player on the harp. Venus, 
 the most delightful of the goddesses, is Philommcides, the
 
 250 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 laughter-loving ; — an epithet, by the by, which might give a 
 good hint to a number of very respectable ladies, " who love 
 their lords," but who are too apt to let ladies less respectable 
 run away with them. Horace represents Pleasantry as flutter- 
 ing about Venus in company with Cupid — 
 
 " Quern Jociis circumvolat, et CiipiJo ; " 
 
 and these are followed by Youth, the enjoycr of animal spirits, 
 and by Mercury, the god of Persuasion. There is the same 
 difference between Tasso and Ariosto as between Virgil and 
 Homer ; that is to say, the latter proves his greater genius by a 
 completer and more various hold on the feelings, and has not 
 only a fresher spirit of Nature about him, but a truer, because 
 a happier; for the want of this enjoyment is at once a defect 
 and a deterioration. It is more or less a disease of the blood ; 
 a falling off from the pure and uncontradicted blithesomeness 
 of childhood ; a hampering of the mind with the altered nerves ; 
 dust gathered in the watch, and perplexing our passing hours. 
 
 It may be thought a begging of the question to mention 
 Anacreon, since he made an absolute business of mirth and 
 enjoyment, and sat down systematically to laugh as well as to 
 drink. But on that very account, perhaps, his case is still more 
 in point ; and Plato, one of the gravest, but not the shallowest, 
 of philosophers, gave him the title of the Wise. The disciple 
 of Socrates appears also to have been a great enjoyer of Aristo- 
 phanes ; and the divine Socrates himself was a wit and a 
 joker. 
 
 But the divine Shakspeare — the man to whom we go for 
 everything, and are sure to find it, grave, rnelancholy, or merry 
 — what said he to this exquisite kind of nonsense? Perhaps 
 next to his pass-on for detecting nature, and over-informing it 
 with poetry, he took delight in pursuing a joke ; and the lowest 
 scenes of his in this way say more to men whose faculties are 
 fresh about them, and who prefer enjoyment to criticism, than 
 the most doting of commentators can find out. They are
 
 ON THE TALKING OF NONSENSE. 251 
 
 Instances of his animal spirits, of his sociality, of his passion 
 for giving and receiving pleasure, of his enjoyment of some- 
 thing wiser than wisdom. 
 
 The greatest favourites of Shakspeare are made to resemble 
 himself in this particular. Hamlet, Mercutio, Touchstone, 
 Jaques, Richard the Third, and Falstaff, " inimitable Falstaff," 
 are all men of wit and humour, modified according to their 
 different temperaments or circumstances ; some from health 
 and spirits, others from sociality, others from a contrast with 
 their very melancholy. Indeed, melancholy itself, with the 
 profoundest intellects, will rarely be found to be anything else 
 than a sickly temperament, induced or otherwise, preying in its 
 turn upon the disappointed expectation of pleasure ; upon the 
 contradiction of hopes, which this world is not made to realise, 
 though, let us never forget, it is made, as they themselves prove, 
 to suggest. Some of Shakspeare's characters, as Mercutio and 
 Benedick, are almost entirely made up of wit and animal spirits ; 
 and delightful fellows they are, and ready, from their very taste, 
 to perform the most serious and manly offices. Most of his 
 women, too, have an abundance of natural vivacity. Desdemona 
 herself is so pleasant of intercourse in every way, that, upon the 
 principle of the respectable mistakes above mentioned, the 
 Moor, when he grows jealous, is tempted to think it a proof of 
 her want of honesty. But we must make Shakspeare speak 
 for himself, or we shall not know how to be silent on this subject. 
 What a description is that which he gives of a man of mirth — 
 of a mirth, too, which he has expressly stated to be within the 
 limit of what is becoming ! It is in " Love's Labour's Lost : " — 
 
 "A merrier man, 
 Within the limit of becoming mirth, 
 I never spent an hour's talk withal. 
 His eye begets occasion for his wit : 
 For every object that the one doth catch. 
 The other turns to a mirth-moving jer.t ; 
 Which his fair tongue, conceit's expositor, 
 Delivers in such apt and gracious words. 
 That aged ears play truant at his talcs,
 
 252 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 And younger hearings are quite ravished ; 
 So sweet and voluble is his discourse." 
 
 We have been led into these reflections, partly to introduce 
 the conclusion of this article ; partly from being very fond of a 
 joke ourselves, and so making our self-love as proud as possible ; 
 and partly from having spent some most agreeable hours the 
 other evening with a company, the members of which had all 
 the right to be grave and disagreeable that rank and talent are 
 supposed to confer, and yet, from the very best sense or forgei- 
 fulness of both, were as lively and entertaining to each other as 
 boys. Not one of them, perhaps, but had his cares — one or two, 
 of no ordinary description ; but what then ? These are the 
 moments, if we can take advantage of them, when sorrows are 
 shared, even unconsciously ; moments, when melancholy inter- 
 mits her fever, and hope takes a leap into enjoyment ; when 
 the pilgrim of life, if he cannot lay aside his burden, forgets it in 
 meeting his fellows about a fountain, and soothes his weariness 
 and his resolution with the sparkling sight, and the noise of the 
 freshness. 
 
 To come to our anticlimax, for such we are afraid it must be 
 called after all this grave sentiment and mention of authorities. 
 The following dialogue is the substance of a joke, never meant 
 for its present place, that was started the other day upon a late 
 publication. The name of the book it is not necessary to men- 
 tion, especially as it was pronounced to be one of the driest that 
 had appeared for years. We cannot answer for the sentences 
 being put to their proper speakers. The friends whom we 
 value most happen to be great hunters in this way ; and the 
 reader may look upon the thing as a specimen of a joke run 
 down, or of the sort of nonsense above mentioned ; so that he 
 will take due care how he professes not to relish it. We must 
 also advertise him, that a proper quantity of giggling and 
 laughter must be supposed to be interspersed, till towards the 
 end it gradually becomes too great to go on with. 
 
 A. Did you ever see such a book ?
 
 ON THE TALKING OF NONSENS]E. 253 
 
 B. Never, in all my life. It's ns dry as a chip. 
 
 A. As a chip .'' A chip 's a slice of orange to it. 
 
 B. Ay, or a wet spunge. 
 
 A. Or a cup in a currant tart. 
 
 B. Ah, ha ; so it is. You feel as if you were fingering a 
 brick-bat. 
 
 A. It makes you feel dust in the eyes. 
 
 B. It is impossible to shed a tear over it. The lachrymal 
 organs are dried up. 
 
 A. If you shut it hastily, it is like clapping together a pair of 
 fresh-cleaned gloves. 
 
 B. Before you have got far in it, you get up to look at your 
 tongue in a glass. 
 
 A. It absolutely makes you thirsty. 
 
 B. Yes. If you take it up at breakfast, you drink four cups 
 instead of two. 
 
 A. At page 30 you call for beer. 
 
 B. They say it made a Reviewer take to drinking. 
 
 A. They have it lying on the table at inns to make you drink 
 double. The landlord says " A new book, sir," and goes out to 
 order two neguses. 
 
 B. It dries up everything so, it has ruined the draining busi- 
 ness. 
 
 A. There is an Act of Parliament to forbid people's passing 
 a vintner's with it in their pockets. 
 
 B. The Dutch subscribed for it to serve them instead of 
 dykes.
 
 ON THE SLOW RISE OF THE MOST RATIONAL 
 OPINIONS. 
 
 IT would be surprising to think by what slow degrees the 
 most rational and apparently the most obvious improve- 
 ments take place in human opinion, did not habit, and self- 
 love, and the fear of change, sufficiently account for them. Some 
 find it as difficult to leave off a mere habit of opinion, however 
 pernicious, as drunkards their drams. Others cannot bear a 
 diminution in the respect which they have long entertained for 
 themselves, as sensible and conclusive thinkers. Others are 
 afraid of all innovation, in consequence of the shock it gives to 
 society ; and yet the next minute they would wage a dozen wars 
 to preserve the old notions. Again, it is thought a triumphant 
 argument with some, if the new opinion proposed be to the 
 advantage of the proposer ; — which is a very idle objection ; 
 because, if it supposes the general good, it includes his among 
 the rest. 
 
 Innovation, as mere innovation, is a want of reverence for 
 antiquity ; an insensibility to the accumulated habits of time, 
 and to the comforts and consolations they have gathered by the 
 way. But, on the other hand, objection to it, as mere objection, 
 is cowardice and selfishness : cowardice, for fear of responsi- 
 bility ; selfishness, for fear of losing a certain property in our 
 self-respect, and having the notion of our own wisdom and 
 sufficiency disturbed. You may know the goodness of either in
 
 ON THE SLOW RISE OF THE MOST RATIONAL OPINIONS. 255 
 
 proportion to its enthusiasm, sincerity, gentleness, and wish to 
 reason. You may know the badness by a certain mixture of 
 coldness and violence, by its shuffling, its petulance, and its 
 tendency to dismiss a subject at once with abuse. As to the 
 innovator, it is his business to make up his mind to a certain 
 portion of misrepresentation ; for who was the innovator, great 
 or small, that ever was without it ? But it is his business also 
 to examine narrowly into his own consciousness, and to 
 be sure, from experiment, that he can deny himself, for the 
 good of others, what he would willingly enjoy with them in 
 common. 
 
 There is not a liberal opinion now existing which has not gone 
 through heaps of ugly faces and yelling threats, like the saints 
 in the old pictures. To differ in religious faith was once thought 
 the height of undeniable villany ; and is so still by some ignorant 
 sects. The Spaniards were taught to believe that all heretics 
 had monster-like faces, till Lord Peterborough's officers per- 
 suaded the nuns otherwise. Milton says that he could not pro- 
 pose some new things, even after an ancient fashion (and indeed 
 almost every proposition for human improvement is to be found 
 in the ancient writers), but 
 
 " Straight a barbarous noise environs me 
 Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs ; 
 As when those hinds that were transform'd to frogl 
 Rail'd at Latona's twin-born progeny, 
 Which after held the sun and moon in fee." 
 
 It is lamentable to see such a man as Bacon trying to feel his 
 way into popular persuasion by smoothing the king's and people's 
 prejudices as he goes, giving even into the superstitions about 
 witchcraft. A friend was observing to us a short time since, 
 that he was not aware of the existence of any denouncement of 
 cruelty to animals till Pope wrote a paper on it in the Guardian. 
 Shakspcare, who says everything, has said something about 
 " the poor beetle that we tread upon, feeling as great a pang as 
 when a giant dies ;" but it is only in a cursory manner, and by
 
 250 LEIGH HUNT S ESSAYS. 
 
 way of illustration. His reflections upon the hunted stag, as if 
 by way of excuse for the novelty of their sympathy, are put into 
 the mouth of an eccentric and saturnine philosopher. His age, 
 indeed, so great and humane in many respects, was so insensible 
 in this particular point, that one of the greatest and humanest 
 of its ornaments, Sir Philip Sydney, describes his ladies and 
 courtiers as laudably diverting themselves with sealing up a 
 dove's eyes, to see it strain higher and higher into the light, — 
 with other " cunning" diversions too gross and cruel to repeat. 
 Poor ignorant old beldams, whom their neighbours or them- 
 selves took for witches, were put to death at a later period, with 
 great approbation, not only of the " British Solomon," King 
 James, but of a high legal authority, and even the good old Sir 
 Matthew Hale. The celebrated Robert Boyle, as our readers 
 know, was accounted a sort of perfection of a man, especially in 
 all respects intellectual, moral, and religious. This excellent 
 person was in the habit of moralising upon everything that he 
 did or suffered ; such as " Upon his manner of giving meat to 
 his dog," — " Upon his horse stumbling in a very fair way," — 
 " Upon his sitting at ease in a coach that went very fast," &c. 
 Among other reflections is one " Upon a fish's struggling after 
 having swallowed the hook." It amounts to this ; that at the 
 moment when the fish thinks himself about to be most happy, 
 the hook "does so wound and tear his tender gills, and thereby 
 puts him into such restless pain, that no doubt he wishes the 
 hook, bait and all, were out of his torn jaws again. Thus," 
 says he, "men who do what they should not to obtain any 
 sensual desires," &;c., &c. Not a thought comes over him as 
 to his own part in the business, and what he ought to say of 
 himself for tearing the jaws and gills to indulge his own appetite 
 for excitement. Take also the following: — "Fifth Section — 
 Reflection i. Killing a crow (out of window) in a hog's trough, 
 and immediately tracing the ensuing reflection with a pen made 
 of one of his quills. — Long and patiently did I wait for this un- 
 lucky crow, wallowing in the sluttish trough (whose sides kept
 
 ON THE SLOW RISE OF THE MOST RATiONAL OPINIONS. 257 
 
 him a great while out of the reach of my gun), and gorging him- 
 self with no less greediness than the very swinish proprietaries 
 of the feast, till at length my no less unexpected than fatal shot in 
 a moment struck him down, and, turning the scene of his delight 
 into that of his pangs, made him abruptly alter his note, and 
 change his triumphant chaunt into a dismal and tragic noise. 
 This method is not unusual to Divine Justice towards brawny 
 and incorrigible sinners," Sec, &c. Thus, the crow, for eating 
 his dinner, is a rascal worthy to be shot by the Honourable Mr 
 Robert Boyle, before the latter sits down to his own ; while the 
 said Mr Boyle, instead of contenting himself with being a gentle- 
 man in search of amusement at the expense of birds and fish, is 
 a representative of Divine Justice. 
 
 We laugh at this wretched moral pedantry now, and deplore 
 the involuntary hard-heartedness which such mistakes in re- 
 ligion tended to produce ; but in how many respects should it 
 not make us look about us, and see where we fall short of an 
 enlargement of thinking ? 
 
 [Note. — There is another passage in Shakspeare showing a humane 
 feeling towards animals, which Leigh Hunt seems here to have for- 
 gotten. It is the account of the hunted hare in " Venus and Adonis." 
 — E. O.]
 
 SUPERFINE BREEDING. 
 
 THERE is an anecdote in Aulus Gellius (" Noctes Atticae,'* 
 Lib. X. Cap. 6) which exhibits, we think, one of the 
 highest instances of what may be called polite black- 
 guardism that we ever remember to have read. The fastidious- 
 ness, self-will, and infinite resentment against a multitude of 
 one's fellow-creatures for presuming to come in contact with 
 one's own importance, are truly edifying ; and, to complete the 
 lesson, this extraordinary specimen of the effect of superfine 
 breeding and blood is handed down to us in the person of a 
 lady. Her words might be thought to have been a bad joke ; 
 and bad enough it would have been ; but the sense that was 
 shown of them proves them to have been very gravely re- 
 garded. 
 
 Claudia, the daughter of Appius Cascus, in coming away from 
 a public spectacle, was much pressed and pushed about by the 
 crowd ; upon which she thus vented her impatience : — " What 
 should I have suffered now, and how much more should I have 
 been squeezed and knocked about, if my brother Publius 
 Claudius had not had his ships destroyed in battle, with all that 
 heap of men ? I should have been absolutely jammed to death ! 
 Would to heaven my brother were jilive again, and could go 
 with another fleet to Sicily, and be the death of this host of 
 people, who plague and pester one in this horrid manner !"* 
 
 • " Quid me nunc factum esset, quantoque arctius pressiusque con*!iciata essem.
 
 SUPERFINE BREEDING. 259 
 
 For these words, " so wicked and so uncivic," says good old 
 Gellius {tarn improba ac tarn incivilia), the aediles, Caius 
 Fundanus and Tiberius Sempronius, got the lady fined in the 
 sum of twenty-five thousand pounds brass. There is a long 
 account in Livy of the speech which they made to the people, 
 in reply to the noble families that interceded for her. It is very 
 indignant. Claudia herself confessed her words, and does not 
 appear to have joined in the intercession. They are not related 
 at such length by Livy as by Aulus Gellius. He merely makes 
 her wish that her brother were alive to take out another fleet. 
 But he shows his own sense of the ebullition by calling it a 
 dreadful imprecation ; and her rage was even more gratuitous 
 according to his account, for he describes her as coming from 
 the shows in a chariot. 
 
 Insolence and want of feeling appear to have been hereditary 
 in this Appian family : which gives us also a strong sense of 
 their want of capacity ; otherwise, a disgust at such manners 
 must have been generated in some of the children. They were 
 famous for opposing every popular law, and for having kept 
 the commons as long as possible out of any share in public 
 honours and government. The villain Appius Claudius, whose 
 well-known story has lately been made still more familiar to the 
 public by the tragedy of Mr Knowles, was among its ancestors. 
 Appius Czecus, or the Blind, the father of Claudia, though he 
 constructed the celebrated Appian Way, and otherwise benefited 
 the city, was a very unpopular man, wilful, haughty, and lawless. 
 He retained possession of the Censorship beyond the limited 
 period. It is an instance, perhaps, of his unpopularity, as well 
 as of the superstition of the times, that, having made a change 
 in one of the priestly offices, and become blind some years after- 
 wards, the Romans attributed it to the vengeance of heaven ; an 
 
 ti P. Claudius frater meus navali praelio classem navium cum ingcnti civium numero 
 non perdidisset ? certe quidem majore nunc copia populi oppressa intercidissem. 
 Sed utinam, inquit, reviviscat frater, aliamque classem in Siciliam ducat, atqu« 
 istam muUitudinem perditum eat, quje me male nunc miseram convexavit."
 
 z6o LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 opinion which Livy repeats with great devotion, calHng it a 
 warning against innovations in rehgion. It had no effect, how- 
 ever, upon Claudius the brother, whose rashness furnished the 
 pious Romans with a similar example to point at. Before an 
 engagement with the Carthaginians, the Sacred Chickens were 
 consulted, and because they would not peck and furnish him with 
 a good omen, he ordered them to be thrown into the sea. "If 
 they won't eat," said he, " let 'em drink." The engagement was 
 one of the worst-planned and the worst-fought in the world ; but 
 the men were avowedly dispirited by the Consul's irreverent 
 behaviour to the chickens, and his impiety shared the disgrace 
 with his folly. Livy represents him as an epitome of all that 
 was bad in his family ; proud, stubborn, unmerciful, though full 
 of faults himself, and wilful and precipitate to a degree of mad- 
 ness. This was the battle of which his sister wished to see a 
 repetition. It cost the Romans many ships sunk, ninety-three 
 taken, and, according to the historian, the miraculous loss of 
 eight thousand men killed, and twenty thousand taken prisoners, 
 while the Carthaginians lost not a ship or a man.
 
 SHAKING HANDS. 
 
 AMONG the first things which we remember noticing in 
 the manners of people, were two errors in the custom of 
 shaking hands. Some, we observed, grasped everybody's 
 hand aUke, — with an equal fervour of grip. You would have 
 thought that Jenkins was the best friend they had in the world ; 
 but on succeeding to the squeeze, though a slight acquaintance, 
 you found it equally flattering to yourself; and on the appear- 
 ance of somebody else (whose name, it turned out, the operator 
 had forgotten), the crush was no less complimentary ; the face 
 was as earnest and beaming, the "glad to see you" as syllabical 
 and sincere, and the shake as close, as long, and as rejoicing, as 
 if the semi-unknown was a friend come home from the Deserts. 
 On the other hand, there would be a gentleman now and then 
 as coy of his hand as if he were a prude, or had a whitlow. It 
 was in vain that your pretensions did not go beyond the " civil 
 salute" of the ordinary shake ; or that, being introduced to him 
 in a friendly manner, and expected to shake hands with the rest 
 of the company, you could not in decency omit his. His 
 fingers, half coming out, and half retreating, seemed to think 
 that you were going to do them a mischief; and when you got 
 hold of them, the whole shake was on your side : the other hand 
 did but proudly or pensively acquiesce, — there was no knowing 
 which : you had to sustain it, as you might a lady's in handing 
 her to a seat : and it was an equal perplexity to know how to
 
 26a LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 shake or to let it go. The one seemed a violence done to the 
 patient ; the other, an awkward responsibility brought upon your- 
 self. You did not know, all the evening, whether you were not 
 an object of dislike to the person ; till, on the party's breaking 
 up, you saw him behave like an equally ill-used gentleman to all 
 who practised the same unthinking civility. 
 
 Both these errors, we think, might as well be avoided ; but, 
 of the two, we must say we prefer the former. If it does not 
 look so much like particular sincerity, it looks more like general 
 kindness ; and if those two virtues are to be separated (which 
 they assuredly need not be, if considered without spleen), the 
 world can better afford to dispense with an unpleasant truth 
 than a gratuitous humanity. Besides, it is more difficult to 
 make sure of the one than to practise the other ; and kindness 
 itself is the best of all truths. As long as we are sure of that, 
 we are sure of something, and of something pleasant. It is 
 always the best end, if not in every instance the most logical 
 means. 
 
 This manual shyness is sometimes attributed to modesty, but 
 never, we suspect, with justice, unless it be that sort of modesty 
 whose fear of committing itself is grounded in pride. Want of 
 address is a better reason, but this particular instance of it 
 would be grounded in the same feeling. It always implies a 
 habit either of pride or distrust. We have met with two really 
 kind men who evinced this soreness of hand. Neither of them 
 perhaps thought himself inferior to anybody about him, and 
 both had good reason to think highly of themselves ; but both 
 had been sanguine men contradicted in their early hopes. 
 There was a plot to meet the hand of one of them with a fish- 
 slice, in order to show him the disadvantage to which he put his 
 friends by that flat mode of salutation ; but the conspirator 
 had not the courage to do it. Whether he heard of the in- 
 tention, we know not ; but shortly afterwards he took very 
 kindly to a shake. The other was the only man of a warm set 
 of politicians who remained true to his first love of mankind.
 
 SHAKING HANDS. £63 
 
 He was impatient at the change of his companions, and at the 
 folly and inattention of the rest ; but, though his manner became 
 cold, his consistency still remained warm ; and this gave him a 
 right to be as strange as he pleased, 
 
 [Note. — The second person alluded to above as shaking hands 
 coldly was Hazlitt. I do not know who was the intended victim of 
 the fish-slice practical joke. — E. O.]
 
 ON RECEIVING A SPRIG OF LAUREL FROM 
 VAUCLUSE. 
 
 AND this piece of laurel is from Vaucluse ! Perhaps 
 Petrarch, perhaps Laura, sat under it ! This is a true 
 present. What an exquisite dry, old, vital, young, 
 looking, evei'lasting twig it is ! It has been plucked nine 
 months, and looks as hale and as crisp as if it would last ninety 
 years. It shall last at any rate as long as its owner, and longer 
 if care and love can preserve it. How beautifully it is turned ! 
 It was a happy pull from the tree. Its shape is the very line of 
 beauty ; it has berries upon it, as if resolved to show us in what 
 fine condition the trees are ; while the leaves issue from it, and 
 swerve upwards with their elegant points, as though they had 
 come from adorning the poet's head. Be thou among the best 
 of one's keepsakes, thou genlle stem, — /« deliciis nostris ; and 
 may the very maid-servant who wonders to see thy withered 
 beauty in its frame, miss her lover the next five weeks, for not 
 having the instinct to know that thou must have something to 
 do with love ! 
 
 Perhaps Petrarch has felt the old ancestral boughs of this 
 branch stretching over his head, and whispering to him of the 
 name of Laura, of his love, and of their future glory ; for all 
 these ideas used to be entwined in one. (Sestina 2, Canzone 
 17, Sonetti 162, 163, 164, 207, 224, &c.) Perhaps it is of the 
 very stock of that bough which he describes as supplying lus
 
 ON RECEIVING A SPRIG OF LAUREL FROM VAUCLUSE. 265 
 
 mistress with a leaning-stock when she sat in her favourite 
 bower. 
 
 " Giovanc donna sotto un verde laiiro 
 ViJi piu bianca e piu fredda che neve 
 Hon percossa dal sol molti e molt' anni ; 
 E '1 suo parlar, e '1 bel viso, e le chiome, 
 Mi piacquer si, ch' i' I'ho a gli occhi mici, 
 Ed avro sempre, ov* io sia in poggio o'n riva." 
 
 /"art I., Sesiina 2. 
 A youthful lady under a green laurel 
 I saw, more fair and colder than white snows 
 Unshone upon for many and many a year ; 
 And her sweet looks, and hair, and way of speaking. 
 So pleased me, that I have her now before me, 
 And shall have ever, whether on hill or lea. 
 
 The laurel seems more appropriated to Petrarch than to any 
 other poet. He delighted to sit under its leaves ; he loved it 
 both for itself, and for the resemblance of its name to that of his 
 mistress ; he wrote of it continually ; and he was called from 
 out of its shade to be crowned with it in the Capitol. It is a 
 remarkable instance of the fondness with which he cherished 
 the united ideas of Laura and the laurel, that he confesses it to 
 have been one of the greatest delights he experienced in receiv- 
 ing the crown upon his head. 
 
 It was out of Vaucluse that he was called. Vaucluse, Val- 
 chiusa, the Shut Valley (from which the French, in the modern 
 enthusiasm for intellect, gave the name to the department in 
 which it lies), is a remarkable spot in the old poetical region of 
 Provence, consisting of a little deep glen of green meadows 
 surrounded with rocks, and containing the fountain of the river 
 Sorgue. Petrarch, when a boy of eight or nine years of age, had 
 been struck with its beauty, and exclaimed that it was the place 
 of all others he should like to live in, better than the most 
 splendid cities. He resided there afterwards for several years, 
 and composed in it the greater part of his poems. Indeed, he 
 says, in his own account of himself, that he either wrote or 
 conceived in that valley almost every work he produced. He 
 lived in a little cottage with a small homestead, on the banks of
 
 266 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 the river. Here he thought to forget his passion for Laura, and 
 here he found it stronger than ever. We do not well see how it 
 could have been otherwise ; for Laura lived no great way off, at 
 Chabrieres, and he appears to have seen her often in the very- 
 place. He paced along the river ; he sat under the trees ; he 
 climbed the mountains : but Love, he says, was ever by his 
 side, 
 
 " Ragionando con meco, ed io con lui." 
 He holding talk with me, and I with him 
 
 We are supposing that all our readers are acquainted with 
 Petrarch. Many of them, doubtless, know him intimately. 
 Should any of them want an introduction to him, how should 
 we speak of him in the gross ? We should say, that he was one 
 of the finest gentlemen and greatest scholars that ever lived ; 
 that he was a writer who flourished in Italy in the fourteenth 
 century, at the time when Chaucer was young, during the reigns 
 of our Edwards ; that he was the greatest light of his age ; that, 
 although so fine a writer himself, and the author of a multitude 
 of works, — or rather because he was both, — he took the greatest 
 pains to revive the knowledge of the ancient learning, recom- 
 mending it everywhere, and copying out large manuscripts with 
 his own hand ; that two great cities, Paris and Rome, contended 
 which should have the honour of crowning him ; that he was 
 crowned publicly, in the Metropolis of the World, with laurel 
 and with myrtle ; that he was the friend of Boccaccio, the 
 Father of Italian Prose ; and lastly, that his greatest renown 
 nevertheless, as well as the predominant feelings of his exist- 
 ence, arose from the long love he bore for a lady of Avignon, 
 the far-famed Laura, whom he fell in love with on the 6th of 
 April, 1327, on a Good Friday; whom he rendered illustrious 
 in a multitude of sonnets, which have left a sweet sound and 
 sentiment in the eat of all after lovers ; and who died, still 
 passionately beloved, in the year 1348, on the same day and 
 hour on which he first beheld her. Who she was, or v/hy their 
 connexion was not closer, remains a mystery. But that she was
 
 ON RECEIVING A SPRIG OF LAUREL FROM VAUCLUSE. 267 
 
 a real person, and that in spite of all her modesty she did not 
 show an insensible countenance to his passion, is clear from his 
 long-haunted imagination, from his own repeated accounts, 
 from all that he wrote, uttered, and thought. One love, and 
 one poet, sufficed to give the whole civilised world a sense of 
 delicacy in desire, of the abundant riches to be found in one 
 single idea, and of the going out of a man's self to dwell in the 
 soul and happiness of another, which has served to refine the 
 passion for all modern times, and perhaps will do so as long 
 as love renews the world. 
 
 [Note. — The reason why the connexion between Petrarch and Laura 
 was not "closer," is to be found in the circumstance, which Leigh 
 Hunt seems not to have known at the time he wrote this article, that 
 the lady was already married, and that, while encouraging her poet- 
 lover up to a certain point (it is to be feared, with some admixture of 
 vanity in the motive), she determined not to compromise herself in any 
 serious degree. — E. O.]
 
 A HUMAN ANIMAL, AND THE OTHER 
 EXTREME. 
 
 WE met the other day with the following description of an 
 animal of quality, in a Biographical Dictionary that 
 was published in the year 1767, and which is one of 
 the most amusing and spirited publications of the kind that we 
 remember to have seen. The writer does not give his authority 
 for this particular memoir, so that it was probably furnished 
 from his own knowledge ; but that the account is a true one, is 
 evident. Indeed, with the exception of one or two eccentricities 
 of prudence which rather lean to the side of an excess of instinct, 
 it is but an individual description referring to a numerous class 
 of the same nature that once flourished with horn and hound 
 in this country, and specimens of which are no doubt to be found 
 here and there still, especially towards the north.* The title we 
 have put at the head of it is not quite correct and exclusive 
 enough as a definition ; since, properly speaking, we lords of 
 the creation are all human animals ; but the mere animal, or 
 living and breathing, faculty is united in us more or less with 
 intellect and sentiment ; and of these refinements of the percep- 
 tion, few bipeds that have arrived at the dignity of a coat and 
 boots have partaken so little as the noble squire before us 
 
 • Since writing this, we have found that our zoographical original is in Hutchins's 
 "History of Dorsetshire." See Gilpin s "Forest Scenery," or Drake's " Shak- 
 speare and his Times."
 
 A HUMAN ANIMAL, AND THE OTHER EXTREME. 260 
 
 How far some of us, who take ourselves for very rational per- 
 sons, do or do not go beyond him, we shall perhaps see in the 
 course of our remarks. 
 
 " The Honourable William Hastings, a gentleman of a very 
 singular character," says our informant, " lived in the year 1638, 
 and by his quality was son, brother, and uncle, to the Earls of 
 Huntingdon. He was peradventure an original in our age, or 
 rather the copy of our ancient nobility, in hunting, not in war- 
 like times. 
 
 " He was very low, very strong, and very active, of a reddish 
 flaxen hair ; his clothes green cloth, and never all worth, when 
 new, five pounds. 
 
 " His house was perfectly of the old fashion, in the midst of a 
 large park well stocked with deer, and near the house rabbits to 
 serve his kitchen ; many fish-ponds ; great store of wood and 
 timber ; a bowling-green in it, long, but narrow, and full of high 
 ridges ; it being never levelled since it was ploughed : they used 
 round sand bowls ; and it had a banqueting-house like a stand, 
 a large one, built in a tree. 
 
 "He kept all manner of sport-hounds, that run buck, fox, hare, 
 otter, and badger ; and hawks, long and short-winged. He had 
 all sorts of nets for fish ; he had a walk in the New Forest, and 
 in the manor of Christ Church : this last supplied him with red 
 deer, sea and river-fish. And indeed all his neighbours' grounds 
 and royalties were free to him ; who bestowed all his time on 
 these sports, but what he borrowed, to caress his neighbours' 
 wives and daughters ; there being not a woman, in all his walks, 
 of the degree of a yeoman's wife, and under the age of forty, but 
 it was extremely her fault if he was not intimately acquainted 
 with her. This made him very popular ; always speaking kindly 
 to the husband, brother, or father, who was to boot very wel- 
 come to his house whenever he came. 
 
 " There he found beef, puddmcr, and small beer, in great 
 plenty ; a house not so neatly kept as to shame him or his dusty 
 shoes ; the great hall strewed with marrow-bones, full of hawks'
 
 270 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers ; the upper side of the 
 hall hung with the fox-skins of this and the last year's killing ; 
 here and there a poll-cat intermixed ; game-keepers, and hun- 
 ters' poles in great abundance. 
 
 " The parlour was a great room, as properly furnished. On a 
 great hearth, paved with brick, lay some terriers, and the 
 choicest hounds and spaniels. Seldom but two of the great 
 chairs had litters of young cats in them, which were not to be 
 disturbed ; he having always three or four attending him at 
 dinner, and a little white round stick, of fourteen inches long, 
 lying by his trencher, that he might defend such meat as he had 
 no mind to part with to them. 
 
 " The windows, which were very large, served for places to 
 lay his arrows, cross-bows, stone-bows, and other such like 
 accoutrements. The corners of the room, full of the best-chose 
 hunting and hawking-poles. An oyster-table at the lower end ; 
 which was of constant use, twice a day, all the year round. 
 For he never failed to eat oysters, before dinner and supper, 
 through all seasons : the neighbouring town of Pool supplied 
 him with them. 
 
 " The upper part of the room had two small tables and a desk, 
 on the one side of which was a Church Bible, and, on the other, 
 the Book of Martyrs. On the tables were hawks-hoods, bells, 
 and such like ; two or three old green hats, with their crowns 
 thrust in, so as to hold ten or a dozen eggs, which were of a 
 pheasant kind of poultry, which he took much care of, and fed 
 himself. In the whole of the desk were store of tobacco-pipes 
 that had been used. 
 
 " On one side of this end of the room was the door of a closet, 
 wherein stood the strong beer and the wine, which never came 
 thence but in single glasses, that being the rule of the house, 
 exactly observed. For he never exceeded in drink, or per- 
 mitted it. 
 
 " On the other side was the door into an old chapel, not used 
 for devotion. The pulpit, as the safest place, was never want-
 
 A HUMAN ANIMAL, AND THE OTHER EXTREME. 27 T 
 
 irifj of a cold chine of beef, venison-pasty, gammon of bacon, or 
 great apple-pye, with thick crust extremely baked. His table 
 cost him not much, though it was good to eat at. 
 
 " His sports supplied all but beef and mutton ; except Fridays, 
 when he had the best of salt fish (as well as other fish) he could 
 get ; and was the day his neighbours of best quality most visited 
 him. He never wanted a London pudding, and always sung it 
 in with, *My part lies therein-a.' He drank a glass or two of 
 wine at meals ; very often syrup of gillyflowers in his sack ; and 
 had always a tun glass, without feet, stood by him, holding a 
 pint of small beer, which he often stirred with rosemary. 
 
 " He was well-natured, but soon angry ; calling his servants 
 bastards and cuckoldy knaves ; in one of which he often spoke 
 truth to his own knowledge, and sometimes in both, though of 
 the same man. He lived to be an hundred ; never lost his eye- 
 sight, but always wrote and read without spectacles ; and got 
 on horseback without help. Until past fourscore, he rode to 
 the death of a stag as well as any." 
 
 It is very clear that this worthy personnge was nothing more 
 than a kind of beaver or badger in human shape. We imagine 
 him haunting the neighbourhood in which he lived like a pet 
 creature, who had acquired a certain Egyptian godship among 
 the natives ; now hunting for his fish, now for his flesh, now 
 fawning after his uncouth fashion upon a pretty girl, and now 
 snarling and contesting a point with his cats. We imagine him 
 the animal principle personified ; a symbol on horseback ; a 
 jolly dog sitting upright at dinner, like a hieroglyphic on a 
 pedestal. 
 
 Buffon has a subtle answer to those who argue for the ration- 
 ality of bees. He says, that the extreme order of their proceed- 
 ings, and the undeviating apparent forethought with which they 
 even anticipate and provide for a certain geometrical necessity 
 in a part of the structure of their hives, are only additional 
 proofs of the force of instinct. They have an instinct for the 
 order, and an instinct for the anticipation ; and they prove that
 
 273 LKIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 it is not reason, by never striking out anything new or different 
 The same thing is observable in our human animal. What 
 would be reason or choice in another man, is justly to be set 
 down in him to poverty of ideas. If Tasso had been asked the 
 reason of his always wearing black, he would probably have 
 surprised the inquirer by a series of quaint and deep observa- 
 tions on colour, and dignity, and melancholy, and the darkness 
 of his fate ; but if Petrarch or Boccaccio had discussed the 
 matter with him, he might have changed it to purple. A lady, 
 in the same manner, wears black, because it suits her com- 
 plexion, or is elegant at all times, or because it is at once 
 piquant and superior. But in spring she may choose to put on 
 the colours of the season, and in summer to be gaudier with the 
 butterfly. Our squire had an instinct towards the colour of 
 green, because he saw it about him. He took it from what he 
 lived in, like a chameleon, and never changed it, because he could 
 live in no other sphere. We see that his green suit war, never 
 worth five pounds ; and nothing, we dare say, could have in- 
 duced him to let it mount up to that sum. He would have it 
 grow upon him, if he could, like a green monkey. Thus, again, 
 Avith his bowling-green. It was not penuriousness that hindered 
 him from altering it ; but he had no more idea of changing the 
 place than the place itself. As change of habit is frightful to 
 some men, from vivacity of affection or imagination, and the 
 strangeness which they anticipate in the novelty, so he was 
 never tempted out of a custom, because he had no idea of any- 
 thing else. He would no more think of altering the place he 
 burrowed in than a tortoise or a wild rabbit. He was fera 
 nahira:, — a regular beast of prey ; though he mingled something 
 of the generosity of the lion with the lurking of the fox and the 
 mischievous sporting of the cat. He would let other animals 
 feed with him, only warning them off occasionally with that 
 switch of his, instead of a claw. He had the same liberality of 
 instinct towards the young of other creatures as we see in the 
 hen and the goat. He would take care of their eggs, if he had
 
 A HUMAN ANIMAL, AND THE OTHER EXTREME. 2/3 
 
 a mind ; or furnish them with milk. His very body was badger- 
 like. It was "very low, very strong, and very active ;" and he 
 had a coarse fell of hair. A good housewife might evidently 
 call his house a kennel, without being abusive. What the ladies 
 of the Huntingdon family thought, if ever they came to it, we 
 do not know ; but next to hearing such a fellow as Squire 
 Western talk, must have been the horror of his human kindred 
 in treading those menageries, his hall and parlour. They might 
 turn the lines of Chaucer into an exclamation : — 
 
 " What hawkis sitten on the perch above I 
 What houndis liggen on the floor adown ! " 
 
 Then the marrow-bones, the noise, and, to a delicate ankle, the 
 sense of danger ! Conceive a timid stranger, not very welcome, 
 obliged to pass through the great hall. The whole animal world 
 is up. The well-mouthed hounds begin barking, the mastiff 
 bays, the terriers snap, the hawks sidle and stare, the poultry 
 gobble, the cats growl and up with their backs. At last, the 
 Hastings makes his appearance, and laughs like a goblin. 
 
 Three things are specially observable in our hero : first, that 
 his religion as well as literature was so entirely confined to 
 faith as to allow him to turn his household-chapel into a larder, 
 and do anything else he pleased, short of not ranking the Bible 
 and " Book of Martyrs" with his other fixtures ; second, that he 
 carried the prudential instinct above mentioned to a pitch very 
 unusual in a country-squire, who can rarely refrain from making 
 extremes meet with humanity in this instance ; and third, that 
 his proneness to the animal part of love, never finding him in a 
 condition to be so brutal as drinking renders a gallant of this 
 sort, left himself as well as others in sufficient good-humour, 
 not only to get him forgiven by the females, but to act kindly, 
 and be tolerated by the men. He was as temperate in his 
 liquor as one of his cats, just drinking to quench his thirst, and 
 leaving off when he had enough. This perhaps M'as partly owing 
 to his rank, which did not render it nei"x?3sary to his importance
 
 274 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 to be emulous with his bottle among squires. As to some grave 
 questions connected with the promiscuous nature of his amours, 
 an animal so totally given up to his instincts as he was, both 
 selfish and social, can hardly be held responsible upon such 
 points ; though they are worth the consideration of those who 
 in their old age undertake to be moral as well as profligate. If 
 Mr Hastings's notion was good and even useful, so far as it 
 showed the natural good-humour of that passion in human 
 beings, where sickness or jealousy is out of the question, in 
 every other respect it was as poor and paltry as can be. There 
 was not a single idea in it beyond one of his hounds. It 
 was entirely gross and superficial, without sentiment, without 
 choice, without a thousand sensations of pleasure and the return 
 of it, without the least perception of a beauty beyond the mere 
 absence of age. The most idiotical scold in the village, " under 
 forty," was to him a desirable object. The most lovable woman 
 in the world, above it, was lost upon him. Such lovers do not 
 even enjoy the charms they suppose. They do not see a twentieth 
 part of its very external graces. They criticise beauty in the 
 language of a horse-jockey ; and the jockey, or the horse himself, 
 knows just as much about it as they. 
 
 In short, to be candid on all sides with the very earthly 
 memory of the Honourable Ml William Hastings, we look 
 upon a person of his description to be a very good specimen of 
 the animal part of human nature, and chiefly on this account, 
 that the animal preserves its health. There indeed it has 
 something to say for itself; nor must we conceal our per- 
 suasion that upon this ground alone the Hastings must have 
 had sensations in the course of his life which many an intel- 
 lectual person might envy. If his perceptions were of a vague 
 sort, they must have been exquisitely clear and unalloyed. He 
 must have had all the pleasure from the sunshine and the fresh 
 air that a healthy body without a mind in it can have ; and we 
 may guess, from the days of childhood, what those feelings may 
 resemble, in their pleasantness as well as vagueness. At the
 
 A HUMAN ANIMAL, AND THE OTHER EXTREME. 275 
 
 age of a hundred he was able to read and write without spec- 
 tacles ; not better, perhaps, than he did at fifteen, but as well. 
 At a hundred, he was truly an old boy, and no more thought of 
 putting on spectacles than an eagle. Why should he? His 
 blood had run clear for a century with exercise and natural 
 living. He had not baked it black and "heavy thick" over a 
 fire, and dimmed the windows of his perception with the 
 smoke. 
 
 But he wanted a soul to turn his perceptions to their proper 
 account ? — He did so. Let us then, who see more than he did, 
 contrive to see fair-play between body and mind. It is by 
 observing the separate extremes of perfection, to which body 
 and mind may arrive, in those who do not know how to unite 
 both, that we may learn how to produce a human being more 
 enviable than either the healthiest of fox-hunters or the most 
 unearthly of saints. It is remarkable, that the same ancient 
 family which, among the variety and fineness of its productions, 
 put forth this specimen of bodily humanity, edified the world 
 not long after with as complete a specimen of the other half of 
 human nature. Mr William Hastings's soul seems to have 
 come too late for his body, and to have remained afterwards 
 upon earth in the shape of his fair kinswoman, the Lady Eliza- 
 beth Hastings, daughter of Theophilus, seventh Earl of Hunt- 
 ingdon. An account of her follows that of her animal kinsman, 
 and is a most extraordinary contrast. This is the lady who is 
 celebrated by Sir Richard Steele in the Tailer, under the name 
 of Aspasia, — a title which must have startled her a little. But 
 with the elegance of the panegyric she would have found it 
 hard not to be pleased, notwithstanding her modesty. " These 
 ancients would be as much astonished to see in the same age 
 so illustrious a pattern to all who love things praiseworthy as 
 the divine Aspasia. Methinks I now see her walking in her 
 garden like our first parent, with unaffected charms, before 
 beauty had spectators, and bearing celestial, conscious virtue 
 in her aspect. Her countenance is the lively picture of her
 
 276 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 mind, which is the seat of honowr, truth, compassion, know- 
 ledge, and innocence : — 
 
 'There dwells the scorn of vice, and pity too.' 
 
 In the midst of the most ample fortune, and veneration of all 
 that beheld and knew her, without the least affectation, she 
 consults retirement, the contemplation of her own being, and 
 that Supreme Power which bestowed it. Without the learning 
 of schools, or knowledge of a long course of arguments, she 
 goes on in a steady course of uninterrupted piety and virtue, 
 and adds to the severity and privacy of the last age all the free- 
 dom and ease of this. The language and mien of a Court she 
 is possessed of in the highest degree ; but the simplicity and 
 humble thoughts of a cottage are her more welcome entertain- 
 ments. Aspasia is a female philosopher, who does not only 
 live up to the resignation of the most retired lives of the ancient 
 sages, but also to the schemes and plans which they thought 
 beautiful, though inimitable. This lady is the most exact 
 economist, without appearing busy ; the most strictly virtuous, 
 without tasting the praise of it ; and shuns applause with as 
 much industry as others do reproach. This character is so 
 particular that it will very easily be fixed on her only, by all 
 that know her ; but I dare say she will be the last that finds it 
 out." {Tailer, No. 42, July 16, X709.) 
 
 This character was written when Lady Elizabeth was twenty- 
 eight. She passed the rest of her life agreeably to it, relieving 
 families, giving annuities, contributing to the maintenance of 
 schools and university-scholars, and all the while behaving 
 with extraordinary generosity to her kindred, and keeping up 
 a noble establishment. Those whom such a description incites 
 to know more of her, will find a good summary of her way of 
 life in Miss Hays's " Female Biography," — a work, by the way, 
 which contrives to be at once deferential and liberal, and ought 
 to be in the possession of all her intelligent countrywomen. 
 
 Miss Hays informs us that the close of this excellent person's
 
 A HUMAN ANIMAL, AND THE OTHER EXTREME. 277 
 
 life was as suffering as it was patient. An accidental contusion 
 in her bosom, at an early period of life, had left the seeds of a 
 cancer, which for many years she disregarded. About a year 
 and a half before her death, she was obliged to undergo an 
 amputation of the part affected ; which she did with a noble 
 and sweet fortitude, described in a very touching manner by 
 another of her biographers. " Her ladyship," he tells us, "un- 
 derwent this painful operation with surprising patience and re- 
 solution : she showed no reluctancy ; no struggle or contention, 
 or even any complaint, did she make ; only, indeed, towards the 
 end of the operation, she drew such a sigh as any compassionate 
 reader may when he hears this." This is one of the truest and 
 most pathetic things we ever remember to have read. Unfor- 
 tunately, the amputation, though it promised well for a time, 
 did no good at last. The disorder returned with increased 
 malignity, and, after submitting to it with her usual patience, 
 and exhorting her household and friends upon her death-bed in 
 a high strain of enthusiasm, she expired on the 22d December 
 1739, in the fifty-seventh year of her age. " Her character in 
 miniature," says the biographer just quoted, "is this. She was 
 a lady of the exactest breeding, of fine intellectual endowments, 
 filled with divine wisdom, renewed in the spirit of her mind, fired 
 with the love of her Creator, a friend to all the world, mortified 
 in soul and body, and to every thing that is earthly, and a little 
 lower than the angels." He has a mysterious anecdote of her 
 in the course of his account. "The following remarkable cir- 
 cumstance happened to her in her youth : — A young lady, of less 
 severity of manners than herself, invited her once to an entertain- 
 ment over a romance, and very dear did she pay for it : what evil 
 tinctures she took from it I cannot tell ; but this I can, that the 
 remembrance of it would now and then annoy her spirit down 
 into declining life." Miss Hays concludes the memoir in the 
 " Female Biography " with informing us that " she was fond of 
 her pen, and frequently employed herself in writing ; but, pre- 
 vious to her death, destroyed the greater part of her papers.
 
 278 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 Her fortune, beauty, and amiable qualities, procured her many 
 solicitations to change her state ; but she preferred, in a single 
 and independent life, to be mistress of her actions, and the dis- 
 position of her income." 
 
 It seems pretty clear from all these accounts that this noble- 
 hearted woman, notwithstanding her beauty and sweet temper, 
 was as imperfect a specimen of the comfortable in body as her 
 kinsman was in mind. We are far from meaning to prefer his 
 state of existence. We confess, indeed, that there are many we 
 have read of, whom we would prefer being, to the most saintly 
 of solitary spirits ; but the mere reflection of the good which 
 Lady Elizabeth did to others would not allow us a moment's 
 hesitation, if compelled to choose between inhabiting her infirm 
 tenement and the jolly vacuity of Honourable William. At the 
 same time, it is quite evident to us that the fair saint neglected 
 the earthly part of herself in a way neither as happy-making nor 
 as pious as she took it for. Perhaps the example of her kins- 
 man tended to assist this false idea of what is pleasing to heaven, 
 and to make her a little too peremptory against herself ; but 
 what had not her lovers a right to say ? For our parts, had we 
 lived then, and been at all fitted to aspire to a return of her re- 
 gard, we should have thought it a very unfair and intolerable 
 thing of her to go on doing the most exquisite and seducing 
 actions in the world, and tell us that she wished to be mistress 
 of her own time and generosities. So she might, and yet been 
 generous to us too, as well as to the charity-boys. But, setting 
 all this aside (and the real secret of it is to be found perhaps in 
 matters into which we cannot inquire), a proper attention to 
 that beauteous form which her spirit inhabited might have done 
 great good to herself. She not only lived nearly half a century 
 less than her kinsman, and thus shortened a useful life ; but the 
 less healthy state of her blood rendered even a soul like hers 
 liable to incursions of melancholy to the last moment of her 
 existence. If it may be said that this stimulated her the more 
 to extract happiness out of the happiness of others, we do not
 
 A HUMAN ANIMAL, AND THE OTHER EXTREME. 279 
 
 deny that it may have done so ; nor do we pretend to say that 
 this might not have been her best state of existence, for herself 
 and all of us, if we could inquire into matters hidden from our 
 sight. But, upon that principle, so might her relation's. It is 
 impossible to argue to any purpose upon these assumptions, 
 which are only good for patience, not for action. William 
 Hastings was all bodily comfort ; Elizabeth Hastings was all 
 mental grace. How far the liability of the former to gusts of 
 passion, as well as his other circumstances of being, settled the 
 balance with her necessity for being patient, it is impossible to 
 sny ; but it is very easy to say that nobody would like to under- 
 go operations for a cancer, or to die at fifty-seven, when they 
 could live healthily to a hundred. 
 
 What, then, is our conclusion ? This : — that the proper point 
 of humanity lies between these two natures, though not at equal 
 distances, — the greatest possible sum of happiness for mankind 
 demanding that great part of our pleasure should be founded in 
 that of others. Those, however, who hold rigid theories of 
 morality, and yet practise them not (which is much oftener the 
 case with such theories than the reverse), must take care how 
 they flatter themselves they at all resemble Lady Elizabeth 
 Hastings. Their extreme difference with her kinsman is a mere 
 cant, to which all the privileged selfishness and sensuality in 
 the world give the lie, — all the pomps and vanities, all the 
 hatreds, all the malignities, all the eatings and drinkings, such 
 as William Hastings himself would have been ashamed of. 
 In fact, their real instincts are generally as selfish as his, though 
 in other shapes, and much less agreeable for everybody. When 
 cant lives as long a life as his, or as good a one as hers, it will 
 be worth attending to. Till then, the best thing to advise is. 
 neither to be canting, nor merely animal, nor over-spiritual ; but 
 to endeavour to enjoy, with the greatest possible distribution of 
 happiness, all the faculties we receive from nature.
 
 UPON INDEXES.* 
 
 INDEX-MAKING has been held to be the driest as well as 
 lowest species of writing. We shall not dispute the humble- 
 ness of it ; but the task need not be so very dry. Calling 
 to mind Indexes in general, we found them presenting us a 
 variety of pleasant memories and contrasts. We thought of 
 those to the Spectator, which we used to look at so often at 
 school, for the sake of choosing a paper to abridge. We thought 
 of the Index to "The Pantheon, or Fabulous Histories of the 
 Heathen Gods," which we used to look at oftener. We re- 
 member how we imagined we should feel some day, if ever our 
 name should appear in the list of H's ; as thus, Home, Howard, 
 
 Hume, Huniades, [Hunt]. The poets would have been 
 
 better ; but then the names, though more fitting, were not so 
 flattering ; as, for instance, Halifax, Hammond, Harte, Hughes, 
 
 ■ . We did not like to come after Hughes. 
 
 We have just been looking at the Indexes to the Toiler and 
 Spectator, and never were more forcibly struck with the feeling 
 we formerly expressed about a man's being better pleased with 
 other writers than himself. Our Index seems the poorest and 
 most second-hand thing in the world after theirs ; but let any 
 one read theirs, and then call an Index a dry thing if he can. 
 As there is " a soul of goodness in things evil," so there is a soul 
 
 * This short paper was introductory to the Index of the first volume of the Ii:di- 
 caior. — Ed.
 
 UPON INDEXES, 281 
 
 of humour in things dry, and in things dry by profession. 
 Lawyers know this, as well as Index-makers, or they would die 
 of sheer thirst and aridity. But as grapes, ready to burst with 
 wine, issue out of the most stony places, like jolly fellows bring- 
 ing burgundy out of a cellar ; so an Index like the Tuner's often 
 gives us a taste of the quintessence of his humour. For in- 
 stance : — 
 
 " Bickerstaff, Mr, account of his ancestors, 141. How his 
 race was improved, 142. Not in partnership with Lillie, 250. 
 Catched writing nonsense, 47. 
 
 " Dead men, who are to be so accounted, 247." 
 
 Sometimes he has a stroke of pathos, as touching in its brevity 
 as the account it refers to ; as— 
 
 "Love-letters between Mr Bickerstaff and Maria, 184-186. 
 Found in a grave, 289." 
 
 Sometimes he is simply moral and graceful ; as — 
 
 "Tenderness and humanity inspired by the Muses, 258. 
 No true greatness of mind without it, ibid." 
 
 At another, he says perhaps more than he intended ; as — 
 
 " Laura, her perfections and excellent character, 19. Despised 
 by her husband, ibid." 
 
 The Index to Cotton's " Montaigne," probably written by the 
 translator himself, is often pithy and amusing. Thus, in 
 Volume II. : — 
 
 "Anger is pleased with, and flatters itself, 618. 
 
 " Beasts inclined to avarice, 225. 
 
 " Children abandoned to the care and government of their 
 fathers, 613. 
 
 " Drunkenness, to a high and dead degree, 16. 
 
 " Joy> profound, has more severity than gaiety in it. 
 
 " Monsters are not so to God, 612. 
 
 " Voluptuousness of the Cynicks, 418." 
 
 Sometimes we meet with graver quaintnesses and curious 
 relations, as in the Index to Sandys's '' Ovid" : — 
 
 " Diana, no virgin, scoft at by Lucian, p. 55.
 
 282 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 " Dwarfes, an Italian Dwarf carried about in a parrot's cage, 
 p. 113. 
 
 " Eccho, at Twilleries in Paris, heard to repeat a verse with- 
 out failing in one syllable, p. 58. 
 
 " Ship of the Tyrrhenians miraculously stuck fast in the sea, 
 p. 63. A Historie of a Bristol ship stuck fast in the deepe Sea 
 by Witchcraft : for which twentie-five Witches were executed, 
 ibid." 
 
 But this subject, we find, will furnish ample materials for a 
 separate article ; and therefore we stop here for the present. 
 We have still a notion upon us, that, because we have been 
 making an Index, we are bound to be very business-like and 
 unamusing,* 
 
 • The subject was never resumed. — Ed,
 
 THOUGHTS AND GUESSES ON HUMAN 
 NATURE. 
 
 CONFUSION OF MODES OF BEING, 
 
 PEOPLE undertake to settle what ideas they shall have 
 under such and such circumstances of being, when it 
 is nothing but their present state of being that enables 
 them to have those ideas. 
 
 VARIETY OF THE COLOURS OF PERCEPTION. 
 
 There is reason to suppose that our perceptions and sensa- 
 tions are much more different than we imagine, even upon the 
 most ordinary things, such as visible objects in general, and 
 the sense of existence. We have enough in common for 
 common intercourse ; but the details are dissimilar, as we may 
 perceive in the variety of palates. All people are agreed upon 
 sweet and sour ; but one man prefers sour to sweet, and another 
 this and that variety of sour and sweet. " What then is the use 
 of attempting to make them agree ? " Why, we may try to make 
 them agree upon certain general modes of thinking and means 
 of pleasure : we may colour their existence in the gross, though 
 we must leave the particular shades to come out by themselves. 
 We may enrich their stock of ideas, though we cannot control 
 the items of the expenditure.
 
 284 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 CANNOT. 
 
 "But what if we cannot do even this?" The question 13 
 answered by experience. Whole nations and ages have already 
 been altered in their modes of thinking. Even if it were other- 
 wise, the endeavour is itself one of the varieties ; one of the 
 modes of opinion and means of pleasure. Besides, Cannot is 
 the motto neither of knowledge nor humility. There is more of 
 pride, and ignorance, and despair, in it, than of the modesty of 
 wisdom. It would settle not only the past, but the future ; and 
 it would settle the future, merely because the past has not been 
 influenced by those that use it. 
 
 Who are these men that measure futurity by the shadow of 
 their own littleness? It is as if the loose stones lying about a 
 foundation were to say, " You can build no higher than our 
 heads." 
 
 SUPERSTITION AND DOCTRINE. 
 
 Superstition attempts to settle everything by assertion ; which 
 never did do, and never will. And, like all assertors, even well- 
 inclined ones, it shows its conscious feebleness in anger and 
 threatening. It commands us to take its problems for granted, 
 on pain of being tied up to a triangle. Then come its advo- 
 cates, and assert that this mode of treatment is proper and 
 logical : which is making bad worse. The worst of all is, that 
 this is the way in which the finest doctrines in the world are 
 obstructed. They are like an excellent child, making the Grand 
 Tour with a foolish overbearing tutor. The tutor runs a chance 
 of spoiling the child, and makes their presence disagreeable 
 wherever they go, except to their tradesmen. Let us hope the 
 child has done with his tutor. 
 
 SECOND THOUGHT ON THE VARIETY OF THE COLOURS OF 
 PERCEPTION. 
 
 We may gather, from what we read of diseased imaginations, 
 how much our perceptions depend upon the modification of our 
 being. We see how personal and inexperienced we are when
 
 THOUGHTS AND GUESSES ON HUMAN NATURE. 285 
 
 we determine that such and such ideas must take place under 
 other circumstances, and such and such truths be always indis- 
 putable. Pleasure must always be pleasure, and pain be pain, 
 because these are only names for certain results. But the re- 
 sults themselves will be pleasurable or painful according to 
 what they act upon. A man in health becomes sickly ; he has 
 a fever, is light-headed, is hypochondriacal. His ideas are de- 
 ranged, or re-arrange themselves ; and a set of new perceptions, 
 and colourings of his existence, take place, as in a kaleidoscope 
 when we shake it. The conclusion is, that every alteration of 
 our physical particles, or of whatever else we are compounded 
 with, produces a different set of perceptions and sensations. 
 What we call health of body and mind is the fittest state of our 
 composition upon earth ; but the state of perception which is 
 sickly to one state of existence, may be healthy to another. 
 
 DEATH. 
 Of all impositions on the public, the greatest seems to be 
 death. It resembles the threatening faces on each side the 
 Treasury. Or rather, it is a necessary bar to our tendency to 
 move forward. Nature sends us out of her hand with such 
 an impetus towards increase of enjoyment, that something is 
 obliged to be set at the end of the avenue we are in, to moder- 
 ate our bias, and make us enjoy the present being. Death 
 serves to make us think, not of itself, but of what is about us. 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 "When children are in good health and temper, they have a 
 sense of existence which seems too exquisite to last. It is made 
 up of clearness of blood, freshness of perception, and trusting- 
 ness of heart. We remember the time when the green rails 
 along a set of suburb gardens used to fill us with a series of 
 holiday and rural sensations perfectly intoxicating. According 
 to the state of our health, we have sunny glimpses of this feeling 
 still ; to say nothing of many other pleasures, which have paid
 
 286 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 US for many pains. The best time to catch them is early in the 
 morning, at sunrise, out in the country. And we will here add, 
 that life never, perhaps, feels such a return of fresh and young 
 feeling upon it as in early rising on a fine morning, whether in 
 country or town. The healthiness of it, the quiet, the conscious- 
 ness of having done a sort of young action (not to add a wise 
 one), and the sense of power it gives you over the coming day, 
 produce a mixture of lightness and self-possession in one's 
 feelings, which a sick man must not despair of, because he does 
 not feel it the first morning. But even this reform should be 
 adopted by degrees. The best way to recommend it is to 
 begin with allowing fair-play to the other side of the question. 
 To return to our main point. After childhood comes a know- 
 ledge of evil, or a sophisticate and unhealthy mode of life; 
 or one produces the other, and both are embittered. Every- 
 thing tells us to get back to a state of childhood, — pain, plea- 
 sure, imagination, reason, passion, natural affection or piety, 
 the better part of religion. If knowledge is supposed to be in- 
 compatible with it, knowledge would sacrifice herself, if neces- 
 sary, to the same cause, for she also tells us to do so. But as 
 a little knowledge first leads us away from happiness, so a 
 greater knowledge may be destined to bring us back into a 
 finer region of it. 
 
 KNOWLEDGE AND UNHAPPINESS. 
 
 It is not knowledge that makes us unhappy as we grow up, 
 but tbe knowledge of unhappiness. Yet, as unhappiness existed 
 when we knew it not, it becomes us all to be acquainted with it, 
 that we may all have the chance of bettering the condition of 
 our species. Who would say to himself, " I would be happy, 
 though all my fellow-creatures were miserable?" Knowledge 
 must heal what it wounds, and extend the happiness which it 
 has taken away. It must do by our comfort as a friend may 
 do by one's books ; enrich it with its comments. One man 
 grows up, and gets unhealthy without knowledge ; another, with
 
 THOUGHTS AND GUESSES ON HUMAN NATURE. 287 
 
 it. The former suffers, and does not know why. He is unhappy, 
 and he sees unhappiness ; but he can do nothing either for 
 himself or others. The latter suffers, and discovers why. He 
 suffers even more, because he knows more ; but he learns also 
 how to diminish suffering in others. He learns, too, to apply his 
 knowledge to his own case ; and he sees that, as he himself 
 suffers from the world's want of knowledge, so the progress of 
 knowledge would take away both the world's sufferings and his 
 own. Tlie efforts to this end worry him, perhaps, and make 
 him sickly ; upon which, thinking is pronounced to be injurious 
 to health. And it may be so, under these circumstances. What 
 then, if it betters the health of the many ? But thinking may also 
 teach him how to be healthier. A game of cricket on a green may 
 do for him what no want of thought would have done ; and, on 
 the other hand, if he shows a want of thought upon these points, 
 then the inference is easy : he is not so thinking a man as you 
 took him for. Addison should have got on horseback, instead 
 of walking up and down a room in his house, with a bottle of 
 wine at each end of it. Shakspeare divided his time between 
 town and country, and, in the latter part of his life, built, and 
 planted, and petted his daughter Susanna. Solomon in his old 
 age played the Aaacreon ; and, with Milton's leave, " his wisest 
 heart" was not so much out in this matter as when his royal 
 impatience induced him to say that everything was vanity. 
 
 CHILDHOOD— OLD AGE— OUR DESTINY. 
 There appears to be something in the composition of humanity 
 like what we have observed in that of music. The musician's first 
 thought is apt to be his finest ; he must carry it on, and make 
 a second part to his air ; and he becomes inferior. Nature, in 
 like manner (if we may speak it without profaneness), appears 
 to succeed best in making childhood and youth. The symphony 
 is a little perturbed ; but in what a sprightly manner the air sets 
 off! What purity ! What grace ! What touching simplicity 1 
 Then comes sin, or the notion of it, and " breaks the fair music."
 
 288 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 Well did a wiser than the " wisest heart "bid us try and continue 
 children. But there are foolish as well as wise children, and it 
 is a special mark of the former, whether little or grown, to affect 
 manhood, and to confound it with cunning and violence. — Do 
 men die, in order that life and its freshness may be as often and 
 as multitudinously renewed as possible ? Or do children grow 
 old, that our consciousness may attain to some better mode of 
 being through a rough path ? Superstition answers only to 
 perplex us, and make us partial. Nature answers nothing. 
 But Nature's calm and resolute silence tells us at once to hope 
 for the future, and to do our best to enjoy the present. What 
 if it is the aim of her workmanship to produce self-moving 
 instruments, that may carry forward their own good 1 " A 
 modest thought," you will say. Yet it is more allied to some 
 doctrines celebrated for their humility than you may suppose. 
 Vanity, in speculations earnest and affectionate, is a charge to 
 be made only by vanity. What has it to do with them ? 
 
 ENDEAVOUR. 
 
 Either this world (to use the style of Marcus Antoninus) is 
 meant to be what it is, or it is not. If it is not, then our endea- 
 vours to render it otherwise are right : if it is, then we must be 
 as we are, and seek excitement through the same means, and our 
 endeavours are still right. In either case, endeavour is good and 
 useful ; but in one of them, the want of it must be a mistake. 
 
 GOOD AND EVIL. 
 Nature is justified (to speak humanly) in the ordinary state of 
 the world, granting it is never to be made better, because the 
 sum of good upon the whole is greater than that of evil. For 
 in the list of goods we are not only to rank all the more obvious 
 pleasures which we agree to call such, but much that is ranked 
 under the head of mere excitement, taking hope for the ground 
 of it, and action for the means. But we have no right, on that 
 account, to abstain from endeavouring to better the condition
 
 THOUGHTS AND GUESSES ON HUMAN NATURE. 2S9 
 
 of our species, were it only for the sake of individual suffering. 
 Nature, who is infinite, has a right to act in the gross. Nothing 
 but an infinite suffering should make her stop ; and that should 
 make her stop, were the individual who infinitely suffered the 
 only inhabitant of his hell. Heaven and Earth should petition 
 to be abolished, rather than that one such monstrosity should 
 exist : it is the absurdest as well as most impious of all the 
 dreams of fear. To suppose that a Divine Being can sym- 
 pathise with our happiness, is to suppose that he can sympathise 
 with our misery ; but to suppose that he can sympathise with 
 misery, and yet suffer infinite misery to exist, rather than put 
 an end to misery and happiness together, is to contradict his 
 sympathy with happiness, and to make him prefer a positive 
 evil to a negative one, the existence of torment to the cessation 
 of feeling. As Nature, therefore, if considered at all, must be 
 considered as regulated in her operation, though infinite, we 
 must look to fugitive suffering as Nature must guard against 
 permanent: she carves out our work for us in the gross; we 
 must attend to it in the detail. To leave everything to her, 
 would be to settle into another mode of existence, or stagnate 
 into death. If it be said that she will take care of us at all 
 events, we answer, first, that she does not do so in the ordinary 
 details of life, — neither earns our food for us, nor washes our 
 bodies, nor writes our books ; secondly, that of things useful- 
 looking and uncertain, she incites us to know the profit and 
 probability ; and thirdly (as we have hinted in a previous 
 observation), that, not knowing how far we may carry on the 
 impulse of improvement, towards which she has given us a bias, 
 it becomes us on every ground, both of ignorance and wisdom, 
 to try. 
 
 DEGRADING IDEAS OF DEITY. 
 
 The superstitious, in their contradictory representations of 
 God, call him virtuous and benevolent out of the same passion 
 of fear as induces them to make him such a tyrant. They think 
 
 T
 
 290 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS, 
 
 they shall be damned if they do not believe him the tyrant he 
 is described : they think they shall be damned also if they do 
 not gratuitously ascribe to him the virtues incompatible with 
 damnation. Being so unworthy of praise, they think he will be 
 particularly angry at not being praised. They shudder to think 
 themselves better, and hasten to make amends for it by declaring 
 themselves as worthless as he is worthy. 
 
 GREAT DISTINCTION TO BE MADE IN BIGOTS. 
 There are two sorts of religious bigots, the unhealthy and the 
 unfeeling. The fear of the former is mixed with humanity, and 
 they never succeed in thinking themselves favourites of God ; 
 but their sense of security is embittered by aversions which 
 they dare not own to themselves, and terror for the fate of those 
 who are not so lucky. The unfeeling bigot is a mere unima- 
 ginative animal, whose thoughts are confined to the snugness of 
 his own kennel, and who would have a good one in the next 
 world as well as in this. He secures a place in heaven as he 
 does in the Manchester coach or a Margate hoy. Never mind 
 who suffers outside, woman or child. We once found ourselves 
 by accident on board a hoy which professed to " sail by Divine 
 Providence." Walking about the deck at night to get rid of the 
 chilliness which would occasionally visit our devotions to the 
 starry heavens and the sparkling sea, our foot came in contact 
 with something white, which was lying gathered up in a heap. 
 Upon stooping down, we found it to be a woman. The Method- 
 ists had secured all the beds below, and were not to be disturbed. 
 
 SUPERSTITION THE FLATTERER OF REASON. 
 
 \\ e are far from thinking that reason can settle everything. 
 We no more think so than that our eyesight can see into all 
 existence. But it does not follow, on that account, that we are 
 to take for granted the extremest contradictions of reason. 
 Why should we ? We do not even think well enough of reason 
 to do so. For here is one of the secrets of superstition. It is
 
 THOUGHTS AND GUESSES ON HUMAN NATURE. 29 1 
 
 ^o angry at reason for not being able to settle everything, that 
 it runs in despair into the arms of irrationality. 
 
 GOOD IN THINGS EVIL. 
 
 " God Almighty I 
 There is some soul of goodness in things evil, 
 Would men observingly distil it out ! " 
 
 So, with equal wisdom and good-nature, does Shakspeare 
 make one of his characters exclaim. Suffering gives strength 
 to sympathy. Hate of the particular may have a foundation in 
 love for the general. The lowest and most wilful vice may 
 plunge deeper, out of a regret of virtue. Even in envy may be 
 discerned something of an instinct of justice, something of a 
 wish to see universal fair play, and things on a level. — " But 
 there is still a residuum of evil, of which we should all wish to 
 get rid." — Well then, let us try. 
 
 ARTIFICE OF EXAGGERATED COMPLAINT. 
 
 Disappointment likes to make out bad to be worse than it is, 
 in order to relieve the gnawing of its actual wound. It would 
 confuse the limits of its pain ; and, by extending it too far, try 
 to make itself uncertain how far it reached. 
 
 CUSTOM, ITS SELF-RECONCILEMENTS AND CONTRADICTIONS. 
 
 Custom is seen more in what we bear than what we enjoy. 
 And yet a pain long borne so fits itself to our shoulders that 
 we do not miss even that without disquietude. The novelty of 
 the sensation startles us. Montaigne, like our modern beaux, 
 was uneasy when he did not feel himself well braced up and 
 tightened in his clothing. Prisoners have been known to wish 
 to go back to their prisons ; invalids have missed the accom- 
 paniment of an old gunshot wound ; and the world is apt to be 
 very angry vvith reformers and innovators, not because it is in 
 the right, but because it is accustomed to be in the wrong. 
 This is a good thing, and shows the irdestructible tendency of
 
 292 LEIGH HUNT S ESSAYS. 
 
 nature to forego its troubles. But then reformers and inno- 
 vators must arise, upon that very ground. To quarrel with 
 them upon a principle of avowed spleen, is candid, and has a 
 self-knowledge in it. But to resent them as impertinent or effe- 
 minate, is at bottom to quarrel with the principle of one's own 
 patience, and to set the fear of moving above the courage of it. 
 
 ADVICE. 
 
 It has been well observed, that advice is not disliked because 
 it is advice, but because so few people know how to give it. 
 Yet there are people vain enough to hate it in proportion to its 
 very agreeableness. 
 
 HAPPINESS, HOW WE FOREGO IT. 
 By the same reason for which we call this earth a Vale of 
 Tears, we might call heaven when we got there a Hill of Sighs : 
 for, upon the principle of an endless progression of beatitude, we 
 might find a still better heaven promised us, and this would be 
 enough to make us dissatisfied with the one in possession. 
 Suppose that we have previously existed in the planet Mars ; 
 that there are no fields and trees there, and that we nevertheless 
 could imagine them, and were in the habit of anticipating their 
 delight in the next world. Suppose that there was no such 
 thing there as a stream of air, as a wind fanning one's face for 
 a whole summer's day. What a romantic thing to fancy ! What 
 a beatitude to anticipate ! Suppose, above all, that there was no 
 such thing as love. Words would be lost in anticipating that. 
 " Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard," &c. Yet when we got to 
 this heaven of green fields and fresh airs, we might take little 
 notice of either, for want of something more ; and even love we 
 might contrive to spoil pretty odiously. 
 
 [Note. — This essay was one of Lamb's favourites, together with 
 those on the " Deaths of Little Children " and " Coaches." — E. O.]
 
 MAY-DAY. 
 
 MAY-DAY is a word which used to awaken in the minds 
 of our ancestors all the ideas of youth, and verdure, 
 and blossoming-, and love, and hilarity ; in short, the 
 union of the two best things in the world, the love of nature, and 
 the love of each other. It was the day on which the arrival of 
 the year at maturity was kept, like that of a blooming heiress. 
 They caught her eye as she was coming, and sent up hundreds 
 of songs of joy. 
 
 " Now the bright morning-star, day's harbinger. 
 Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her 
 The flowery May, who from her green lap throws 
 The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. 
 Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire 
 Mirth, and youth, and warm desire : 
 Woods and groves are of thy dressing ; 
 Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
 Thus we salute thee with our early song, 
 And welcome thee, and wish thee long." 
 
 These songs were stopped by Milton's own friends the Puritans, 
 whom in his old age he again differed with, most likely on these 
 very points, among others. But till then they appear to have 
 been as old, all over Europe, as the existence of society. The 
 Druids are said to have had festivals in honour of May. Our 
 Teutonic ancestors had undoubtedly ; and in the countries 
 which had constituted the Western Roman Empire, Flora still
 
 294- LEIGH HUNT S ESSAYS. 
 
 saw thanks paid for her flowers, though her worship had go/ie 
 away.* 
 
 The homage which was paid to the Month of Love and 
 Flowers may be divided into two sorts, the general and the 
 individual. The first consisted in going with others to gather 
 May, and in joining in sports and games afterwards. On the 
 first of the month, " the juvenile part of both sexes," says 
 Bourne, in his " Popular Antiquities," "were wont to rise a little 
 after midnight, and walk to some neighbouring wood, where 
 they broke down branches from the trees, and adorned them 
 with nosegays and crowns of flowers. When this was done, 
 they returned with their booty about the rising of the sun, and 
 made their doors and windows to triumph in the flowery spoil. 
 The after part of the day was chiefly spent in dancing round a 
 May-pole, which, being placed in a convenient part of the village, 
 stood there, as it were, consecrated to the Goddess of Flowers, 
 without the least violation offered to it in the whole circle of 
 the year." Spenser, in his " Shepheard's Calendar," has de- 
 tailed the circumstances in a style like a rustic dance. 
 
 " Youth's folkc now flocken in — everywhere, 
 To gather May-buskets t — and smelling brere ; 
 And home they hasten — the postes to dight. 
 And all the kirk-pillours — eare daylight, 
 Wi;h hawthorne buds — and sweet eglantine. 
 And girlonds of roses — and soppes in wine. 
 
 Sicker this morowe, no longer agoe, 
 
 I saw a shole of shepherds outgoe 
 
 With singing, and shouting, and jolly chere ; 
 
 Before them yode J a lustie tabrere,| 
 
 That to the many a hornpipe play'd, 
 
 Whereto they liauncen eche one with his mayd. 
 
 * The great May holiday observed over the west of Europe was known for cen- 
 turies, up to a late period, under the name of the Beltein or Beltane. Such a num- 
 ber of etymologies, all perplexingly probable, have been found for this word, that 
 we have been surprised to miss among them that of Bel-temps, the fine time or 
 season. Thus Printemps, the first time or prime season, is the spring. 
 
 t Buskets — Boskets — Bushes— from Boschetti, Hal. X Yodc, went. 
 
 { Tabrere, a tabourer.
 
 MAY-DAY. 295 
 
 To see these folks make such jovlsaunce, 
 
 Made my heart after the pipe to daunce. 
 
 Tho * to the greene wood they speeden hem all. 
 
 To fetchen home May with their musicall ; 
 
 And home they bringen, in a royall throne, 
 
 Crown'd as king ; and his queen attonet 
 
 Was Lady Flora, on whom did attend 
 
 A fayre flocke of faeries, and a fresh bend 
 
 Of lovely nymphs. O that I were there, 
 
 To helpen the ladies their May-bu>hbeare." 
 
 The day was passed in sociality and manly sports; — in archery, 
 and running, and pitching the bar, — in dancing, singing, playing 
 music, acting Robin Hood and his company, and making a 
 well-earned feast upon all the country dainties in season. It 
 closed with an award of prizes. 
 
 " As I have seen the Lady of the May, 
 Set in an arbour (on a holyday) 
 Built by the Maypole, where the jocund swains 
 Dance with the maidens to the bag-pipe's strains. 
 When envious night commands them to be gone, 
 Call for the merry youngsters one by one, 
 And for their well performance soon disposes, 
 To this a garland interwove with roses. 
 To that a carved hook, or well-wrought scrip, 
 Gracing another with her cherry lip ; 
 To one her garter, to another then 
 A handkerchief cast o'er and o'er again ; 
 And none returneth empty, that hath spent 
 His pains to fill their rural merriment." t 
 
 Among the gentry and at court, the spirit of the same enjoy- 
 ments took place, modified according to the taste or rank of the 
 entertainers. The most universal amusement, agreeably to the 
 general current in the veins, and the common participation of 
 
 * ThOi then. t Aitone, at once — with him. 
 
 X Britatinias Pastorals, by William Browne. Song the 4th. Browne, like hit 
 friend Wither, wanted strength and the power of selection ; though not to such an 
 extent. He i^, however, well worth reading by those who can e.vpatiate over a 
 p.istoral subject, like a meadowy tract of country ; finding out the beautiful spots, 
 and gratified, if not much delighted, with the rest. His genius, which was by no 
 means destitute of the social part of passion, seems to have been turned almost 
 v/liolly to description by the beauties of his native county, Devonshire.
 
 296 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 fiesh and blood (for rank knows no distinction of legs and knee- 
 pans), was dancing. Contests of chivalry supplied the place of 
 more rural gymnastics. But the most poetical and elaborate 
 entertainment was the Mask. A certain flowery grace was 
 sprinkled over all ; and the finest spirits of the time thought 
 they showed both their manliness and wisdom in knowing how 
 to raise the pleasures of the season to their height. Sir Philip 
 Sydney, the idea of whom has come down to us as a personifi- 
 cation of all the refinement of that age, is fondly recollected by 
 Spenser in this character. 
 
 " His sports were faire, his joyance innocent, 
 
 Sweet without soure, and honey without gall : 
 And he himself seem'd made for merriment) 
 Merrily masking both in bowre and hall. 
 There was no pleasure nor delightl'uU play 
 When Astrophel soever was away. 
 
 " For he could pipe, and daunce, and caroll sweet, 
 Amongst the shepheards in their shearing feast ; 
 As somer's larke, that with her song doth greet 
 
 The dawning day forth comming from the East. 
 And layes of love he also could compose : 
 Thrise happie she, whom he to praise did choose." 
 
 Astrophel, St. 3-6. 
 
 Individual homage to the month of May consisted in paying 
 respect to it though alone, and in plucking flowers and flowering 
 boughs to adorn apartments with. 
 
 " This maiden, in a morn betime, 
 Went forth when May was in the prime, 
 
 To get sweet setywall. 
 The honeysuckle, the harlock. 
 The lily, and the lady-smock. 
 To deck her summer-hall." 
 
 Drayton's Pastorals, Eclog. 4. 
 
 But when morning pleasures are to be spoken of, the lovers of 
 poetry who do not know Chaucer are like those who do not 
 know what it is to be up in the morning. He has left us two 
 exquisite pictures of the solitary observance of May, in his 
 " Palamon and Arcite." They are the more curious inasmuch as
 
 MAY-DAY. 297 
 
 the actor in one is a lady, and in the other a knight. How far 
 they owe any of their beauty to his original, the " Theseide" of 
 Boccaccio, we cannot say ; for we never had the happiness of 
 meeting with that very rare work. The Italians have so 
 neglected it, that they dave not only never given it a 7-ifacimento 
 or re-modelling, as in the instance of Boiardo's poem, but are 
 almost as much unacquainted with it, we believe, as foreign 
 countries. Chaucer thought it worth his while to be both 
 acquainted with it, and to make others so ; and we may venture 
 to say, that we know of no Italian after Boccaccio's age who was 
 so likely to understand him to the core as his English admirer, 
 Ariosto not excepted. Still, from what we have seen of Boc- 
 caccio's poetry, we can imagine the " Theseide " to have been too 
 lax and long. If Chaucer's " Palamon and Arcite" be all that he 
 thought proper to distil from it, it muut have been greatly so ; 
 for it was a large epic. But at all events the essence is an 
 exquisite one. The tree must have been a fine old enormity, 
 from which such a honey could be drawn. 
 
 To begin, as in duty bound, with the lady. How she sparkles 
 through the antiquity of the language, like a young beauty in an 
 old hood ! 
 
 " Thus passeth yere by yere, and day by day, 
 Till it felle ones, in a morowe of May, 
 That Emelie " 
 
 But we will alter the spelling where we can, as in a former 
 instance, merely to let the reader see what a notion is in his 
 way, if he suffers the look of Chaucer's words to prevent his 
 enjoying him. 
 
 " Thus passeth year by year, and day by day, 
 Till it fell once, in a morrow of May, 
 That Emily, that fairer was to seen 
 Than is the lily upon his stalk green, 
 And fresher than the May with flowers new 
 (For with the rosy colour strove her hue ; 
 I n'ot which was ihe finer of them two). 
 Ere it was day, as she was wont to do, 
 She was arisen and all reiidy dight, 
 For May will have no sluggardy a-night;
 
 298 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 The season pricketh every gentle heart, 
 And maketh him out of his sleep to start. 
 And saith, 'Arise, and do thine observance.' 
 
 This maketh Emily have remembrance 
 To do honour to May, and for to rise. 
 Yclothed was she, fresh for to devise : 
 Her yellow hair was braided in a tress 
 Behind her back, a yarde * long I guess : 
 And in the garden, at the sun uprist. 
 She walketh up and down, where as her list ; 
 She gatherelh flowers, party white and red. 
 To make a subtle garland for her head ; 
 And as an angel heavenly she sung. 
 The great tower, that was so thick and strong, 
 Which of the castle was the chief dongeon 
 (Where as these knightes weren in prison. 
 Of which I tolde you, and tellen shall), 
 Was even joinant to the garden wall. 
 There as this Emily had her playing. 
 
 Bright was the sun, and clear that morwe'ring" — 
 
 [How finely, to our ears at least, the second line of the couplet 
 always rises up from this full stop at the first !] 
 
 " Bright was the sun, and clear that morwening. 
 And Palamon, this woeful prisoner, 
 As was his wont, by leave of his jailer. 
 Was risen, and roamed in a chamber on high. 
 In which he all the noble city sigh, t 
 And eke the garden, full of branches green. 
 There as this fresh Emilia the sheen t 
 Was in her walk, and roamed up and down." 
 
 Sir Walter Scott, in his edition of Dryden, says upon the passage 
 before us, and Dryden's version of it, that "the modern must 
 yield the pahii to the ancient, in spite of the beauty of his 
 versification." We quote from memory ; but this is the substance 
 of his words. For our parts, we quite agree with them, as to the 
 consignment of the palm, but not as to the exception about the 
 versification. With some allowance as to our present mode of 
 accentuation, it appears to us to be touched with a finer sense of 
 music even than Dryden's. It is more delicate, without any 
 
 * These additional syllables are to be read slightly, like the e in French Vurse. 
 t Saw. X The shining.
 
 MAY-DAV. 299 
 
 inferiority in strength ; and still more various. At the same 
 time, we do not quote Sir Walter for the purpose of differing 
 with him. We would only show the more fashionable part of 
 our readers what their favourite writer thinks of Chaucer ; and 
 we would also take another opportunity of contrasting some 
 opinions of ours, exaggerated by party feeling and a young 
 thoughtlessness, when Sir Walter wrote nothing but criticism 
 and poetry, with our sense of his extraordinary merits as a 
 novelist. But more of these in another place. Of politics also 
 we say nothing here. There ought to be some places in the 
 world of letters, where men's thoughts of each other, like the 
 knights of old, may 
 
 " In weeds of peace high triumphs hold." 
 
 But now to our other portrait. It is as sparkling with young 
 manhood as the former is with a gentler freshness. What a 
 burst of radiant joy is in the second couplet ! what a vital 
 quickness in the comparison of the horse, "starting as the fire I" 
 and what a native and happy ease in the conclusion ! 
 
 " The busy lark, the messenger of day, 
 Saleweth * in her song the morrow grey ; 
 And fiery Phosbus riseth up so bright. 
 That all the orient laugheth of the sight ; 
 And with his stromas drieth in the greves t 
 The silver droppe's hanging in the leaves ; 
 And Arcite, that is in the court real t 
 With Theseus, the squier principal, 
 Is risen, and looketh on the merry day ; 
 And for to do his observance to May, 
 Remembring on the point of his desire. 
 He on his courser, starting as the fire, 
 Is ridden to the fieldes him to play, 
 Out of the court, were it a mile or tway : 
 And to the grove, of which that I you told, 
 By aventure his way he gan to hold. 
 To maken him a garland of the grcvcs. 
 Were it of woodbind or of hawthorn leaves ; 
 
 • Salutcth. t Groves. t Royal-
 
 LEIGH HUNT S ESSAYS. 
 
 And loud he sung against the sunny sheen 
 ' O May, with all thy flowers and thy green, 
 Right welcome be thou, faire freshe May: 
 I hope that I some green here getten may.' 
 And from his courser, with a lusty heart, 
 Into the grove full hastily he start, 
 And in a path he roamed up and down." 
 
 The versification of this is not so striking as the other ; but 
 Dryden again falls short in the freshness and feeling of the 
 sentiment. His lines are beautiful ; but they do not come home 
 to us with so happy and cordial a face. Here they are. The 
 word "morning" in the first line, as it is repeated in the second, 
 we are bound to consider as a slip of the pen ; perhaps foi 
 " mounting." 
 
 " The morning-lark, the messenger of day. 
 Saluted in her song the morning grey ; 
 And soon the sun arose with beams so bright, 
 That all the horizon Laugh'd to see the joyous sight : 
 He with his tepid rays the rose renews. 
 And licks the drooping leaves, and dries the dews; 
 When Arcite left his bed, resolv'd to pay 
 Observance to the month of merry May : 
 Forth on his fiery steed betimes he rode, 
 That scarcely prints the turf on which he trod : 
 At ease he seem'd, and, prancing o'er the plains, 
 Turn'd only to the grove his horse's reins, 
 The grove I named before ; and, lighted there, 
 A woodbine garland sought to crown his hair ; 
 Then turn'd his face against the rising day. 
 And raised his voice to welcome in the May : 
 ' For thee, sweet month, the groves green liveries wear. 
 If not the first, ihe fairest of the year : 
 For thee the graces lead the dancing hours, 
 And Nature's ready pencil paints the flowers : 
 When thy short reign is past, the feverish sun 
 The sultry tropic fears, and moves more slowly on. 
 So may thy tender blossoms fear no blight. 
 Nor goats with venom'd teeth thy tendrils bite, 
 As thou shalt guide my wandering feet to find 
 The fragrant greens I seek, my brows to bind.' 
 His vows address'd, within the grove he stray'd." 
 
 How poor is this to Arcite's leaping from his courser " with a 
 lusty heart"! How inferior the commonplace of the "fiery
 
 MAY-DAY. 30t 
 
 Steed," which need not involve any actual notion in the writer's 
 mind, to the courser " starting as the fire " ! — how inferior the 
 turning his face to " the rising day " and " raising his voice," to 
 the singing "loud against the sunny sheen"! and lastly, the 
 whole learned invocation and adjuration of May, about guiding 
 his "wandering steps" and " so may thy tender blossoms," &c., 
 to the call upon the fair fresh May, ending with that simple, 
 quick-hearted line, in which he hopes he shall get " some green 
 here ;" a touch in the happiest taste of the Italian vivacity. 
 Dryden's genius, for the most part, wanted faith in nature. It 
 was too gross and sophisticate. There was as much difference 
 between him and his original, as between a hot noon in perukes 
 at St James's, and one of Chaucer's lounges on the grass of a 
 May-morning. 
 
 All this worship of May is over now. There is no issuing forth, 
 in glad companies, to gather boughs ; no adorning of houses 
 with "the flowery spoil ;" no songs, no dances, no village sports 
 and coronations, no courtly poetries, no sense and acknowledg- 
 ment of the quiet presence of nature, in grove or glade. 
 
 " O dolce primavera, o fior novclli, 
 O aure, o arboscelli, o fresche erbette ; 
 O piaggc benedette ; o colli, o monti, 
 O valli, o fiumi, o fonti, o verdi rivi, 
 Palme lauri ed olive, edere e mirti ; 
 O gloriosi spiriti de gli boschi ; 
 O Eco, o antri foschi, o chiare linfe, 
 O faretrate niiife, o agresti Pani, 
 O Satiri e Silvani, o Fauni e Driadii 
 Naiadi ed Amadriadi, o Semidee, 
 Oieadi e Napee, — or siete sole." 
 
 Sannazzaro. 
 
 " O tbou delicious spring, O ye new flowers, 
 O airs, O youngling bowers ; fresh thickening grass, 
 And plains beneath heaven's face ; O hills and mountains, 
 Valleys, and streams, and fountains ; banks of green. 
 Myrtles, and palms serene, ivys, and bays; 
 And ye who warm'd old lays, spirits o' the wood ■, 
 Echoes, and solitudes, and lakes of light ;
 
 302 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 O quiver*d virgins bright, Pans rustical, 
 Satyrs and sylvans all, Dryads, and ye 
 That up the mountains be ; and ye beneath 
 f In meadow or flowery heath, — ye are alone." 
 
 This time two hundred years ago, our ancestors were all an* 
 ticipating their May holidays. Bigotry came in, and frowned 
 them away ; then Debauchery, and identified all pleasure with 
 the town ; then Avarice, and we have ever since been mistaking 
 the means for the end. 
 
 Fortunately it does not follow that we shall continue to do 
 so. Commerce, while it thinks it is only exchanging commodi- 
 ties, is helping to diffuse knowledge. All other gains, — all 
 selfish and extravagant systems of acquisition, — tend to over- 
 do themselves, and to topple down by their own undiffused 
 magnitude. The world, as it learns other things, may learn not 
 to confound the means with the end, or, at least (to speak more 
 philosophically), a really poor means with a really richer. The 
 veriest cricket-player on a green has as sufficient a quantity of 
 excitement as a fundholder or a partisan ; and health, and 
 spirits, and manliness to boot. Knowledge may go on ; must 
 do so, from necessity ; and should do so, for the ends we speak 
 of : but knowledge, so far from being incompatible with simpli- 
 city of pleasures, is the quickest to perceive its wealth. Chaucer 
 would lie for hours, looking at the daisies. Scipio and LasHus 
 could amuse themselves with making ducks and drakes on the 
 water. Epaminondas, the greatest of all the active spirits of 
 Greece, was a flute-player and dancer. Alfred the Great could 
 act the whole part of a minstrel. Epicurus taught the riches 
 of temperance and intellectual pleasure in a garden. The other 
 philosophers of his country walked between heaven and earth 
 in the colloquial bovvers of Academus ; and " the wisest heart 
 of Solomon," who found everything vain because he was a 
 king, has left us panegyrics on the Spring and " the voice of 
 the turtle," because he was a poet, a lover, and a wise man.
 
 SPRING.— DAISIES.— GATHERING FLOWERS* 
 
 THE Spring is now complete. The winds have done their 
 work. The shaken air, well-tempered and equalised, 
 has subsided ; the genial rains, however thickly they 
 may come, do not saturate the ground beyond the power of the 
 sun to dry it up again. There are clear crystal mornings ; 
 noons of blue sky and white cloud ; nights, in which the grow- 
 ing moon seems to lie looking at the stars, like a young shep- 
 herdess at her flock. A few days ago she lay gazing in this 
 manner at the solitary evening star, like Diana, on the slope of 
 a valley, looking up at Endymion. His young eye seemed to 
 sparkle out upon the world ; while she, bending inwards, her 
 hands behind her head, watched him with an enamoured dumb- 
 ness. 
 
 But this is the quiet of Spring. Its voices and swift move- 
 ments have come back also. The swallow shoots by us, like 
 an embodied ardour of the season. The glowing bee has his 
 will of the honeyed flowers, grappling with them as they tremble. 
 We have not yet heard the nightingale or the cuckoo ; but we 
 can hear them with our imagination, and enjoy them through 
 the content of those who have. 
 
 Then the young green. This is the most apt and perfect 
 mark of the season, — the true issuing forth of the Spring. The 
 trees and bushes are putting forth their crisp fans ; the lilac is 
 loaded with bud ; the meadows are thick with the bright young 
 
 * Written about the middle of April. — Ed.
 
 304 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 grass, running into sweeps of white and gold with the daisies 
 and buttercups. The orchards announce their riches in a 
 shower of silver blossoms. The earth in fertile woods is spread 
 with yellow and blue carpets of primroses, violets, and hyacinths, 
 over which the birch-trees, like stooping nymphs, hang with 
 their thickening hair. Lilies of the valley, stocks, columbines, 
 lady-smocks, and the intensely red piony, which seems to anti- 
 cipate the full glow of summer-time, all come out to wait upon 
 the season, like fairies from their subterraneous palaces. 
 
 Who is to wonder that the idea of love mingles itself with 
 that of this cheerful and kind time of the year, setting aside even 
 common associations ? It is not only its youth, and beauty, 
 and budding life, and " the passion of the groves," that exclaim 
 with the poet — 
 
 " Let those love now, who never loved before ; 
 And those who always loved, now love the more." * 
 
 All our kindly impulses are apt to have more sentiment in them 
 than the world suspect ; and it is by fetching out this sentiment, 
 and making it the ruling association, that we exalt the impulse 
 into generosity and refinement, instead of degrading it, as is too 
 much the case, into what is selfish and coarse, and pollutes all 
 our systems. One of the greatest inspirers of love is gratitude, 
 — not merely on its common grounds, but gratitude for plea- 
 sures, whether consciously or unconsciously conferred. Thus, 
 we are thankful for the delight given us by a kind and sincere 
 face ; and if we fall m love with it, one great reason is, that we 
 long to return what we have received. The same feeling has a 
 considerable influence in the love that has been felt for men of 
 talents whose persons or address have not been much calcu- 
 lated to inspire it. In spring-time, joy awakens the heart ; with 
 joy awakes gratitude and nature ; and in our gratitude we 
 return, on its own principle of participation, the love that has 
 been shown us. 
 
 * Pervigilium Veneris.— /'<ir«f//'f Trattslaticm.
 
 SPRING. — DAISIES. — GATHERING FLOWERS. 3^.5 
 
 This association of ideas renders solitude in springs, and soli- 
 tude in winter, two very different things. In the latter, we are 
 better content to bear the feelings of the season by ourselves ; 
 in the former, they are so sweet, as well as so overflowing, that 
 we long to share them. Shakspeare, in one of his sonnets, 
 describes himself as so identifying the beauties of the spring 
 with the thought of his absent mistress, that he says he forgot 
 them in their own character, and played with them only as wi.h 
 iier shadow. See how exquisitely he turns a commonplace into 
 this fancy ; and what a noble brief portrait of April he gives us 
 at the beginning ! There is indeed a wonderful mixture of soft- 
 ness and strength in almost every one of the lines. 
 
 " From you have I been absent in the spring, 
 When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim, 
 Hath put a spirit of youth in everything. 
 That heavy Saturn laugh'd and Icap'd with hira. 
 Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell 
 Of different flowers in odour and in hue, 
 Could make me any summer's story tell. 
 Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew : 
 Nor did I wonder at the lilies white, 
 Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose : 
 They were but sweet, but* figures of delight. 
 Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. 
 
 Yet seem'd it winter still ; and, you away, 
 
 As with your shadow, I with these did play." 
 
 Shakspeare was fond of alluding to April. He did not allow 
 May to have all his regard, because she was richer. Perdita, 
 crowned with flowers, in the " Winter's Tale," is beautifully 
 compared to 
 
 " Fiora 
 Peering in April's front." 
 
 There is a line in one of his sonnets, which, agreeably to the 
 image he had in his mind, seems to strike up in one's face, hot 
 and odorous, like perfume in a censer. 
 
 * But sweet, but. — Qusere, But sweet-cut t
 
 3'06 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 " In process of the seasons have I seen 
 Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd." 
 
 His allusions to spring are numerous in proportion. We all 
 know the song containing that fine line, fresh from the most 
 brilliant of palettes — 
 
 " Wlien daisies pied, and violets blue, 
 And lady-smocks all silver white. 
 And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue. 
 
 Do paint the meadows with delight" 
 
 We owe a long debt of gratitude to the daisy ; and we take 
 this opportunity of discharging a millionth part of it. If we 
 undertook to pay it all, we should have had to write such a 
 book as is never very likely to be written, — a journal of num- 
 berless happy hours in childhood, kept with the feelings of an 
 infant and the pen of a man. For it would take, we suspect, a 
 depth of delight and a subtlety of words, to express even the 
 vague joy of infancy, such as our learned departures from 
 natural wisdom would find it more difificult to put together 
 than criticism and comfort, or an old palate and a young relish. 
 But knowledge is the widening and the brightening road that 
 must conduct us back to the joys from which it led us ; and 
 which it is destined perhaps to secure and extend. We must 
 not quarrel with its asperities, when we can help. 
 
 We do not know the Greek name of the daisy, nor do the 
 dictionaries inform us ; and we are not at present in the way 
 of consulting books that might. We always like to see what 
 the Greeks say to these things, because they had a sentiment in 
 their enjoyments. The Latins called it Bellis or Bellus, as 
 much as to say, Nice One. With the French and Italians it 
 has the same name as a Pearl, — Marguerite, Margarita, or 
 generally, by way of endearment, Margheretina.* The same 
 word was the name of a woman, and occasioned infinite inter- 
 
 • This word is originally Greek, — Margarites ; and as the Franks probably 
 brought it fiom Constantinople, perhaps they brought its association with the daisy 
 aJso.
 
 SPRING. — DAISIES. — GATHERING FLOWERS. 307 
 
 mixtures of compliment about pearls, daisies, and fair mis- 
 tresses. Chaucer, in his beautiful poem of " The Flower and 
 the Leaf," which is evidently imitated from some French 
 poetess, says : — 
 
 " And at the laste there began anon 
 A lady for to sing right womanly 
 A bargaret* in praising the daisie, 
 For, as methought, among her notes sweet, 
 She said) 'Di douset est la Margarete.'" 
 
 " The Margaret is so sweet." Our Margaret, however, in this 
 allegorical poem, is undervalued in comparison with the laurel ; 
 yet Chaucer perhaps was partly induced to translate it on 
 account of its making the figure that it does ; for he has 
 informed us more than once, in a very particular manner, that 
 it was his favourite flower. There is a very interesting passage 
 to this effect in his " Legend of Good Women ; " where he says, 
 that nothing but the daisied fields in spring could take him 
 from his books. 
 
 " And as forme, though that I can but lite t 
 On bookes for to read I me delight, 
 And to hem give I faith and full credence, 
 And in my heart have liem in reverence 
 So heartily, that there is game none 
 That from my bookes maketh me to gone, 
 But it be seldom, on the holy day ; 
 Save, certainly, when that the month of May 
 Is comen, and I hear the foulis sing, 
 And that the flowers ginnen for to spring, 
 Farewell my booke, and my devotion. 
 Now have I then eke this condition. 
 That, above all the flowers in the mead. 
 Then love I most those flowers white and red. 
 Such that men callen daisies in our town. 
 To hem have I so great affection. 
 As I said erst, when comen is the May, 
 That in the bed there daweth { me no day 
 That I n'am up and walking in the mead. 
 To seen the flower agenst the sunn^ spread, 
 
 • Bargaret, Bergerette, a little pastoral. 
 
 1 Know but little. I Dawneth.
 
 308 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 When it uprit^eth early by the morrow : 
 That blissful sight softcrieth all my sorrow. 
 So glad am I, when that I have presence 
 Of it, to doin it all reverence. 
 As she that is of all flowers the flower." 
 
 He says that he finds it ever new, and that he shall love it till 
 his " heart dies ; " and afterwards, with a natural picture of his 
 resting on the grass : — 
 
 " Adown full softely I gan to sink, 
 And, leaning on my elbow and my side. 
 The longe day I shope* me for to abide 
 For nothing cllis, and I shall not lie, 
 But for to look upon the daisie. 
 That well by reason men it call€ may 
 The daisie, or else the eye of day." 
 
 This etymology, which we have no doubt is the real one, is 
 repeated by Ben Jonson, who takes occasion to spell the word 
 " days-eyes ; " adding, with his usual tendency to overdo a 
 matter of learning — • 
 
 " Days-eyes, and the lippes of cows ; " 
 
 videlicit, cowslips : which is a disentanglement of compounds, 
 in the style of our pleasant parodists : — 
 
 " Puddings of the plum. 
 And fingers of the lady." 
 
 Mr Wordsworth introduces his homage to the daisy with a 
 passage from George Wither; which, as it is an old favourite of 
 ours, and extremely applicable both to this article and our whole 
 work, we cannot deny ourselves the pleasure of repeating. It is 
 the more interesting inasmuch as it was written in prison, 
 where the freedom of his opinions had thrown him.t He is 
 speaking of his Muse, or Imagination. 
 
 * Shaped. 
 
 ■f It is not generally known that Chaucer was four years in prison, in his old 
 age, on the same account. He was a. Wickliffite, — one of the precursors of tha 
 Reformation. His prison, doubtless, was no diminisher of his love of the daisy.
 
 SPRING. — DAISIES. — GATHERING FLOWERS. 309 
 
 " Her divine skill taught me this ; 
 That from everything I saw 
 I could some invention draw, 
 And raise pleasure to her height 
 Through the meanest object's sight : 
 By the murmur of a spring. 
 Or the least bough's rustelling ; 
 By a daisy, whose leaves spread 
 Shut when Titan goes to bed ; 
 Or a shady bush or tree ; 
 She could more infuse in me 
 Than all Nature's beauties can 
 In some other wiser man." 
 
 Mr Wordsworth undertakes to patronise the celandine, be- 
 cause nobody else will notice it ; which is a good reason. But 
 though he tells us, in a startling piece of information, that 
 
 " Poets, vain men in their mood, 
 Travel with the multitude," 
 
 yet he falls in with his old brethren of England and Normandy, 
 and becomes loyal to the daisy. 
 
 " Be violets in their secret mews 
 The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose ; 
 Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 
 
 Her head impearling ; 
 Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, 
 Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; 
 Thou art indeed, by many a claim. 
 The poet's darling. 
 
 ' A nun demure, of lowly port ; 
 Or sprightly maiden of Love's court, 
 In thy simplicity the sport 
 
 Of all temptations ; 
 A queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
 A starveling in a scanty vest ; 
 Are all, as seem to suit thee best, 
 Thy appellations. 
 
 ' A little Cyclops, with one eye 
 Staring to threaten or defy — 
 That thought comes next, and instautly 
 The freak is over ;
 
 3IO LEIGH HUNT S ESSAYS. 
 
 The shape will vanish, and behold! 
 A silver shield with boss of tjold, 
 That spreads itself, some fairy bold 
 In fight to cover. 
 
 " I see thee glittering from afar ; 
 And then thou art a pretty star. 
 Not quite so fair as many are 
 
 In heaven above thee 1 
 Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
 Self-poised in air, thou seem'st to rest ; — 
 May peace come never to his nest 
 
 Who shall reprove thee. 
 
 " Sweet flower I for by that name at last, 
 When all my reveries are past, 
 I call thee, and to that cleave fast ; 
 
 Sweet silent creature 1 
 That breath'st with me in sun and air, 
 Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
 My heart with gladness, and a share 
 Of thy meek nature !" 
 
 Mr Wordsworth calls the daisy " an unassuming common- 
 place of Nature," which it is ; and he praises it very becomingly 
 for discharging its duties so cheerfully, in that universal char- 
 acter. But we cannot agree with him in thinking that it has a 
 "homely face." Not that we should care if it really had, for 
 homeliness does not make ugliness ; but we appeal to every- 
 body whether it is proper to say this of "la belle Marguerite." 
 In the first place, its shape is very pretty and slender, but not too 
 much so. Then it has a boss of gold, set round and irradiated 
 with silver points. Its yellow and fair white are in so high a 
 taste of contrast that Spenser has chosen the same colours for 
 a picture of Leda reposing : — 
 
 " Oh wondrous skill and sweet wit of the man 1 
 That her in daffodillies sleeping made. 
 From scorching heat her dainty limbs to shade." 
 
 It is for the same reason, that the daisy, being chiefly white, 
 makes such a beautiful show in company with the buttercup. 
 But this is not all ; for look at the back, and vou find its fair
 
 SPRING. — DAISIES. — GATHERING FLOWERS. 31I 
 
 petals blushing with a most delightful red. And how compactly 
 and delicately is the neck set in green ! " Belle et douce Mar- 
 guerite, aimable soeur du roi Kingcup I" we would tilt for thee 
 with a hundred pens, against the stoutest poet that did not find 
 perfection in thy cheek. 
 
 But here somebody may remind us of the spring showers-and 
 what drawbacks they are upon going into the fields. Not at all 
 so, when the spring is really confirmed, and the showers but 
 April-like and at intervals. Let us turn our imaginations to 
 the bright side of spring, and we shall forget the showers. You 
 see they have been forgotten just this moment. Besides, we are 
 not likely to stray too far into the fields ; and if we should, are 
 there not hats, bonnets, barns, cottages, elm-trees, and good 
 wills ? We may make these things zests, if we please, instead 
 of drawbacks.
 
 OF DREAMS. 
 
 THE materialists and psychologists are at issue upon the 
 subject of dreams. The latter hold them to be one 
 among the many proofs of the existence of a soul : the 
 former endeavour to account for them upon principles altogether 
 corporeal. We must own that the effects of their respective 
 arguments, as is usual with us on these occasions, is not so 
 much to satisfy us with either as to dissatisfy us with both. 
 The psychologist, with all his struggles, never appears to be 
 able to get rid of his body; and the materialist leaves something 
 extremely deficient in the vivacity of his proofs by his ignorance 
 of that Primum Mobile which is the soul of everything. In the 
 meantime, while they go on with their laudable inquiries (for 
 which we have a very sincere respect), it is our business to go 
 on recommending a taste for results as well as causes, and turn- 
 ing everything to account in this beautiful star of ours, the earth, 
 whether body or soul. There is no reason why the most learned 
 investigator of the most subtle mysteries should not enjoy his 
 existence, and have his earthly dreams made as pleasant as 
 possible ; and for our parts we see nothing at present, either in 
 body or soul, but a medium for a world of perceptions, the very 
 unpleasantest of whose dreams are but warnings to us how 
 we depart from the health and natural piety of the pleasant 
 ones. 
 
 What seems incontrovertible in the case of dreams is, that
 
 OF DREAMS. 313 
 
 they are most apt to take place when the body is most affected. 
 They seem to turn most upon us, when the suspension of the 
 will has been reduced to its most helpless state by indulgence. 
 The door of the fancy is left without its keeper; and forth issue, 
 pell-mell, the whole rout of ideas or images, which had been 
 previously stored within the brain, and kept to their respective 
 duties. They are like a school let loose, or the winds in Virgil, 
 or Lord Anson's drunken sailors at Panama, who dressed them- 
 selves up in all sorts of ridiculous apparel: only they are far 
 more wild, winged, and fantastic. 
 
 We were about to say that, being writers, we are of necessity 
 dreamers ; for thinking disposes the bodily faculties to be more 
 than usually affected by the causes that generally produce 
 dreaming. But extremes appear to meet on this as on other 
 occasions ; at least, as far as the meditative power is concerned ; 
 for there is an excellent reasoner, now living,* who, telling an- 
 other that he was not fond of the wilder parts of the " Arabian 
 Nights," was answered, with great felicity, "Then you never 
 dream : " — which, it turned out, was actually the case. Here the 
 link is totally lost, that connects a tendency to indigestion with 
 thinking on the one hand, and dreaming on the other. If we 
 are to believe Herodotus, the Atlantes, an African people, never 
 dreamt ; which Montaigne is willing to attribute to their never 
 having eaten anything that died of itself. It is to be presumed 
 that he looked upon their temperance as a matter of course. 
 The same philosopher, who was a deep thinker, and of a delicate 
 constitution, informs us that he himself dreamt but sparingly ; 
 but then, when he did, his dreams were fantastic, though cheer- 
 ful. This is the very triumph of the animal spirits, to unite the 
 strangeness of sick dreams with the cheerfulness of healthy 
 ones. To these exceptions against the usual theories, we may 
 add that dreams, when they occur, are by no means modified 
 of necessity by what the mind has been occupied with in the 
 course of the day, or even of months ; for during our two years' 
 
 •Hazlitt.— Ed.
 
 314 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 confinement in prison, we have a strong recollection that we 
 did not dream more than twice of our chief subjects of reflec- 
 tion, the prison itself not excepted. The two dreams were both 
 about the latter, and both the same. We fancied that we had 
 slipped out of jail, and gone to the theatre, where we were much 
 horrified by seeing the faces of the whole audience unexpectedly 
 turned upon us. 
 
 It is certain enough, however, that dreams in general proceed 
 from indigestion ; and it appears nearly as much so, that they 
 are more or less strange according to the waking fancy of the 
 dreamer. 
 
 " All dreams, as in old Galen I have read. 
 Arc from repletion and complexion bred. 
 From rising fumes of indigested food, 
 And noxious humours that infect the blood.— 
 When choler overflows, then dreams are bred 
 Of flames, and all the family of red. — 
 Choler adust congeals the blood with fear ', 
 Then black bulls toss us, and black devils tear. 
 In sanguine airy dreams aloft we bound ; 
 With rheums oppress'd we sink, in rivers drown'd." 
 
 Dryden's Cod and the Fox, from Chaucer. 
 
 Again, in another passage which is worth quoting instead of the 
 original, and affords a good terse specimen of the author's 
 versification : — 
 
 " Dreams are but interludes which Fancy makes : 
 When monarch Reason sleeps, this mimic wakes ; 
 Compounds a medley of disjointed things, 
 A mob of cobblers and a court of kings.* 
 Light fumes are merry, grosser fumes are sad : 
 Both are the reasonable soul run mad ; 
 And many monstrous forms in sleep we see. 
 That neither were, nor are, nor e'er can be. 
 Sometimes forgotten things long cast behind 
 Rush forward in the brain, and come to mind. 
 The nurse's legends are for truths receiv'd. 
 And the man dreams but what the boy believ'd. 
 Sometimes we but rehearse a former play ; 
 The night restores our actions done by day. 
 As hounds in sleep will open for their prey. 
 
 • Perhaps a misprint for 
 
 " A court of cobblers and a mob of kings.
 
 OF DREAMS. 315 
 
 In short, the farce of dreams is of a pica. 
 Chimeras all ; and more absurd, or less." 
 
 It is probable, at the same time, that a trivial degree of indi- 
 gestion will give rise to very fantastic dreams in a fanciful mind ; 
 while on the other hand a good orthodox repletion is necessary 
 towards a fanciful creation in a dull one. It shall make an 
 epicure, of any vivacity, act as many parts in his sleep as a 
 tragedian, " for that night only." The inspirations of veal in 
 particular are accounted extremely Delphic : Italian pickles 
 partake of the spirit of Dante ; and a butter-boat shall contain 
 as many ghosts as Charon's. 
 
 There is a passage in Lucian which would have made a good 
 subject for those who painted the temptations of the saints. 
 It is a description of the City of Dreams, very lively and 
 crowded. We quote after Natalis Comes, not having the True 
 History by us. The city, we are told, stands in an immense 
 plain, surrounded by a thick forest of tall poppy trees, and 
 enormous mandragoras. The plain is also full of all sorts of 
 somniculous plants ; and the trees are haunted with multitudes 
 of owls and bats, but no other bird. The city is washed by the 
 river Lethe, called by others the Night-bringer, whose course is 
 inaudible and like the flowing of oil. (Spenser's follower, 
 Browne, has been here : — 
 
 " Where consort none other fowl 
 Than the bat and sullen owl ; 
 Where flows Lethe without coil, 
 Softly, like a stream of oil." 
 
 Intier Temple Mask.) 
 
 There are two gates to the city : one of horn, in which almost 
 everything that can happen in sleep is represented, as in a 
 transparency ; the other of ivory, in which the dreams are but 
 dimly shadowed. The principal temple is that of Night ; and 
 there are others, dedicated to Truth and Falsehood, who have 
 oracles. The population consists of Dreams, who are of an 
 infinite variety of shape. Some are small and slender ; others
 
 3l6 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 distorted, humped, and monstrous ; others very proper and tall, 
 with blooming, good-tempered faces. Others again have ter- 
 rible countenances, are winged, and seem eternally threatening 
 the city with some calamity ; while others walk about in the 
 pomp and garniture of kings. If any mortal comes into the 
 place, there is a multitude of domestic Dreams, who meet him 
 wiih offers of service ; and who are followed by some of the 
 others, that bring him good or bad news, generally false ; for 
 the inhabitants of that city are for the most part a lying and 
 crafty generation, speaking one thing, and thinking another. — 
 This is having a new advantage over us. Only think of the 
 mental reservation of a Dream ! 
 
 If Lucian had divided his city into ranks and denominations, 
 he might possibly have classed them under the general heads of 
 Dreams Lofty, Dreams Ludicrous, Dreams Pathetic, Dreams 
 Horrible, Dreams Bodily Painful or Pleasant, Dreams of Com- 
 mon Life, Dreams of New Aspects of Humanity, Dreams 
 Mixed, Fantastic, and utterly Confused. He speaks of winged 
 ones; which is judicious, for they are very common ; but unless 
 Natalis Comes, Avho is not a very bright person, misrepresents 
 him, he makes them of the melancholy class, which in general 
 they are not. 
 
 " In sanguine airy dreams aloft we bound." 
 
 Nothing is more common, or usually more pleasant, than to 
 dream of flying. It is one of the best specimens of the race ; for, 
 besides being agreeable, it is made up of the dreams of ordinary 
 life, and those of surprising combination. Thus the dreamer 
 sometimes thinks he is flying in unknown regions, sometimes 
 skimming only a few inches above the ground, and wondering 
 he never did it before. He will even dream that he is dreaming 
 about it ; and yet is so fully convinced of its feasibility, and so 
 astonished at his never having hit upon so delightful a truism, 
 that he is resolved to practise it the moment he wakes. " One 
 has only," says he, "just to give a little spring with one's foot — 
 so— and — oh it 's the easiest and most obvious thing in the world.
 
 OF DREAMS. ' 317 
 
 I '11 always skim hereafter." We once dreamt that a woman set 
 up some Flying Rooms, as a person does a tavern. We went 
 to try them ; and nothing could be more satisfactory and 
 commonplace on all sides. The landlady welcomed us with 
 a curtsey, hoped for friends and favours, &c., and then showed 
 us into a spacious room, not round, as might be expected, but 
 long, and after the usual dining fashion. " Perhaps, sir," said 
 she, "you would like to try the room;" upon which we made 
 no more ado, but sprung up and made two or three genteel cir- 
 cuits, now taking the height of it like a house-lark, and then 
 cutting the angles like a swallow. " Very pretty flying indeed," 
 said we, " and very moderate." 
 
 A house for the purpose of taking flights in, when the open air 
 was to be had for nothing, is fantastic enough ; but what shall 
 we say to those confoundings of all time, place, and substance, 
 which are constantly happening to persons of any creativeness 
 of diaphragm ? Thus you shall meet a friend in a gateway, who 
 besides being your friend shall be your enemy ; and beside? 
 being Jones or Tomkins, shall be a bull ; and besides asking 
 you in, shall oppose your entrance. Nevertheless, you are not 
 at all surprised ; or if surprised, are only so at something not at 
 all surprising. To be Tomkins and a bull at once, is the most 
 ordinary of commonplaces ; but that, being a bull, he should 
 have horns, is what astonishes you ; and you are also amazed 
 at his not being in Holborn or the Strand, where he never lived. 
 To be in two places at once is not uncommon to a dreamer. 
 He will also be young and old at the same time, a school-boy 
 and a man ; will live many years in a few minutes, like the 
 Sultan who dipped his head in the tub of water ; will be full of 
 zeal and dialogue upon some matter of indifference ; go to the 
 opera with a dish under his arm, to be in the fashion ; talk 
 faster in verse than prose ; and ask a set of horses to a musical 
 party, telling them that he knows they will be pleased, because 
 blue is the general wear, and Mozart has gone down to Glouces- 
 tershire to fit up a house for Epaminondas.
 
 3l8 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 It is a curious proof of the concern which body has in these 
 vagaries, that when you dream of any particular limb being in 
 pain, you shall often have gone to sleep in a posture that affects 
 it. A weight on the feet will produce dreams in which you are 
 rooted to the ground, or caught by a goblin out of the earth. 
 A cramped hand or leg shall get you tortured in the Inquisition ; 
 and a head too much thrown back, give you the sense of an in- 
 terminable visitation of stifling. The night-mare, the heaviest 
 punisher of repletion will visit some persons, merely for lying 
 on their backs ; which shows how much it is concerned in a 
 particular condition of the frame. Sometimes it lies upon the 
 chest like a vital lump. Sometimes it comes in the guise of a 
 horrid dwarf, or malignant little hag, who grins in your teeth 
 and will not let you rise. Its most common enormity is to pin 
 you to the ground with excess of fear, while something dreadful 
 is coming up, a goblin or a mad bull. Sometimes the horror is 
 of a very elaborate description, such as being spell-bound in an 
 old house, which has a mysterious and shocking possessor. 
 He is a gigantic deformity, and will pass presently through the 
 room in which you are sitting. He comes, not a giant, but a 
 dwarf, of the most strange and odious description, hairy, spider- 
 like, and chuckling. His mere passage is unbearable. The 
 agony rises at every step. You would protest against so malig- 
 nant a sublimation of the shocking, but are unable to move or 
 speak. At length, you give loud and long-drawn groans, and 
 start up with a preternatural effort, awake. 
 
 Mr Coleridge, whose sleeping imagination seems proportioned 
 to his waking, has described a fearful dream of mental and 
 bodily torture. As the beautiful poems of " Christabel, " &c., 
 which accompany it, seem to have been too imaginative to be 
 understood by the critics, and consequently have wanted the 
 general attention which the town are pleased to give or other- 
 wise according to the injunctions of those gentlemen, we shall 
 indulge ourselves in extracting the whole of it. It is entitled 
 " The Pains of Sleep."
 
 OF DREAMS. 3IQ 
 
 * Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, 
 It hath not been my use to pray 
 With moving lips or bended knees ; 
 But silently, by slow degrees. 
 My spirit I to love compose, 
 In humble trust mine eye-lids close. 
 With reverential resignation. 
 No wish conceiv'd, no thought express'd t 
 Only a sense of supplication, 
 A sense, o'er all my soul imprest. 
 That I am weak, yet not unblest, 
 Since in me, round me, everywhere. 
 Eternal Strength and Wisdom are. 
 
 ' But yester-night I pray'd aloud 
 In anguish and in agony. 
 Upstarting from the fiendish crowd 
 Of shapes and thouglits that tortured ro«; 
 A lurid light, a trampling throng. 
 Sense of intolerable wrong, 
 And whom I scorn'd, those only strong ! 
 Thirst of revenge, the powerless will 
 Still baffled, and yet burning still ! 
 Desire with loathing strangely mix'd, 
 On wild or hateful objects fix'd. 
 Fantastic passions! mad'ning brawl ! 
 And shame and terror over all I 
 Deeds to be hid which were not hid, 
 Which, all confused, I could not know 
 Whether I suffer'd, or I did : 
 For all seem'd guilt, remorse or woe, 
 My own or others still the same, 
 Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame ! 
 
 ' So two nights pass'd : the night's dismay 
 Sadden'd and stunn'd the coming day. 
 Sleep, the wide blessing, seem'd to me 
 Distemper's worst calamity. 
 The third night, when my own loud scream 
 Had waked me from the fiendish dream, 
 O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild, 
 I wept as I had been a child ; 
 And having thus by tears subdued 
 My anguish to a milder mood. 
 Such punishments, I said, were due 
 To nature's deepliest stain'd with sin : 
 For aye entempesting anew 
 Th' unfathomable hell withini
 
 3^0 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 The horror of their deeds to view, 
 
 To know and loathe, yet wish and do! 
 
 Such griefs with such men well agree. 
 
 But wherefore, wherefore fall on me? 
 
 To be beloved is all I need, 
 
 And whom I love, I love indeed." 
 
 This is the dream of a poet, and does not end with the 
 question of a philosopher. We do not pretend to determine 
 why we should have any pains at all. It is enough for us, in 
 our attempt to diminish them, that there are more pleasant than 
 painful excitements in the world, and that many pains are the 
 causes of pleasure. But what if these pains are for the same 
 end ? What if all this heaping and war of agonies were owing 
 to the author's having taken too little exercise, or eaten a heavier 
 supper than ordinary ? But then the proportion ! What pro- 
 portion, it may be asked, is there between the sin of neglected 
 exercise and such infernal visitations as these? We answer, — 
 the proportion, not of the particular offence, but of the general 
 consequences. We have before observed, but it cannot be 
 repeated too often, that nature, charitable as any poet or philo- 
 sopher can be upon the subject of merit and demerit, &c., seems 
 to insist, beyond anything else, upon our taking care of the 
 mould in which she has cast us ; or, in other words, of that 
 ground-work of all comfort, that box which contains the jewel 
 of existence, our health. On turning to the preceding poem in 
 the book, entitled " Kubla Khan," we perceive that in his intro- 
 duction to that pleasanter vision the author speaks of the 
 present one as the dream of pain and disease. " Kubla Khan," 
 which was meditated under the effects of opium, he calls " a 
 psychological curiosity." It is so ; but it is also, and still more, 
 a somatological or bodily one ; for body will effect these things 
 upon the mind, when the mind can do no such thing upon it- 
 self ; and therefore the shortest, most useful, and most philo- 
 sophical way of proceeding, is to treat the phenomenon in 
 the manner most serviceable to the health and comfort of both. 
 We subjoin the conclusion of " Kubla Khan," as beginning with
 
 OF DREAMS. 3 2 I 
 
 an exquisite piece of music, and ending with a most poetical 
 phantasm : — 
 
 " A damsel with a dulcimer 
 In a vision once I saw 
 It was an Abyssinian maid, 
 And on her dulcimer she play'd. 
 Singing of Mount Abora. 
 
 " Could I revive within me 
 Her symphony and song, 
 To such a deep delight 'twould win me. 
 That with music loud and long 
 I would build that dome in air. 
 That sunny dome I those caves of ice ! 
 And all who heard should see them there, 
 And all should cry, Beware, Beware, 
 His flashing eyes, his floating hair 1 
 Weave a circle round him thrice, 
 And close your eyes with holy dread ; 
 For he on honey-dew hath fed, 
 And drunk the milk of Paradise." 
 
 If horrible and fantastic dreams are the most perplexing, 
 there are pathetic ones perhaps still more saddening. A friend 
 dreaming of the loss of his friend, or a lover of that of his mistress, 
 or a kinsman of that of a dear relation, is steeped in the bitter- 
 ness of death. To wake and find it not true, — what a delicious 
 sensation is that ! On the other hand, to dream of a friend of 
 a beloved relative restored to us, — to live over again the hours 
 of childhood at the knee of a beloved mother, to be on the eve 
 of marrying an affectionate mistress, with a thousand other joys 
 snatched back out of the grave, and too painful to dwell upon, 
 — what a dreary rush of sensation comes like a shadow upon us 
 when we wake ! How true, ar.d divestca of all that is called 
 conceit in poetry, is that termination of Milton's sonnet on 
 dreaming of his deceased wife ! — 
 
 " But oh, as to embrace me she inclined, 
 I waked ; she fled; and day brought back my night" 
 
 We wonder that so good and cordial a critic as Warton should 
 think this a mere conceit on his blindness. An allusion to his 
 
 X
 
 323 
 
 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 blindness may or may not be involved in it ; but the sense of 
 returning shadow on the mind is quite true to nature on such 
 occasions, and must have been experienced by every one who 
 has lost a person dear to him. There is a beautiful sonnet by 
 Camoens on a similar occasion ; a small canzone by Sanazzaro, 
 which ends with saying, that although he waked and missed his 
 lady's hand in his, he still tried to cheat himself by keeping his 
 eyes shut ; and three divine dreams of Laura by Petrarch, 
 Sonnet 34, vol. ii., Son. 79, ib., and the canzone beginning — 
 
 " Quando il soave mio fido conforto." 
 
 But we must be cautious how we even think of the poets on 
 this most poetical subject, or we shall write three articles instead 
 of one. As it is, we have not left ourselves room for some very 
 agreeable dreams, which we meant to have taken between these 
 our gallant and imaginative sheets. They must be interrupted, 
 as they are too apt to be, like the young lady's in " The Adven- 
 tures of a Lap Dog," who, blushing divinely, had just uttered the 
 words, "My Lord, I am wholly yours," when she was awaked 
 by the jumping up of that officious little puppy.
 
 ON COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 WE must inform the reader of a very particular sort of dis- 
 tress, to which we agreeable writers are subject. We 
 mean the not knowing what to do with letters of appro- 
 bation. During the first aera of our periodical flourishing, we 
 used to sink them entirely, comforting ourselves in private with 
 our magnanimity, and contrasting it with the greedy admission 
 which some of our brethren gave to all panegyrical comers. 
 We had not yet learnt that correspondents have delicate feel- 
 ings to be consulted as well as editors. When this very benig- 
 nant light was let in upon us, we had to consider the natures 
 of our several correspondents, and to try and find out which of 
 them wrote most sincerely, which would be hurt or otherwise by 
 Tion-insertion, and which we ought to give way to, as a matter 
 of right on their own parts, as well as of pleasure on ours. We 
 found our scruples wonderfully apt to be done away in pro- 
 portion to the intelligence and cordiality of the writer. Mere 
 good-nature, with all our esteem for it, we could seldom admit, 
 for obvious reasons ; but good-nature and wit in unison, espe- 
 cially if joined with the knowledge of any generous action 
 performed by the possessor, we always found irresistible to our 
 modesty. 
 
 " In fact, the more honour it did you, Mr Indicator, the more 
 you were inclined to consult the delicacy of your correspon- 
 dent?"
 
 324 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 Just SO. — Now if our faculties are anything at all, they are 
 social ; and we have always been most pleased on these occa- 
 sions, when we have received the approbation of those friends 
 whom we are most in the habit of thinking of when we write. 
 There are multitudes of readers whose society we can fancy 
 ourselves enjoying, though we have never seen them ; but we 
 are more particularly apt to imagine ourselves in such and such 
 company, according to the nature of our articles. We are 
 accustomed to say to ourselves, if we happen to strike off any 
 thing that pleases us, — K. will like that : — There 's something 
 for M. or R. : — C. will snap his finger and slap his knee-pan at 
 this : — Here's a crow to pick for H. — Here N. will shake his 
 shoulders : — There B., ditto, his head : — Here S. will shriek with 
 satisfaction : — L. will see the philosophy of this joke, if nobody 
 else does.- — As to our fair friends, we find it difficult to think of 
 them and our subject tosether. We fancy their countenances 
 looking so frank and kind over our disquisitions, that we long 
 to have them turned towards ourselves instead of the paper. 
 
 Every pleasure we could experience in a fnerd's approbation, 
 we have felt in receiving the following verses. They are from a 
 writer, who of all other men, knows how to extricate a common 
 thing from commonness, and to give it an underlook of pleasant 
 consciousness and wisdom. We knew him directly, in spite of 
 his stars. His hand as well as heart betrayed him.* 
 
 TO MY FRIEND THE INDICATOR. 
 Your easy essays indicate a flow, 
 
 Dear friend, of brain, which we may elsewhere seek ; 
 And to their pages I, and hundreds, owe 
 That Wednesday t is the sweetest of the week. 
 Such observation, wit, and sense are shown, 
 We think the days of Bickerstaff returu'd ; 
 And that a portion of that oil you own. 
 In his undying midnight lamp which burn'd. 
 I would not lightly bruise old Priscian's head, 
 Or wrong the rnles of grammar understood ; 
 
 * It is almost needless to tell the reader that the verses are Charles Lamb's. — Ed. 
 1 The original day of publication of the Indicator.— Hv.
 
 ON COMMENDATORY VERSES. 325 
 
 But, with the leave of Priscian be it said, 
 The Indicative is your Potential Mood. 
 Wit, poet, prose-man, party-man, translator — 
 H , your best title yet is Indicator. 
 
 The receipt of these verses has set us upon thinking of the 
 good-natured countenance, which men of genius, in all ages, 
 have for the most part shown to contemporary writers ; and 
 thence, by a natural transition, of the generous friendship they 
 have manifested for each other. Authors, like other men, may 
 praise as well as blame for various reasons ; for interest, for 
 egotism, for fear: and for the same reasons they may be silent. 
 But generosity is natural to the humanity and the strength of 
 genius. Where it is obscured, it is usually from something that 
 has rendered it misanthropical. Where it is glaringly deficient, 
 the genius is deficient in proportion. And the defaulter feels as 
 much, though he does not know it. He feels, that the least 
 addition to another's fame threatens to block up the view of his 
 own. 
 
 At the same time, praise by no means implies a sense of 
 "uperiority. It may imply that we think it worth having ; but 
 this may arise from a consciousness of our sincerity, and from a 
 certain instinct we have, that to relish anything exceedingly 
 gives us a certain ability to judge, as well as a right to express 
 our admiration of it. 
 
 On all these accounts, we were startled to hear the other day 
 that Shakspeare had never praised a contemporary author. We 
 had mechanically given him credit for the manifestation of every 
 generosity under the sun ; and found the surprise affect us, 
 not as authors (which would have been a vanity not even 
 warranted by our having the title in common with him), but as 
 men. What baulked us in Shakspeare, seemed to baulk oui 
 faith in humanity. But we recovered as speedily. Shakspeare 
 had none of the ordinary inducements which make men nig- 
 gardly of their commendation. He had no reason either to be 
 jealous or afraid. He was the reverse of unpopular. His owa
 
 325 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 claims were universally allowed. He was neither one who need 
 be silent about a friend, lest he should be hurt by his enemy ; 
 nor one who nursed a style or theory by himself, and so was 
 obliged to take upon him a monopoly of admiration in self- 
 defence ; nor one who should gaze himself blind to everything 
 else, in the complacency of his own shallowness. If it should 
 be argued, that he who saw through human nature, was not 
 likely to praise it, we answer, that he who saw through it as 
 Shakspeare did, was the likeliest man in the world to be kind to 
 it. Even Swift refreshed the dry bitterness of his misanthropy 
 in his love for Tom, Dick, and Harry; and what Swift did from 
 impatience at not finding men better, Shakspeare would do out 
 of patience in finding them so good. We instanced the sonnet 
 in the collection called " The Passionate Pilgrim," beginning — 
 
 " If music and sweet poetry agree," 
 
 in which Spenser is praised so highly. It was replied, that 
 minute inquirers considered that collection as apocrypha.-- 
 This set us upon looking again at the biographers who have 
 criticised it ; and we see no reason, for the present, to doubt its 
 authenticity. For some parts of it we would answer upon in- 
 ternal evidence, especially, for instance, the Lover's Complaint. 
 There are two lines in this poem which would alone announce 
 him. They have the very trick of his eye. 
 
 " O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies 
 In the small orb of one particular tear ! " 
 
 But inquirers would have to do much more than disprove the 
 authenticity of these poems before they made out Shakspeare 
 to be a grudging author. They would have to undo all the 
 modesty and kindliness of his other writings. They would have 
 to undo his universal character for "gentleness," at a time when 
 gentle meant all that was noble as well as mild. They would 
 have to find bitterness in the sweet wisdom that runs throughout 
 liis dramatic works, and selfishness in the singular and exquisite 
 generosity of sentiment that hallows his more personal produc-
 
 ON COMMENDATORY VERSES. 327 
 
 tioiis. They would have to deform and to untune all that round 
 harmonious mind, which a great contemporary described as the 
 very " sphere of humanity ;" to deprive him of the epithet given 
 him in the school of Milton, "unvulgar;"* to render the uni- 
 versality of wisdom liable to the same drawbacks as mere 
 universality of science ; to take the child's heart out of the true 
 man's body ; to unShakspeare Shakspeare. If Shakspeare had 
 never mentioned a contemporary in his life, nor given so many 
 evidences in his sonnets of a cordial and admiring sense of those 
 about him, we would sooner believe that sheer modesty had 
 restrained his tongue, than the least approach to a petty feeling. 
 We can believe it possible that he may have thought his 
 panegyrics not wanted ; but unless he degraded himself wilfully, 
 in order to be no better than any of his fellow-creatures, we 
 cannot beHeve it possible that he would have thought his pane- 
 gyrics wanted, and yet withheld them. 
 
 It is remarkable that one of the most regular contributors of 
 commendatory verses in the time of Shakspeare was a man whose 
 bluntness of criticism and feverish surliness of manners have 
 rendered the most suspected of a jealous grudgingness — Ben 
 J on son. We mean not to detract an atom from the good- 
 heartedness which we sincerely believe this eminent person to 
 have possessed at bottom, when we say, that as an excess ot 
 modest confidence in his own generous instincts might possibly 
 have accounted for the sparingness of panegyric in our great 
 dramatist, so a noble distrust of himself, and a fear lest jealousy 
 should get the better of his instincts, might possibly account for 
 this panegyrical overplus in his illustrious friend. If so, it shows 
 how useful such a distrust is to one's ordinary share of humanity 
 and how much safer it will be for us, on these as well as all other 
 occasions, to venture upon likening ourselves to Ben Jonson 
 rather than Shakspeare. It is to be recollected at the same 
 time that Ben Jonson, in his age, was the more prominent per- 
 
 * By Milton's nephew Philips in his "Theatrum Poetarum." It is an epithet 
 given in all the spirit which it attrihiiti.s.
 
 328 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 son of the two, as a critical bestower of applause ; that he 
 occupied what may be called the town-chair of wit and scholar- 
 ship ; and was in the habit of sanctioning the pretensions of 
 new authors by a sort of literary adoption, calling them his 
 " sons," and " sealing them of the tribe of Ben." There was 
 more in him of the aristocracy and heraldry of letters than in 
 Shakspeare, who, after all, seems to have been careless of fame 
 himself, and to have written nothing during the chief part of his 
 life but plays which he did not print. Ben Jonson, among 
 other panegyrics, wrote high and affectionate ones upon Drayton, 
 William Browne, Fletcher, and Beaumont. His verses to the 
 niemory of Shakspeare are a most noble monument to both of 
 them. The lines to Beaumont, in return for some which we 
 have quoted in a former essay, we must repeat. They are 
 delightful for a certain involuntary but manly fondness, and for 
 the candour with which he confesses the joy he received from 
 such commendation. 
 
 " How I do love thee, Beaumont, and thy Muse 
 That unto me dost such religion use 1 
 How I do fear myself, that am not worth 
 The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth 1 
 At once thou mak'st me happy, and unmak'st : 
 And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st I 
 What fate is mine, that so itself bereaves? 
 What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives? 
 "When even there, where most thou praisest me. 
 For writing better, I must envy thee." 
 
 Observe the good effect which the use of the word " religion " 
 has here, though somewhat over-classical and pedantic. A 
 certain pedantry, in the best sense of the term, was natural to 
 the author, and therefore throws a grace on his most natural 
 moments. 
 
 There is great zeal and sincerity in Ben Jonson's lines to 
 Fletcher on the ill success of his " P^aithful Shepherdess ;" but 
 we have not room for them. 
 
 Beaumont's are still finei-, and indeed furnish a very complete 
 specimen of his wit and sense, as well as his sympathy with his
 
 ON COMMENDATORY VERSES. 329 
 
 friend. His indignation against the critics is more composed 
 and contemptuous. His uppermost feeling is confidence in his 
 friend's greatness. The reader may here see what has always 
 been thought by men of genius of people who take the ipsedixits 
 of the critics. After giving a fine sense of the irrepressible 
 thirst of writing in a poet, he says — 
 
 " Yet wish I those whom I for fiiends have knowr., 
 To sing their thoughts to no ears but their own. 
 Why should the man, whose wit ne'er had a stain, 
 Upon the public stage present his vein. 
 And make a thousand men in judgment sit, 
 To call in question his undoubted wit. 
 Scarce two of which can understand the laws 
 Which they should judge by, nor the party's cause ? 
 Among the rout there is not one that hath 
 In his own censure an explicit f.^ith. 
 One company, knowing they judgment lack, 
 Ground their belief on the next man in black ; 
 Others, on him that makes signs, and is mute ; 
 Some like as he does in the fairest suit ; 
 He as his mistress doth, and she by chance : 
 Nor want there. those, who as the boy doth dance 
 Between the acts, will censure the whole play ; 
 Some if the wax-lights be not new that day ; 
 But multitudes there are whose judgment goes 
 Headlong according to the actors' clothes. 
 For this, these public things and I, agiee 
 So ill, that but to do a right for thee, 
 I had not been persuaded to have hurl'd 
 These few, ill-spoken lines, into the world. 
 Both to be read, and censur'd of, by those. 
 Whose very reading makes verse senseless prose." 
 
 One of the finest pieces of commendatory verse is Sir Walter 
 Raleigh's upon the great poem of Spenser. He calls it a Vision 
 upon the Faery Queen. 
 
 " Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay. 
 Within that temple where the vestal flame 
 Was wont to burn ; and passing by that way 
 To see that buried dust of living fame, 
 Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept. 
 All suddenly I saw the Faery Queen : 
 At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept. 
 And from thenceforth those graces were not seen ;
 
 330 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 (For they this queen attended ;) in whose stead 
 Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse. 
 Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed, 
 And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did perse, 
 Where Homer's spright did tremble all for grief. 
 And curs'd th' access of that celestial thief." 
 
 This is higlily imaginative and picturesque. We fancy ourselves 
 in one of the most beautiful places of Italian sepulture — quiet 
 and hushing — looking upon a tomb of animated sculpture. It 
 is the tomb of the renowned Laura. We feel the spirit of Pe- 
 trarch present without being visible. The fair forms of Love 
 and Virtue keep affectionate watch over the marble. All on a 
 sudden, from out the dusk of the chapel door, the Faery Queeu 
 is beheld approaching the tomb. The soul of Petrarch is heard 
 weeping — a most intense imagination, which affects one like the 
 collected tears and disappointment of living humanity. Oblivion 
 lays him down on the tomb ; 
 
 " And from thenceforth those graces were not seen." 
 
 The Other marbles bleed at this : the ghosts of the dead groan ; 
 and the very spirit of Homer is felt to tremble. It is a ver> 
 grand and high sonnet, worthy of the dominant spirit of the 
 writer. One of its beauties, however, is its defect ; if defect it 
 be, and not rather a fine instance of the wilful. Comparisons 
 between great reputations are dangerous, and are apt to be 
 made too much at the expense of one of them, precisely because 
 the author knows he is begging the question. Oblivion has laid 
 him down neither on Laura's hearse nor the Faery Queen's ; 
 and Raleigh knew he never would. But he wished to make out 
 a triumphant case for his friend, in the same spirit in which he 
 pushed his sword into a S^ianish settlement, and carried all 
 before him. 
 
 The verses of Andrew IMarvell prefixed to " Paradise Lost," 
 beginning, 
 
 " When I beheld the poet, blind yet bold," 
 
 are well known to every reader of INIilton, and justly admired by 
 all who know what they read. We remember how delighted we
 
 ON COMMENDATORY VERSES. 331 
 
 were to find who Andrew Marvell was, and that he could be so 
 pleasant and lively as well as grave. Spirited and worthy as 
 this panegyric is, the reader who is not thoroughly acquainted 
 with Marvell's history does not know all its spirit and worth. 
 That true friend and excellent patriot stuck to his old acquaint- 
 ance, at a period when all canters and time-servers turned their 
 backs upon him, and would have made the very knowledge of 
 him, which they themselves had had the honour of sharing, the 
 ruin of those that put their desertion to the blush. There is a 
 noble burst of indignation on this subject, in one of Marvell's 
 prose works, against one Parker, who succeeded in getting made 
 a bishop. Parker seems to have thought that Marvell would 
 have been afraid of acknowledging his old acquaintance ; but, 
 so far from resembling the bishop in that or any other parti- 
 cular, he not only publicly proclaimed and gloried in the friend- 
 ship of the overshadowed poet, but reminded Master Parker that 
 he had once done the same. 
 
 We must be cautious how we go on quoting verses upon this 
 agreeable subject; for they elbow one's prose out at a great 
 rate. They sit in state, with a great vacancy on each side of 
 them, like Henry VIII. in a picture of Holbein's. The wits 
 who flourished after the time of the Stuarts were not behind the 
 great poets of the age of Elizabeth in doing justice to their con- 
 temporaries. Dryden hailed the appearance of Congreve and 
 Oldham. Congreve's merits were universally acknowledged, 
 except by the critics. We need not refer to the works of Pope, 
 Gay, Steele, Prior, &c. If Swift abused Dryden (who is said to 
 have told him he would never be a poet), he also abused in a 
 most unwarrantable and outrageous manner Sir Richard Steele, 
 for whose Tatlcr he had written. His abuse was not a thing of 
 literary jealousy, but of some personal or party spite. The 
 union of all three was a quintessence of consciousness, reserved 
 for the present times. But Swift's very fondness vented itself, 
 like Bonaparte's, in slaps of the cheek. He was morbid, and 
 liked to create himself cause for pity or regret. " The Dean
 
 332 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 was a strange man." According to Mrs Pilkington's account, 
 he used to give her a pretty hard thump now and then, of course 
 to see how amiably she took it. Upon the same principle, he 
 tells us in the verses on his death that 
 
 " Friend Pope will grieve a month, and Gay 
 A week, and Arbuthuot a day." 
 
 This was to vex them, and make them prove his words false 
 by complaining of their injustice. He himself once kept a letter 
 unopened for some days, because he was afraid it would contain 
 news of a friend's death. See how he makes his very coarse- 
 ness and irritability contribute to a panegyric : — 
 
 " When Pope shall in one couplet fix 
 More sense than I can do in six. 
 It gives me such a jealous fit, 
 I cry, ' Pox, take him and his wit ! ' " 
 
 We must finish our quotations with a part of some sprightly 
 verses addressed to Garth on his Dispensary by a friend of the 
 name of Codrington. Codrington was one of those happily- 
 tempered spirits, who united in high style the characters of 
 the gentleman the wit, and the man of business. He was 
 in the best sense of the words, " a person of wit and honour 
 about town," 
 
 " The courtier's, scholar's, soldier's, eye, tongue, sword." 
 
 He was born in Barbadoes, where, after residing some time in 
 England, and serving with great gallantry as an officer in 
 various parts of the world, he was appointed Governor-General 
 of the Leeward Islands. He resigned his government in the 
 course of a few years, and died in the same place in the midst 
 of his favourite studies. Among the variety of his accomplish- 
 ments he did not omit even divinity, and was accounted a 
 special master of metaphysics. His public life he had devoted 
 to his country ; his private he divided among his books and 
 friends. If the verses before us are not so good as those of the 
 old poets, they are as good in their way, are as sincere and 
 cordial, and smack of the champagne on his table. We hke
 
 ON COMMENDATORY VERSES. 333 
 
 them on many accounts, for we like the panegyrist, and have 
 an old liking for his friend : — we like the taste they express in 
 friendship and in beauty ; and we like to fancy that our good- 
 humoured ancestors in Barbadoes enjoyed the governor's society, 
 and relished their wine with these identical triplets. 
 
 TO MY FRIEND THE AUTHOR, DESIRING MY OPINION OF HIS 
 POEM. 
 
 Ask me not, friend, what I approve or blame ; 
 Perhaps I know not what I like or damn ; 
 I can be pleased, and I dare own I am. 
 
 I read thee over with a lover's eye ; 
 Thou hast no faults, or I no faults can spy 
 Thou art all beauty, or all blindness I. 
 
 Critics and aged beaux of fancy chaste. 
 Who ne'er had fire, or else whose fire is past, 
 Must judge by rules what they want force to taste. 
 
 I would a poet, like a mistress, try, 
 
 Not by her hair, her hand, her nose, her eye ; 
 
 But by some nameless power to give me joy. 
 
 The nymph has Grafton's, Cecil's, Churchill's charms, 
 
 If with resistless fires my soul she warms, 
 
 With balm upon her lips, and rnptures in her arms. 
 
 Literary loves and jealousies were much the same in the 
 ancient and middle ages as the present ; but we hear a great 
 deal more of the loves than the reverse ; because genius survives 
 and ignorance does not. The ancient philosophers had a 
 delicate way of honouring their favourites, by inscribing treatises 
 with their names. It is thought a strange thing in Xenophon 
 that he never once mentions Plato. The greater part of the 
 miscellaneous poetry of the Greeks is lost ; or we should doubt- 
 less see numerous evidences of the intercourse of their authors. 
 The Greek poets of Sicily, Theocritus and Moschus, are very 
 affectionate in recording the merits of their contemporaries. 
 Varius and Gallus, two eminent Roman poets, scarcely survive 
 but in the panegyrics of Horace, Virgil, and Ovid ; all of whom
 
 334 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 were fond of paying their tributes of admiration, Dante does 
 the same to his contemporaries and predecessors. Petrarch 
 and Boccaccio publicly honoured, as they privately loved, 
 each other. Tasso, the greatest poet of his time, was also 
 the greatest panegyrist ; and so, as might be expected, was 
 Ariosto. He has introduced a host of his friends by name, 
 male and female, at the end of his great work, coming down to 
 the shores of poetry to welcome him home after his voyage. 
 7"here is a pleasant imitation of it by Gay, appHed to Pope's 
 conclusion of Homer. Montaigne, who had the most exalted 
 notions of friendship, which he thought should have everything 
 in common, took as much zeal in the literary reputation of his 
 fi iends as in everything else that concerned them. The wits of 
 the time of Henry IV., of Louis XIV., and of Louis XV. — 
 Malherbe, Racan, Corneille, Molifere, Racine, Chaulieu, La 
 Fare, D'Alembert, Voltaire, &c., not excepting Boileau, where 
 he knew a writer — all do honour in this respect to the sociality 
 of their nation. It is the same, we believe, with the German 
 writers ; and if the Spanish winced a little under the domination 
 of Lope de Vega, they were chivalrous in giving him perhaps 
 more than his due. Camoens had the admiration of literary 
 friends as poor as himself, if he had nothing else : but this was 
 something. 
 
 [Note. — The initials near the commencement of this paper are certainly those of 
 real men. " K." was doubtless Keats. " M." may have been Thomas Moore. 
 " R." was perhaps Henry Robertson, a familiar friend of Leigh Hunt's. "C." I 
 judge to be Mr Charles Cowden Clarke (a triple C), who, it is pleasant to think, is 
 still vigorously working for the instruction of the present generation. "H." must 
 have been Hazlitt, and " N.," I suppose. Novello. " B." was possibly Barnes, 
 editor of the Times: and " S." and " L." were unquestionably Shelley and Lamb. 
 -Ed.]
 
 HOOLE'S AND FAIRFAX'S TASSO. 
 
 BY far the best-known translation of the " Jerusalem De- 
 livered" of Tasso, is Mr Hoole's. It has appeared, and 
 still appears, in editions of all sizes ; and is gathered as 
 a matter of course into collections of the British Poets. The 
 sole reason of this is, not that Mr Hoole translated the work, 
 Lut that his original was Tasso. It is the name of Tasso, solely, 
 that has carried him on from generation to generation, like a 
 corpse attached to the immortal spirit of the Italian, and making 
 it dull with the burden. 
 
 The republication, in various quarters, of the finer translation 
 by Fairfax, will doubtless help to detach one idea from the other ; 
 but as Mr Hoole's version has also been often reprinted of late, 
 and as Fairfax himself presents some difficulties in the way of 
 popularity, a few observations on the two works may not be 
 useless in furthering the public interests of poetry. 
 
 Hoole is a singular example of the popularity which a man 
 may obtain by taking up a great author to translate with whom 
 he has nothing in common, and merely subserving to the worst 
 taste of the times. Some readers put faith in the imposture 
 from the mere name of the original, some from a deference to 
 the translator's knowledge of Italian, some from the recom- 
 mendation of any living author who has talent in anything, 
 some from a real wish to be acquainted with a great poet, some 
 from national self-love, some from indolence of various kinds,
 
 33 5 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 many from the habit of acquiescing in anything after their own 
 fashion, and many more because the rest have done so before 
 them. Yet many of these, with whatever sincerity they have 
 praised the original author, would have thought no higher of 
 him than of some middle writers of their own country, as indeed 
 has frequently been the case ; and others, who have undertaken 
 to agree with the lovers of his native language in their enthusiasm 
 about his pathos and dignity, or his vivacity, naivete, &c., would 
 have owned, if they had the courage, what a dull fellow they 
 could not help thinking him. The rest, who really loved and 
 understood poetry, Italian or English, could only sit still and 
 wonder at all this, preferring, at the risk of being thought foolish 
 or pedantic, the old obsolete translators of Shakspeare's time, 
 when " our language," saith Mr Hoole, " was in its rudiments." 
 It was lucky, however, for this gentleman, that he had the period 
 he wrote in almost all to himself. There was not a single real 
 poet surviving, except Cowper. Gray, Armstrong, Akenside, 
 Collins, Churchill, — everybody was gone who was likely to 
 detect him publicly ; and the age, in every respect, was then 
 in the fulness of its poetical emptiness. The French school 
 was in its last weedy exuberance. The apprentices and their 
 mistresses, in their pretty transparent acrostic masks, walked 
 forth by hundreds to meet each other in Poet's Corner in the 
 magazines ; and as nobody knew anything about poetry, except 
 that it had to repeat " ingenious " commonplaces, to rhyme 
 upon heart, impart, love, prove, &c., and to pause, as Pope did, 
 upon the fourth and fifth syllables, everybody could write poetry, 
 and admit it in others : Pope, whose real merits they did not 
 understand after all, was the greatest poet that ever lived ; next 
 to him were Goldsmith, and Collins, and Gray, the two latter, 
 however, very little understood ; then, or perhaps before them, 
 was Dr Johnson, whom our master at school gave us as a poeti- 
 cal model : then came, in their respective circles, though at due 
 distance, Mr Jenkins, Mr Tomkins, or Mr Hipkins, who wrote 
 lines on the beautiful Miss Y. of Bristol, or the charming Miss
 
 HOOLE S AND FAIRFAX S TASSO. 337 
 
 Z. of Fish Street Hill ; and nothing was wanting to make such 
 a person as Mr Hoole a great and popular writer with these 
 gentlemen and ladies, but that he should write a great quantity 
 of verses ; which he accordingly did. 
 
 That Dr Johnson should speak a good word for Mr Hoole 
 much less write a dedication for him, is not surprising ; 
 though what a poet must he be who goes to another to write 
 a dedication for him ! Johnson was in the habit of writing 
 dedications for those who were conscious of not being good 
 turners of a prose paragraph, and who wished to approach 
 the great with a proper one ; and Mr Hoole, it seems, was 
 among these modest persons, though he did not scruple to 
 approach Tasso and Ariosto with his poetry. The dedica- 
 tion, which is to the late Queen,* and which expresses a wish 
 that Tasso had lived in a happier time, and experienced 
 from the descendants of the House of Este " a more liberal 
 and potent patronage," is elegant and to the purpose. The 
 good word is a mere word, and very equivocal besides. 
 Johnson, who is now pretty generally understood not to 
 have been so good a critic in poetry as he was strong in 
 general understanding, and justly eminent in some respects, 
 might have been very capable of applauding a translation 
 upon Mr Hoole's principles ; but it is more than to be sus- 
 pected that he would have desired a higher order of work- 
 manship out of the manufactory. Hoole was a pitch too 
 low for his admiration, though it appeared he had private 
 qualities sufficient to secure his good wishes ; and even those, 
 there is good reason to conclude, could not have prevented 
 a feeling of contempt for a translator of great poets who could 
 come to him for a dedication. When Boswell, in one of 
 his maudlin fits of adulation, affected to consider something 
 with Goldsmith's name to it as supplied by the Doctor, 
 the latter could not restrain his scorn ; and said, that Gold- 
 
 ♦ Oueen Charlotte, wife of George III. She died in iSiS. — Ed. 
 
 Y
 
 338 LEIGH hunt's essays. 
 
 smith would no more come to him for a paragraph than he 
 would to be fed with a pap-spoon. And it is curious to 
 observe, after all, how and in what place Johnson has said 
 his good word for our translator. It is at the end of the 
 "Life of Waller," and amounts to this coy prophecy, — that 
 Fairfax's work, " after Mr Moole's translation, will not soon be 
 reprinted." 
 
 Mr Hoole, indeed, with superfluous ingenuity, has contrived 
 to let us know, by other means than his translation, how 
 totally unfit he was for the task. He came to it with an 
 ignorance of all real poetry, that of his own country not 
 excepted. After telling us that " Fairfax's version is in stanzas 
 that cannot be read with pleasure by the generality of those 
 who have a taste for English poetry," — that it is "irksome 
 in such a degree as to surmount curiosity, and more than 
 counterbalance all the beauty of expression and sentiment 
 to be found in that work," — and that, as a proof of all this, 
 " it appears scarcely to have been read at all,"^ — he adds, 
 " I do not flatter myself that I have excelled Fairfax, except 
 in my measure and versification, and even of these the 
 principal recommendation is, that they are modern, and 
 better adapted to the ear of all readers of English poetry, 
 except of the very few who have acquired a taste for the 
 phrases and cadences of those times, when our verse, if 
 not our language, was in its rudiments :" that is to say, 
 at the close of our very greatest age both in poetry and 
 prose. So little did I\Ir Hoole know what he was about, 
 either in poetry or the versification of it, that while in the 
 course of his translation he was elaborately doing or un- 
 doing something now and then, in order to mingle a little of 
 Dryden with Pope, he forgot, or was not a\\are, that Dryden 
 himself professed to have learnt part of his versification from 
 Fairfax. 
 
 It is not a pleasant task to dwell upon the demerits of any- 
 body. We will just give a comparative specimen or two of the
 
 HOOLES AND FAIRFAX S TASSO. 339 
 
 old and modern version of Tnsso, and then take our leave of Air 
 Hoole, to indulge ourselves with a few more words upon Fairfax 
 r:.nd translation, 
 
 Edward Fairfax led a life which a brother poet might envy. 
 He was of a distinguished family, the same as that of Fairfax 
 the Parliament General ; and having an estate of his own, and 
 the greater estates of leisure and genius, he passed the whole of 
 his days at a seat in the Forest of Knaresborough, in the bosom 
 of his family, and in the cultivation of poetry. He appears to 
 have had all, and more than a poet wants, — tranquillity, a fortune, 
 beyond competence, books, rural scenes, and an age that could 
 understand him. He flourished just at the close of that golden 
 period, that height and strong summer-time of our poetry, when 
 language, wisdom, and imagination were alike at their noblest, 
 and thoughts were poured forth as profusely as words have been 
 since. He was inclined to the music of verse; and the age was 
 full of music, of every species ; — he was of a romantic and most 
 probably superstitious turn of mind ; * and popular supersti- 
 tions were still more in favour than during the preceding era ; 
 — he had perhaps something of the indolence of a man of 
 fortune ; and in the course of his Italian luxuries he met with 
 a poet whose tendencies were like his own, and who was great 
 enough to render the task of translation honourable as well as 
 delightful. 
 
 He accordingly produced a version of Tasso, which we do 
 not say is equal to the original, or at all exempt from errors 
 which a future translator (always provided he is a poet too) may 
 avoid ; but which we nevertheless do not hesitate to pronounce 
 the completest translation, and most like its original, of any we 
 have ever seen. We will open our extracts with that famous 
 blast of the trumpet, which has been so echoed in all countries, 
 
 * He wrote a treatise on Demonology, which was founded on " occurrences in 
 his own family," and is still somewhere in MS. If Kins James knew this, it must 
 have been an additional incitement to his patronage of the Jerusalem, the second 
 et-ition of which was piinted at hiE desire.
 
 340 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS 
 
 and which Voltaire quotes to show what the Italian language 
 can do ir the way of grandeur. 
 
 " Chiama gli abitator de I'ombre eterne 
 II ranco suon de la tartarea tromba, 
 Trenian le spaziose atre caverne, 
 E I'aer cieco a quel romor rimbomba : 
 Ne SI stridendo mai da le superne 
 Regioni del cielo il folgor piomba : 
 Ne si scossa gia mai trema la terra, 
 Quando i vapori in sen gravida serra." 
 
 — Lib. iv., St. 3. 
 
 This is certainly nothing like the " tinsel " which Boileau 
 ventured to talk about ; but Mr Hoole would have made it so 
 if he could. This is his translation. He begins with making 
 the trumpet convene the devils. It is Pluto at home, — or send- 
 ing a court circular : — 
 
 " The trumpet now, with hoarse resounding breath, 
 Convenes the spirits in the shades of death ; 
 The hollow caverns tremble at the sound ; 
 The air re-echoes to ihe noise aro7<nd : 
 Not louder terrors shake ihe distant fole. 
 When through the skies the rattling thunders roll ; 
 Not greater tremors heave the labouring earth, 
 When vapours, pent within, contend /or birth." 
 
 — Hoole, Book iv., v. 17. 
 
 Fairfax, though he translates the concluding couplet rather 
 from Virgil than Tasso, lets loose a spirit worthy of both poets. 
 Observe the fine taste with which he has managed to preserve 
 the double rhymes, that make the orignal so resounding : — 
 
 " The drearie trumpet b'ew a dreadful blast, 
 And rombled through the lands and kingdomes under, 
 Through wastness wide it roar'd, and hoUowes vast. 
 And fiU'd the deepc with horror, feare, and wonder ; 
 Not halfe so dreadful noise the tempests cast. 
 That fall from skies with stormes of haile and thunder ; 
 Nor half so loud the whistling winds doe sing, 
 Broke from the earthen prisons of their king." 
 
 — Fairfax, Book iv., st. 3- 
 
 V»'e must not, however, take up our room with the original
 
 HOOLE S AND FAIRFAX S TASbO. 34I 
 
 Italian. The next passage we shall quote is a celebrated one 
 also, of a different description, — that of the angel descending on 
 Mount Lebanon ; — but it is all the same to Mr Hoole : — 
 
 " Refulgent rays his beauteous locks unfold ; 
 White are his nimble wings, and edged with gold : 
 With these through winds and clouds he cuts his way, 
 Flies o'er the land, and skims along the sea. 
 Thus stood the angelic power prepared for flight. 
 Then instant darted from th' empyreal height ; 
 Direct to Lebanon his course he bent. 
 There closed his plumes, and made his first descent." 
 
 — Hoole, Book i., v. 107. 
 
 This closing couplet is a sad misrepresentation of the original, 
 where the angel is described, on his first touch of the mountain, 
 as balancing himself on his wings. When Mr Hoole takes 
 leave of his author, it is for want of strength to accompany him ; 
 when Fairfax does it, it is to lead you into some beautiful corner 
 of his own fancy. It is thus he renders the passage — 
 
 " Of silver wings he tooke a shining paire, 
 Fringed with gold, unwearied, nimble, swift ; 
 With these he parts the windes, the clouds, the aire, 
 And over seas and earth himselfe doth lift ; 
 Thus clad he cut the spheares and circles faire, 
 And the pure skies with sacred feathers clift. 
 On Libanon at first his foot he set. 
 And shooke his wings with roarie May-dewes wet." 
 
 — Fairfax, Book i., st. 14. 
 
 The most striking part of the beautiful choral stanza describing 
 the chanting of the army is totally omitted in Hoole's version. 
 We suppose he thought the remainder sufficient, and so, indeed, 
 his reader will thinlc : — 
 
 " So pass the tuneful band with cadence .sweet, 
 
 The hollow vales the lengthen'd notes repeat ; 
 
 The winding caverns and the mountains high 
 
 A thousand echoes to the sounds reply." 
 
 — Hoole, Bookxi.,v. 77, 
 " Hither the armies went, and chanted shrill. 
 
 That all the deepe and hollow dales resound ;
 
 342 LEIGH hunt's ESSAYS. 
 
 From hollow mounts and caves on every hill 
 
 A thousand echoes also sung around ; 
 
 It seem'd some quire (that sung with art and skill) 
 
 Dwelt on those favage dennes and shadie ground ; 
 For oft resounded from the banks they heare 
 The name of Christ and of His mother deare." 
 
 — Fairfax, Book xi., st. ii. 
 
 Another specimen of Mr Hoole, and we have done with hiin. 
 It is his close of the bird's song in book the sixteenth : — 
 
 " He ceased ; th' approving choir with joy renew 
 Their rapturous music, and their loves pursue. 
 Again in pairs the cooing turtles bill, 
 The feather'd nations take their amorous fill. 
 The oak, the chaster laurel seems to yield 
 And all the leafy tenants of the field. 
 The earlh and streams one soul appears to move. 
 All seem impregnate with the seeds of love." 
 
 Here is not the faintest resemblance of the intense though airy 
 voluptuousness of the original. The conclusion, in particular, 
 is no more like it, than a nursery-man's ledger is like the scent 
 of his roses. But now hear Fairfax — 
 
 " He ceased ; and as approoving all he spoke, 
 The quire of birds their heavenly tunes renew ; 
 The tuitles sigh'd, and sighs with kisses broke ; 
 The fowles to shades unseene, by paires, withdrew ; 
 It seem'd the laurel chaste and stubborne oak, 
 And all the gentle trees on earth that grew. 
 It seem'd the land, the sea, and heaven above. 
 All bieath'd out fancy sweet, and sigh'd out love." 
 
 — Fairfax, Book xvi., st. i6. 
 
 This is even superior, we think, to the original. It is the quinta 
 pars neciarts, and makes the senses swim aside on their own 
 faintness. It is like the perfection of a crystal summer's day, 
 made a little languid with noon, and seeming to have a spark- 
 ling and airy consciousness about it that vents itr^olf in odorous 
 whispers. 
 
 The reader will observe in the foregoing specimens of Hoole, 
 how a bad translator takes refuge from the real feelings of his 
 author in vagueness and cant phrases. As he has no feeling of
 
 HOOLE S AND FAIRFAX S TASSO. 343 
 
 Ilis own, he resorts, when anything is mentioned, not to the 
 thing itself, but to the terms in which it has been mentioned 
 by the writers with whom he is most famihar. He does not 
 translate his author's thoughts, but his words ; or rather, he 
 attempts only to do even that ; for on that very account, he 
 does neither. To feel either properly, is to feel both. 
 
 We are greatly tempted to make many more extracts from 
 Fairfnx ; but we must restrain ourselves. In further illustration 
 of what we have said about the lines which he has inserted of 
 his own, or altered to his own ideas, and the sympathy which 
 he still keeps up with his author's feelings, we will just refer to 
 his calling Armida, when she sets off (4 v. 27), the Syrians' 
 " night-ambling dame," — to the two lines (2. v. 26) in which he 
 calls Sophronia, in the hands of the malefactors, a "dumb" and 
 " silver dove ;" — to the neighing of the horses, and clattering of 
 arms, (i. v. 73), which, he says — - 
 
 " Pursue the echo over dale and downe ; " 
 
 to the description of Armida (4. v. 29), in which, with a little 
 over-mixture of conceit, yet beautiful, he tells us — 
 
 " The marble goddesse, set at Gnidos naked, 
 
 She seem'd, were she uncloath'd, or that awaked ;" — 
 
 and to the issuing forth of the devils (4. v. 18), which as the 
 stanza is almost entirely his own as well as a fine one, and 
 crowded with his favourite love of demonology, we shall quote 
 entire — 
 
 " Before his words the t\ rant ended had, 
 The lesser devils arose with gastlie rore, 
 And throng'd fuorth about the world to gad ; 
 E.ich land they fiU'd, river, streame, and shore ; 
 The goblins, fairies, feends, and furies mad, 
 Ranged in tiowrie dales and mountains lioie ; 
 
 And under every trembling leaf they sit, 
 
 Between the solid earth and walkin flit." 
 
 The faults of Fairfax are partly his own, and partly those of 
 the period then commencing. They consist in too great a 
 licence of invention; occasional crampness and obscurity; aa
 
 344 LEIGH HUNTS ESSAYS. 
 
 over-tendency to contrast ; and in a singular fondness for 
 occupying a line here and there either with epithets almost 
 synonymous, or with a marked detail of nouns, which close his 
 stanza like paHsades ; as, for instance — 
 
 " The soil was gentle, smooth, soft, delicate — 
 With pitie, sadness, griefe, compassion, feare." 
 
 Yet we are not sure whether this kind of repetition does not 
 fall in sometimes with a certain gentle and continuous beauty. 
 It is clear, at any rate, that the Italians, from a feeling of that 
 sort, gave rise to it themselves, though Fairfax has carried it to 
 an excess. Petrarch and his followers sometimes heap a line 
 with descriptive nouns or adjectives ; and that delightful wild 
 fellow Pulsi seems to take a pleasure even in repeating a multi- 
 tude of notes of interrogation, and beginning a whole stanza or 
 more with the same word. The over-tendency to contrast may 
 also be traced to the Italians, especially as Marino was now 
 becoming admired in England, and everybody had not strength 
 to resist his crowding syrens like Milton. The other faults are 
 perhaps owing to Fairfax's having chosen to abide by the stanza 
 of the original ; for, not being so great a master of his native 
 language as Spenser, who with his additional line seemed to 
 defy difficulty in this respect, and too often to no purpose, he 
 hampered himself with the great recurrence of rhymes, which 
 suits Italian much better than English. He was also, though 
 by no means the literal translator which Hume has made him, 
 naturally anxious in general to get the sense of his original into 
 the same compass, which hampered him farther; and the result 
 of all this, joined no doubt to a natural inferiority in his own 
 genius, however true a one, is, that he is not equal to his original 
 in the easier part of his majesty, — in his clearness, which is like 
 that of an Italian atmosphere, — and in a certain virgin sweet- 
 ness, casta melodia soave ; — in short, he is inferior, generally 
 speaking, in simplicity. 
 
 But, on the other hand, he has great beauties. If he rough- 
 ened the music of Tasso a little, he still kept it music, and
 
 rfOOLE's AND FAIRFAX S TASSO. 345 
 
 beautiful music ; some of his stanzas, indeed, give the sweetness 
 of the original with the still softer sweetness of an echo ; and 
 he blew into the rest some noble, organ-like notes, which per- 
 haps the original is too deficient in. He can be also quite as 
 stately and solemn in feeling ; — he is as fervid in his devotion, 
 as earnest and full of ghastly apprehension in his supernatural 
 agency, as wrapt up in leafiness in his sylvan haunts, as luxu- 
 riant and alive to tangible shapes in his voluptuousness. He 
 feels the elements and varieties of his nature, like a true poet ; 
 and his translation has consequently this special mark of all 
 true poetry, translated or original — that when the circumstances 
 in the story or description alter, it gives us a proper and pervad- 
 ing sense of the alteration. The surfaces are not all coloured 
 alike, as in a bad and monotonous picture. We have no silken 
 armour, as in Pope's eternal enamel ; nor iron silks, as in Chap- 
 man (who is perhaps the only other various translator neverthe- 
 less) ; nor an everlasting taste of chips instead of succulence, as 
 in the Ariosto of Harrington. 
 
 We repeat, hov/ever, that the reader must not expect a perfect 
 version in Fairfax, much less at the outset. Tasso himself, in 
 our opinion, does not well warm you into his work till after 
 several books ; but set out resolutely with him or his translator, 
 or with both, get past some cold-looking places, and scratch 
 through a few of Fairfax's roughnesses and obscurities, and you 
 come upon a noble territory, full of the romantic and the sweet, 
 of stately and of lovely shapes, of woods, waters, and sunny 
 pleasures, — with drearier seclusions apart, and fields of sonorous 
 battle. We do not wonder that Collins was fond of this author 
 and his translator, since Johnson has told us, in that piece of 
 prose music of his, that " he loved fairies, genii, giants, and mon- 
 sters," — that "he delighted to rove through the meanders of 
 enchantment, to gaze on the magnificence of golden palaces, to 
 repose by the waterfalls of Elysian gardens." Collins has given 
 Fairfax a high and proud eulogy in his " Ode on the Popular 
 > Superstitions of the Highlands." Speaking of Tasso, he says: — 
 
 z
 
 346 LEIGH hunt's essavs. 
 
 " How have I sat, when piped the pensive wind» 
 To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung, 
 Prevailing poet ! whose undoubting mind 
 Believed the magic wonders which he sung." 
 
 And then he goes on in a strain of softness and luxury that 
 seem imitated from the countryman he is praising. Yet CoUins, 
 be it observed, was an accomplished scholar, and quite conver- 
 sant with the merits of the original. Indeed, that was one great 
 cause of his eulogy. Waller, who appears to have known Italian, 
 and Dryden, who undoubtedly did so, were both great admirers 
 of Fairfax. Waller professed to have " derived the harmony of 
 his numbers" from him; and so did Dryden, if a reported 
 speech of his to the Duke of Buckingham is to be taken for 
 granted. He gives him high praise at any rate, and joins him 
 with Spenser as " great masters in our language." But his 
 greatest title to regard on the score of authority comes from 
 Milton, who, when he borrowed from Tasso, took care to look 
 at Fairfax also, and to add now and then something from him 
 by the way. 
 
 Note. — Leith Hunt was unfortun.ite in the poets he instanced as being " gone" 
 {/'.?., dead) when Hoole's work appeared. The translation was given to the public 
 in 1763, and at that time all the poets mentioned in the passage in question 
 were living, with the single exception of Collins; and some had several years to 
 live. Nor is it a well-chosen expression to say that Cowper was "surviving." He 
 was a young man, who had not begun his career as a poet, and was quite unknown 
 to the public. —Ed. 1 
 
 THE END. 
 
 tKlNTKU BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON ANU CO. 
 EDINBURGH AMU LONDON
 
 ji^waF"^ 
 
 A List of Books 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 CHATTO &- WiNDUS 
 
 214, PICCADILLY, LONDON, W. 
 
 Sold by till Booksellers, or sent post-free for the published priceby^thePublisheys. 
 
 Abb6 Constantin (The). By I 
 
 LuDovic Halevy, of the French 
 Academy. Translated into English, 
 With 36 Photogravure Illustrations by 
 Goupii- & Co., after the Drawings of 
 Madame Madeleine Lemaire. Price 
 may be learned from any Books eller^ 
 
 About^The'Fellah : An Egyp- 
 tian Novel. By Edmond About. 
 Translated by Sir Randal Roberts. 
 PostSvo, illustrated boards, 23. ; cloth 
 limp, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Adams (W. Davenport), Works 
 
 by: 
 A Dictionary of the Drama. Bemg 
 a comprehensive Guide to the Plays, 
 Playwrights, Players, and Play- 
 houses of the United Kingdom and 
 America. Crown 8vo, half-bound, 
 12s. 6d. IPreparmg. 
 
 Quips and Quiddities. Selected by 
 W. Davenport Adams. Post 8vo, 
 
 cloth limp, 23. 6d. 
 
 Adams (W. H."^D.). — Witch, 
 Warlocl<, and IVlagiclan: Historical 
 Sketches of Magic and Witchcraft 
 in England and Scotland. By W. H. 
 Davenport Adams. Demy 8vo, cloth 
 extra, 12s. 
 
 Agony Column (The) of "The 
 
 Times," from 1800 to 187a. Edited, 
 with an Introduction, by Alice Clay. 
 Post Svo, cloth limp, 23. 6 d. 
 
 AldelHamilton), Works by: 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 Carr of Carriyon. | Confidences. 
 
 Alexander (Mrs.), Novels by; 
 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, 23. each. 
 Maid, Wife, or Widow P 
 Valerie's FattJ. 
 
 Allen (Grant), Works by: 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. each. 
 The Evolutionist at Large. 
 Vignettes from Nature. 
 Colin Clout 's Calenda r. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth- extra, 6s. each; post 
 8vo, illustrated boards., 23. each. 
 
 Strange Stories. With a Frontispiece 
 by George Dv Maurier. 
 
 The Beckoning Hand. With a 
 Frontispiece by Townley Green. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s.6d. each ; post 
 
 Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 Phillstia. I The Devil's Die. 
 
 This Mortal Coil. 
 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 Babylon : A Romance. 
 For Maimle's Sake. (^ 
 
 In all Shades. 
 
 The Tents of Shem. With a Front- 
 ispiece by E. F. Brewtnall. Crown 
 Svo, cloth extra, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Architectural Styles, A Hand- 
 book of. Translated from the German 
 of A. Rosengarten, by W. Collett- 
 Sandars. Crown Svo, cloth extra, with 
 639 Illustrations, 78. 6d, 
 
 Arnold.— Bird Life in England. 
 
 By Edwin Lester Arnold. Crown 
 Svo, cloth extra, 6a. 
 
 Art (The) of Amusing : A Col- 
 lection of Graceful Arts, Games, Ti icke, 
 Puzzles, and Charades. By Frank 
 Bellew. With 300 Illustrations, t-i. 
 Svo, cloth extra, 4s. 6d.
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 Artemus Ward : 
 
 Artemus Ward's Wofks: The Works 
 of Charles Farrer Browne, better 
 known as Artemus Ward. With 
 KcJ Portrait and Facsimile. Crown 8vo, 
 cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 The Genial Showman: Life and Ad- 
 ventures o£ Artemus Ward. By 
 Edward P. Hingston. With a 
 Frontispiece. Cr. 8vo, cl. extra, 3s. 6(1. 
 
 Ashton (John), Works by: 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6(1. each. 
 
 A History of the Chap Books of the 
 Eighteenth Century. With nearly 
 400 Illustrations, engraved in fac- 
 simile o the originals. 
 
 Social Life in the Reign of Queen 
 Anne. From Original Sources. With 
 nearly 100 Illustrations. 
 
 Humour, Wit, and Satire of the 
 Seventeenth Century. Withnearly 
 100 Illustrations. 
 
 English Caricature and Satire on 
 Napoleon the First. With 115 Il- 
 lustrations. 
 
 Modern Street Ballads. With 57 
 Illustrations 
 
 Bacteria A Synopsis of the 
 
 Bacteria and Yeast Fungi and Allied 
 Species. By W. B. Grove, B. A. With 
 87 Illusts. Crown 8vo, cl. extra, 3s. 6(1. 
 
 Bankeijs, A Handbook of Lon- 
 don; together with Lists of Bankers 
 from 1677. By F. G. Hilton Price. 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6(1. 
 
 Bardsley(Rev.C.W.), Works by: 
 
 English Surnames: Their Sources 
 and SiKnilications. Third Edition, 
 revised Ciovvn Kvo, r\. ex., 78. 6d. 
 
 Curiosities of Puritan Nomencla- 
 ture. Second Ediiiou. Crown 8vo, 
 cloih extia, 63. 
 
 Baring Gould (S.), Novels by: 
 
 Crown 8vn, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each ; post 
 8vb, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 Red Spide r. | Eve. 
 
 Barrett. — Fettered for Life. 
 
 By Frank Bahrett, Author of " Lady 
 Biddy Fane,' &c. Three Vols., crown 
 8vo. 
 
 Beaconsfieid, Lord: A Biogra- 
 phy. By T. P. O'Connor, M.P. Sixth 
 Edition, with a New Preface. Crown 
 8vo, cloth extra, 5s. 
 
 Beauchamp. — Grantley 
 
 Grange : A Novel. By Shelslsy 
 Beauchamp. Post 8vo, illust, bds., 23, 
 
 Beautiful Pictures by British 
 
 Artists: A Gathering of Favourites 
 from our Picture Galleries. All en- 
 graved on Steel in the hij^hest style ot 
 Art. Edited, with Notices of*^ the 
 Artists, by Svdnky Akmytage, M.A. 
 Imperial 410, cloth extra, gilt and gilt 
 edges, 21s. 
 
 Bechstein. — As Pretty as 
 
 Seven, and other German Stories. 
 Collected by Ludwig Bechstein. 
 With Additional Tales by the Brothers 
 Grimm, and 100 Illusts. by Richter. 
 Small 4to, green and gold, 6s. Sd.. ; 
 gilt edges, 7s. 6(i. 
 
 Beerbohm, — Wanderings in 
 
 Patagonia; or. Life among the Ostrich 
 Hunters. By Julius Beerbohm. With 
 Illusts. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 33. 6ii. 
 
 Bennett (W.C.,LL.D.),Works by: 
 
 Post 8vo, cloth limp, 23. each. 
 A Ballad History of England. 
 Songs for Sailors. 
 
 Besant (Walter) and James 
 
 Rice, Novels by. Crown 8vo, cloth 
 extra, 3s. 6d. each ; post 8vo, illust. 
 bds., 2s. each; cl. limp, 2s. 6d. each, 
 
 ReadylVloney Mortiboy. 
 
 My Little Girl. 
 
 With Harp and Crown. 
 
 This Son of Vulcan. 
 
 The Golden Butterfly. 
 
 The Monks of Thelema. 
 
 By Celia's Arbour. 
 
 The Chaplain of the Fleet. 
 
 The Seamy Side. 
 
 The Case of Mr. Liicraft, &c. 
 
 'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay, &c. 
 
 The Ten Years' Tenant, &c. 
 
 Besant (Walter), Novels by: 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 33. 6d. each; 
 post 8vo, illust. boards, 28. each; 
 cloth limp, 2s. 6d. each. 
 
 All Sorts and Conditions of Men: 
 An Impossible Story. With Illustra- 
 tions by Fred. Barnard. 
 
 The Captains' Room, &c. With 
 Frontispiece by E. J. Wheeler. 
 
 All in a Garden Fair. With 6 Illus- 
 trations by Harry Furniss. 
 
 Dorothy Forster. With Frontispiece 
 by Charles Green. 
 
 Uncle Jack, and other Stories. 
 
 Children of Gibeon. 
 
 The World Went Var^y Well Then. 
 With Illustrations by A. Forestier", 
 
 Herr Paulus : His Rise, his Gresf" 
 aess, and his F^!!,
 
 CHATTO &- IVIN'DUS. PICCADILLY. 
 
 Besant (Walter), continued— 
 
 For Faith and Freedom. With 
 Illustrations by A. Fokkstier and F. 
 Waddy. Crown 6vo, clotli extra, 
 3s. 6d. 
 
 To Call hep Mine, SiC. With Nine 
 Illustrations by A. Forestier. Cr. 
 Svo, cloth extra, 63. 
 
 Tne Holy Rose, &c. With a Front- 
 ispiece by F. Barnard. Crown Svo, 
 cloth extra, 6s. [Shortly. 
 
 The Bell of St. Paul's. Three Vols., 
 crown Svo. 
 
 Fifty Years Ago. With 137 full-page 
 Plates and Woodcuts. Demy Svo, 
 cloth extra, 16s. 
 
 The Eulogy of Richard Jefferies. 
 With Photograph Portrait. Second 
 Edition. Cr. Svo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 The Ai't of Fiction. Demy Svo, 13. 
 
 New Library Edition of 
 Besant and Rice's Novels. 
 
 The whole 12 Voluuies, printed from 
 licio type on a large crown iivo page, 
 and handsomely bound in cloth, arc now 
 ready, price Six Shillings each, 
 
 1. Ready- IVIoney Mortiboy. With 
 
 Etched Portrait of James Rice. 
 
 2. My Little Girl. 
 
 3. With Harp and Crown. 
 
 4. This Son of Vulcan. 
 
 5. The Golden Butterfly. With Etched 
 
 Portrait of Walter Besant. 
 
 6. The Monks of Thelema. 
 
 7. By Celia's Arbour. 
 
 8. The Chaplain of the Fleet, 
 y. The Seamy Side. 
 
 10. The Case of Mr. Lucraft, &;c. 
 
 11. 'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay, &c. 
 
 12. The Ten Years' Tenant, \c. 
 
 Betham-Ecl wards (M)— Felicia. 
 
 By M. Betham-Edwards. Cr. Svo, 
 cloth extra, 3s. 6d. ; post Svo, illust. 
 bds., 2s . 
 
 Bewick (Thomas) and his 
 
 Pupils. By Austin DoBSON. With 95 
 Illusts. Square Svo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 Blackburn's (Henry) Art Hand- 
 books : 
 
 Academy Notes, separate years, from 
 1875 to 1887, and 1889, each Is. 
 
 Academy Notes, 1a90. With nu- 
 merous Illustrations. Is. [May. 
 
 Academy Notes, 1875-79. Complete 
 in One Voluuie, wit'n about Coo 11- 
 lustrations. Cloth limp, 63. 
 
 Academy Notes, 1880-84. Complete 
 in One Volume, with about 700 Il- 
 lustrations. Cloth limp, 6s. 
 
 Grosvenor Notes, 1877. 6d. 
 
 GrosvenorNotes, separate years, from 
 1878 to 1889, each la.. 
 
 Grosy^jior Notes, 1890. With nu- 
 merous Illusts. l3, [May. 
 
 Blackburn (Henry), continued^ 
 
 Grosvenor Notes, Vol. I., 1877-82. 
 
 V/ith upwards of 300 Illustrations. 
 
 Demy Svo, cloth limp, 6s. 
 Grosvenor Notes, \'ol. II., 1883-87. 
 
 With upwards of 300 Illustrations. 
 
 Demy Svo, cloth limp, 6s. 
 The New Gallery. 1888 and 1839. 
 
 With numerous Illusts., each Is. 
 The New Gallery, 1890. With numer- 
 ous Illustrations. Is. [May. 
 English Pictures at the National 
 
 Gallery. 114 Illustrations. Is. 
 Old Masters at the National 
 
 Gallery. 128 Illustrations. Is. Gd. 
 An Illustrated Catalogue to the 
 
 National Gallery. With Notes by 
 
 II. Blackburn, and 242 Illustrations. 
 
 Demy Svo, cloth limp, 33. 
 
 The Paris Salon, 1890. With 300 Fac 
 
 simile Sketches. 3s, IMar, 
 
 Blake (William): Etchings from 
 his Works, By W. B. Scott. With 
 descriptive Text. Folio, half-bound 
 boards, India Proofs, 2l3. 
 
 Blind. — The Ascent of Man : 
 
 A Poem. By Mathilde Blind. Crown 
 Svo, printed on hand-made paper, 
 cloth extra, 53. 
 
 Bourne (H. R. Fox), Works by : 
 
 English Merchants: Memoirs in Il- 
 lustration of the Progress of British 
 Commerce. With numerous Illustra- 
 tions. Cr. Svo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 English Newspapers: Chapters in 
 the History of Journalism. Two 
 Vols., demy Svo, cloth extra, 253. 
 
 Bowers'(G.) Hunting Sketches: 
 
 Oblong 4to, half-bound boards, 21s. each, 
 Canters in Crampshire. 
 Leaves from a Hunting Journal. 
 
 Coloured in facsimile of the orit;inals. 
 
 Boyle (Frederick), Works by: 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s.6(i. each; post 
 Svo, illustrated boards, 23. each. 
 
 Camp Notes: Stories ot Sport and 
 Adventure in Asia, Africa, America. 
 
 Savage Life : Adventures of a Globe' 
 Trotter. 
 
 Chronicles of No-Man's Land. 
 Post Svo, illust. beards, 23. 
 
 Brand'sObservations on Popu- 
 lar Antiqu tics, chiefly Illustrating 
 the Origin ot our Vulgar Customs, 
 Ceremonies, and Superstitions. With 
 the Additions ot Sir Henry Ellis, 
 an'd numcroiis Illustra.ti'ons, Crown 
 Svo, cloth extra, 73, 6d.
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 Bret Harte, Works by : 
 
 Library Edition, Complete in Five 
 
 Vols., cr. 8vo, cl. extra, 6s. each. 
 Bret Harte's Collected Works: 
 
 Library Edition. Airanged and 
 
 Revised by the Author. 
 
 Vol. 1. Complete Poetical and 
 Dramatic Works. With Steel Por- 
 trait, and Introduction by Author. 
 
 Vol. II. Earlier Papers — Luck of 
 Roaring Camp, and other Sketches 
 — Bohemian Papers — Spanish 
 and American Legends. 
 
 Vol. III. Tales of the Argonauts 
 — Eastern Sketches. 
 
 Vol. IV. Gabriel Conroy. 
 
 Vol. V. Stories — Condensed 
 Novels, Oic. 
 
 The Select Works of Bret Harte, in 
 
 Prose and Poetry. With Introduc- 
 tory Essay by J. M. Bellew, Portrnit 
 ot the Author, and 50 Illustrations. 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 73. 6d. 
 
 Bret Harte's Complete Poetical 
 Works. Author's Copyright Edition, 
 l^rinted on 1 9nd-inade paper and 
 bound in buckram. Cr. 8vo, 4s. 6d. 
 
 The Queen of the Pirate Isle. With 
 28 original DrawijiKS by Kate 
 G rkenawav, reproduced in Colours 
 by Udmcnd Evans. Sin. 4to, bds., 5s. 
 
 A V.'aif of the Plains. With 60 Il- 
 lustrations by Stanley L. Wood. 
 Cr. bvo, cloth extra, 3s. 6 d. [Shoilly. 
 
 Post Bvo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 Gabriel Conroy. 
 
 An Heiress of Red Dog, &c. 
 
 Tha Luck of Roaring Camp, and 
 Lther Sketches. 
 
 Californian Stories (including The 
 Twins of Table Mountain, Jeff 
 Lriggs's Love Story, &c.) 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each; 
 
 cloth, 2s. 6d. each. 
 Flip. I Maruja. 
 
 A Phyllis of the Sierras. 
 
 Fcap. 8vo, picture cover, Is. each. 
 The Twins of Table Mountain. 
 Jeft Briggs's Love Story. 
 
 Brewer (Rev. Dr.), Works by : 
 
 1 he Reader's Handbookof Allusions, 
 References, Plots, and Stories. 
 15th Thousand. With Appendix, 
 containing a Complete English 
 Bibliography. Cr. 8vo, cloth 7s. 6d. 
 
 Authors and their Works, with the 
 Dates: Being the Appendices to 
 "Ihe Reader's Handbook," separ- 
 ately printed. Cr. Svo, cloth limp, 2s. 
 
 A Clctlonk.yy of Miracles: Imitative, 
 Realistic, and Dogmatic. Crown Svo, 
 cloth extra, 7s. 6d 
 
 Brewster (SirDavid), Works by: 
 
 Post 8vo, cloth extra, 4s. 6d. each. 
 
 More Worlds than One: The Creed 
 of the Philosopher and the Hope of 
 the Christian. With Plates. 
 
 The Martyrs of Science: Lives of 
 Galileo, Tycho Brake, and Kep- 
 ler. With Portraits. 
 
 Letters on Natural Magic. A New 
 Edition, with numerous Illustrations, 
 and Chapters on the Being and 
 Faculties of Man, and Additional 
 Phenomena of Natural Magic, by 
 J. A. Smith. 
 
 B rii I at-Savarin.— Gastronomy 
 
 as a Fine Art. By Brillat-Savarin. 
 Translated by R. E. Anderson, M.A. 
 Post 8vo, printed on laid-paper and 
 half-bound, 2s. 
 
 Brydges. — Uncle Sam at 
 
 Home. By Harold Brydges. Post 
 Svo, illust. boards, 2s. ; cloth, 2s. 61. 
 
 Buchanan's (Robert) Works: 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 6s. each. 
 
 SelectedPoemsof Robert Buchanan. 
 
 With a Frontispiece by T. Dalzil-l. 
 
 The Earthquake; or, Six Days and 
 a Sabbatli. 
 
 The City of Dream: An Epic Poem, 
 With Two Illustrations by P. Mac- 
 nab, Second EditiQ-i- 
 
 Robert Buchanan'sComplete Poeti- 
 cal Works. With Steel-plate Por- 
 trait, Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 78. Bd. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each ; 
 
 post Svo, illust. boards, 2s. each. 
 The Shadow of the Sword. 
 A Child of Nature. With a Frontis- 
 
 piece. 
 
 God and the Man. With Illustrations 
 by Fred. Barnard, 
 
 The Martyrdom of Madeline. With 
 Frontispiece by A. W. Cooper. 
 
 Love Me for Ever. With a Frontis- 
 piece by P. Macnab. 
 
 Annan Water. | The Nev.- Abelard. 
 
 Foxglove Manor. 
 
 Malt : A Story of a Caravan. 
 
 The Master of the Mine. 
 
 The Heirof Linne. 
 
 Burton (Captain).— The Book 
 
 of the Sword : Being a History of tha 
 Sword and its Use in all Countries, 
 from the Earliest Times. By Richard 
 F. Burton. With over 400 Illustra' 
 tions. Square Svo, cloth extra, 32s.
 
 CHATTO &> WtNDVS, PICCADILLY. 
 
 Burton (Robert) : 
 The Anatomy of Melanchoy: A 
 
 New Editicjii, complete, corrected 
 and enriched by translations of the 
 Classical Extracts. Demy 8vo, cloth 
 extra, 7s. 6d. 
 Melancholy Anatomised: Being an 
 Abridgment, tor popular use, of Bur- 
 ton's Anatomy ok Melancholy. 
 Post 8vo, cloth limp, 23. 6d. 
 
 Caine (T. Hall), Novels by: 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6(1. each; post 
 
 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 , The Shadow of a Crime. 
 A Son of Hagac. 
 
 The Deemster: A Romance of the 
 Isle of Man. 
 
 Cameron (Commander). — 
 
 The Cruise of the "Black Prince" 
 Privateer. By V. Lovktt Cameron, 
 R.N.,C.B. With Two Illustrations by 
 P. Macnab. Crown 8vo, cl. ex., 5s. ; 
 post 8vo, illustrated boards, 23. 
 
 Cameron (Mrs. H. Lovett), 
 
 Novels by: 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6(1. each ; 
 post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 Juliet's Guardian. | Deceivers Fver. 
 
 Carlyle (Thomas) : 
 
 On the Choice of Books. By Thomas 
 Carlyle. With a Life of the Author 
 by R. H. Shepherd, and Three 
 Illustrations. Post 8vo, cloth extra, 
 Is. 6d. 
 
 The Correspondence of Thomas 
 Carlyle and RalphWaldo Emerson, 
 
 1834 to i8;2. Edited by Charles 
 Eliot Norton. With Portraits. Two 
 Vols., crown 8vo, cloth extra, 24s. 
 
 Chapman's (George) WorKs : 
 
 Vol. I. contains the Plays complete, 
 including the doubtful ones. Vol.11., 
 the Poems and Minor Translations, 
 with an Introductory Essay by .\lger- 
 NON Charles Swinburne. Vol. III., 
 the Translations of the Iliad and Odys- 
 sey. Three Vols., crown 8vo, cloth 
 extra, I8s. ; or separately, 6s. each. 
 
 Chatto& Jackson. — ATreatise 
 
 on wood Engraving, Historical and 
 Practical. By Wm. Andrew Chatto 
 and John Jackson. With an Addi- 
 tional Chapter by Hen.nv G. Boh.n ; 
 and 450 hnc Illustrations. A Reprint 
 of the last Revised Edition. Large 
 4to, half-bound, 2Ss. 
 
 Chaucer; 
 
 Chaucer for Children: A Golden 
 Key. By Mrs. H.R . Haweis. With 
 Eight Coloured Pictures and nu- 
 merous Woodcuts by the Author. 
 New Ed., small 4to, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 Chaucer for Schools. By Mrs. H. R. 
 Haweis. Demy 8vo, cloth limp, 23. 6d. 
 
 Clare^For the Love of a Lass: 
 
 A Tale of Tynedale. By Austin 
 Clare, Author of "A Child of the 
 Menhir," &c. Two Vols., small Svo, 
 cloth extra, 12s. 
 
 Cllve (Mrs. Archer), Novels by: 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 Paul Ferroll. 
 
 Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife. 
 
 Ciodd. — Myths and Dreams. 
 
 By Edward Clodd, F.R.A.S., Author 
 of "The Story of Creation," &c. 
 C rown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s. 
 
 Cobban. — The Cure of Souls: 
 
 A Story. By J. Maclaren Cohan. 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 Coleman (John), Works by : 
 
 Players and Playwrights 1 have 
 
 Known. Two Vols., demy Svo, cloth 
 
 extra, 24s. 
 Curly: An Actor's Romance. With 
 
 Illustrations by J. C. Dollman. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth, l3. 6d. 
 
 Collins (C. Allston).— The Bar 
 
 Sinister: A Story. By C. Allston 
 (S oLLiNS. Post 8vo, illustrated bds.. 2s. 
 
 Collins (Churton). — A Mono 
 
 graph on Dean Swift. By J. Chur 
 TON Collins. Crown 8vo, cloth extra 
 8s. [Shortly 
 
 Collins (Mortimer), Novels by 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each ; post 
 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 Sweet Anne Page. 
 Transmigration. 
 From Midnight to Midnight. 
 
 A Fight with Fortune. Post Svo 
 illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 Collins (Mortimer & Frances), 
 
 Novels by: 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d each : post 
 
 8v0| illustrated boards, 23. each, 
 Blac'smith and Scholar 
 The Village Comedy. 
 You Play Me False. 
 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, 23, eatih. 
 
 Sweet and Twenty. 
 
 Frances,
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 Collins (-Wilkie), Novels by: 
 
 Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 33. 6d. each ; 
 
 post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each ; 
 
 cloth limp, 2s. 6d. each. 
 Antonina lUust. by SirJoHNGiLBERT. 
 Basil. Illustrated by Sir John Gil- 
 bert and J Mahoney. 
 Hide and Seek, Illustrated by Sir 
 
 John Gilbert and J. Mahoney. 
 The Dead Secret. Illustrated by Sir 
 
 John Gilbert. 
 Queen of Hearts. Illustrated by Sir 
 
 John Gilbert 
 (Vly Miscellanies With a Steel-plate 
 
 Portrait of Wilkie Collin.s. 
 The Woman in White. With Illus- 
 
 traticns by Sir John Gilbert and 
 
 F. A. Fraser. 
 
 The Moonstone. With Illustrations 
 
 byG. DuMAURiERandF. A. Fraser. 
 
 Man and Wife. Illusts. by W. Small. 
 
 Poor Miss Finch. Illustrated by 
 
 G. Du Maurier and Edward 
 
 Miss or Mrs.? With Illustrations by 
 
 S. L. FiLDEsand Henry Woods. 
 The New Magdalen. Illustrated bv 
 
 G.Du Maurier and C.S.Reinhardt. 
 The Frozen Deep. Illustrated by 
 
 G. Du Maurier and J. Mahoney. 
 The Law and the Lady. Illustrated 
 
 by S. L. FiLDES and Sydney Hall. 
 The Two Destinies. 
 The Haunted Hotel. Illustrated by 
 
 Arthur Hopkins. 
 The Fallen Leaves. 
 Jezebel's Daughter. 
 The Black Robe. 
 Heart and Science: A Story of the 
 
 Present Time. 
 " I Say No." 
 The Evil Genius. 
 Little Novels^ \_ A Rogue's Life. 
 
 The Legacy of Cain. Crown Svo, 
 
 i cloth extra, 3s. 6d, 
 Blind Love. With a Preface by 
 Walter Besant, and 36 Illustra- 
 tions by A. Forestier. Second 
 Edition. Three Vols., crown Svo. 
 
 Colman's Humorous Works: 
 
 " Broad Grins,'' " My Nightgown and 
 Slippers," and other Humorous Works, 
 Prose and Poetical, ol George Col- 
 IIAN. With Lile by G. B Buckstone, 
 and Frontispiece by Hogarth. Crown 
 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 Coiquhoun Every Inch a Sol- 
 dier : A Novel. By M. J. Colquhoun. 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 Convalescent Cookery: A 
 
 Family Handbook. By Catherine 
 Kyah. Crown Svo, Is. ; cloth, Is. 6d. 
 
 Conway (Moncure D.), Works 
 
 by: 
 Demonology and Devil-Lore. Third 
 
 Edition. With 65 Illuslrations. 
 
 Two Vols., Svo, cloth extra, 28s. 
 A Necklace of Stories. Illustrated 
 
 by W. J. Hennessy. Square Svo, 
 
 cloth extra, 6s. 
 Pine and Palm; A Novel. Two 
 
 Vols., crown Svo, cloth extra, 21s. 
 
 Cook (Dutton), Novels by: 
 
 Leo. Post Svo, illustrated boards, 23i 
 Paul Foster's Daughter. Crown Svo, 
 cloth extra, 3s. 6d. ; post 8vo, illus- 
 trated boards, 2s. 
 
 Copyright. —A Handbook of 
 
 English and Foreign Copyright in 
 Literary and Dramatic Works. By 
 Sidney Jerrold. Post Svo, d,., 2s. 6d. 
 
 Cornwall. — Popular Romances 
 
 of the West of England; or. The 
 
 Drolls, Traditions, and Superstitions 
 of Old Cornwall. Collected and Edited 
 bv Robert Hunt, F.R.S. With Two 
 Steel-plate Illustrations by George 
 Cruikshank. New and Revised Edi- 
 tion, with Additions, crown Svo, cloth 
 extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 Craddock. — The Prophet of 
 the Great Smoky Mountains. By 
 
 Charles Egbert Craddock. Post 
 Svo, illust. bds., 2s. ; cloth limp, 28. 6d, 
 
 Cruikshank (George): 
 
 The Comic Almanack. Complete in 
 Two Series : The First from 1S35 
 to 1S43 ; the Second from 1844 to 
 1S53. A Gathering of the Best 
 Humour of Thackeray, Hood, May- 
 hew, Albert Smith, A'Beckett, 
 Robert Brough, &c. With 2,000 
 Woodcuts and Steel Engravings by 
 Cruikshank, Hine, Landells, &c. 
 Crown Svo, cloth gilt, two thick 
 volumes, 7s. 6d. each. 
 
 The Life of George Cruikshank. By 
 Blanchard Jerrold, Author of 
 "The Life of Napoleon III.," &c. 
 With 84 Illustrations. New and 
 Cheaper Edition, with Additional 
 Plates, and a Bibliography. Crown 
 Svo, cloth extra, 7s. fid. 
 
 Cumming(C. F. Gordon),Work9 
 
 by: 
 
 Demy Svo, cloth extra, 83. 6d. each. 
 
 In the Hebrides. With Autotype Fac- 
 simile and numerous full-page Illusts. 
 
 In the Himalayas and on the Indian 
 Plains. With numerous Illusts. 
 
 Via Cornvyall to Egypt. With a 
 Photogravure FrOnt.ispiecie, Detny 
 Svo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d,
 
 CHATTO &> WIND US, PICCADILLY. 
 
 Cupzon The Blue Ribbon of 
 
 the Turf. By Louis Henry Curzon. 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 63. iApril. 
 
 Cussans.— Handbook of Her- 
 
 aldny; with Instructions for Tracing 
 Pedigrees and Deciphering Ancient 
 MSS., &c. By John E. Cussans. 
 New and Revised Edition, illustrated 
 with over 400 Woodcuts and Coloured 
 Plates. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. Gd. 
 
 Cyples Hearts of Gold: A 
 
 Novel. By William Cyples. Crown 
 8vo, cloth extra, 33. 6(i. ; post 8vo, 
 illustrated boards, 23. 
 
 Daniel. — Mernie England in 
 
 the Olden Time. By George Daniel, 
 With Illustrations oy Robt. Cruik- 
 SHANK. Crown fcvo, cloth extra, 33. 6(i, 
 
 Daudet. — The Evangelist ; or, 
 
 Port Salvation. By Alphonse 
 
 Daudet. Translated by C. Harry 
 Meltzer. With Portrait of the 
 Author. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 
 3s. 6d. ; post 8vo, illust. boards, 23. 
 
 Davenant. — Hints for Parents 
 on the Choice of a Profession oi' 
 Trade for their Sons. By Francis 
 Davenant, M.A. Post Svo, Is. ; cloth 
 limp, Is. 6d. 
 
 Davies (Dr. N. E.), Works by: 
 Crown Svo, Is. each ; cloth. Is. 6d. each. 
 
 One Thousand Medical Maxims. 
 
 Nursery Hints: A Mother's Guide. 
 
 Foods for the Fat : A Treatise on Cor- 
 pulency , and a Dietary f or its Cure. 
 
 Aids to Long Life. Crown Svo, 23. ; 
 cloth limp, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Davies' (Sir John) Complete 
 
 Poetical Works, including Psalms I. 
 to L. in Verse, and other hitherto Un- 
 published MSS., for the first time 
 Collected and Edited, with Memorial- 
 Introduction and Notes, by the Rev. 
 A. B. Grosart, D.D. Two Vols,, 
 crown Svo, cloth boards, 123. 
 
 De Maistre. — A Journey Round 
 
 My Room. By Xavier de Maistre. 
 Translated by Henry Attwell. Post 
 Svo, cloth limp, 23. 6d. 
 
 De MiUe — A Castle in Spain: 
 
 A Novel. By James De Mille. With 
 a Frontispiece. Crown Svo, cloth 
 extra, 33. 6d. ; post Svo, illust. b ds., 23. 
 
 Derwent (Leith), Novels by : 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each; post 
 Svo, illustrated boards, 23. each. 
 
 Our Lady of Tears. I Girce'a Lovers, 
 
 Dickens (Charles), Novels by : 
 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, 23. each. 
 Sketches by Boz. I Nicholas Nickleby, 
 Pickwick Papers. | Oliver Twist. 
 
 The Speeches of Charles Dickens, 
 
 1841-1870. With a New Bibliograpliy, 
 revised and enlarged. Edited and 
 Prefaced by Richard Herne Shep- 
 herd. Cr. Svo, cloth extra, Gs. — Also 
 a Smaller Edition, in the Uayfaiy 
 Library, post Svo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. 
 About England with Dickens. By 
 Alfred Rimmek. With 57 Illustra- 
 tions by C. A. Vanderhoof, Alfred 
 Rimmer, and others. Sq. Svo, cloth 
 extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 Dictionaries: 
 
 A Dictionary of Miracles: Imitative, 
 Realistic, and Dogmatic. By the 
 Rev. E. C. Brewer, LL.D, Crown 
 Svo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 The Reader's Handbook of Allu- 
 sions, References, Plots, and 
 Stories. By the Rev. E. C. Brewer, 
 LL.D. With an Appendix, contain- 
 ing a Complete English Bibliograpliy, 
 Fifteenth Thousand. Crown Svo, 
 1,400 pages, cloth extra, 73. 6d. 
 
 Authors and their Works, with the 
 Dates. Being the Appendices to 
 " The Reader's Handbook," sepa- 
 rately printed. By the Rev. Dr. 
 Brewer. Crown Svo, cloth limp, 2s. 
 
 A Dictionary of the Drama: Being 
 a comprehensive Guide to the Plays, 
 Playwrights, Players, and Playhouses 
 of the United Kingdom and America, 
 from the Earliest to the Present 
 Times. By W. Davenport Adams. 
 A thiclc volume, crown Svo, half, 
 bound, 12s. 6d. [In preparation. 
 
 Familiar Short Sayings of Great 
 Men. With Historical and Explana- 
 tory Notes. By Samuel A. Bent, 
 M.A. Fifth Edition, revised and 
 enlarged. Cr. Svo, cloth extra, 7s. Gd. 
 
 The Slang Dictionary: Etymological, 
 Historical, and Anecdotal. Crown 
 Svo, cloth extra, 6s. 6d. 
 
 Women of the Day: A Biographical 
 Dictionary. ByFRANCES Hays. Cr. 
 8vo, cloth extra, 5s. 
 
 Words, Facts, and Phrases: A Dic- 
 tionary of Curious, Quaint, and Out- 
 of-the-Way Matters, By Eliezer 
 Edwards, Crown Svo, cloth extra, 
 7s. 6d. 
 
 Diderot. — The Paradox of Act- 
 ing. Translated, with Annotations, 
 from Diderot's " Le Paradoxe sur la 
 Comedien, '' by Walter Herries 
 Pollock. With a Preface by Henrv 
 Irving. Cr. Svo, in parchment. 4s. 6ti,
 
 8 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 Dobson (Austin). — Thomas 
 
 Bewick and his Pupils. By Austin 
 Dobson. With gschcice Illustrations. 
 Square 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 Dobson '(W. T7)7W or ks by : 
 
 Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6(1. each. 
 Llterapy Frivolities, Fancies, Follies, 
 
 and Frolics. [cities. 
 
 Poetical Ingenuities and Eccentri- 
 
 Donovan (Dick) , D elective 
 
 Stories by: 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each ; 
 cloth limp, 2s. 64. each. 
 The Man-huntei": Stories from the 
 
 Note-book of a Detective. 
 Caught at Last! 
 Tracked and Taken. 
 Drama, A Dictionary of the. 
 
 Being a comprehensive Guide to the 
 Plays, Playwrights, Players, and Play- 
 houses of the United Kingdom and 
 America, from the Earliest to the Pre- 
 sent Times. By W. D.wenport 
 Adams. (Uniform with Brewer's 
 "Reader's Handbook.") Crown 8vo, 
 halt-botmd, 12s. 6d. [hi preparation. 
 
 Dramatists, The Old. Cr. 8vo, 
 cl. ex.. Vignette Portraits, 6s. per Vol. 
 
 Ben Jonson's Works. With Notes 
 Critical and Explanatory, and a Bio- 
 graphical Memoir by Wm. Gifford. 
 Edit, by Col. Cunningham. 3 Vols. 
 
 Chapman's Works. Complete in 
 Three Vols. Vol. I. contains the 
 Plays complete, including doubtlul 
 ones; Vol. II., Poems and Minor 
 "Translations, with Introductory Essay 
 by A.C.S .vinburne; Vol. III., Trans- 
 lations ol the Iliad and Odyssey. 
 
 Marlowe's Works. Including his 
 Translations. Ed., with NoteE& Intro- 
 duction, by Col. Cunningham. I Vol. 
 
 Massinger's Plays. From the Text of 
 William GiFFORD. Edited by Col. 
 Cunningham. One Vol. 
 
 Duncan. — A Social Depar- 
 ture : The Journey of Two Girls 
 round the World. By S. Jeannette 
 Duncan. With numerous Illustrations 
 by F. H. TowNSEND, Crown 8vo, 
 cloth^xtra, 7s. 6^. [Sliortly. 
 
 Dyer. — ^The Folk- Lore of 
 
 Plants. By Rev. T. F. Thiselton 
 Dy er, M.A. C r. 8vo, cloth extra, 63._ 
 
 Edgcumbe. — Zephyrus : A 
 Holiday In Brazil and on the Riven 
 Plate. By E. R. Pearce Edgcumbe. 
 W ith 41 Illusts. C r. 8vo, cl. extra, 63. 
 
 Edwards.— Words, Facts, and 
 
 Phrases: A Dictionary of Curious, 
 Quaint, & Out-ot-the-Way Matters. By 
 Eliezer Edwards, Cr.8vo,cl,ex.,7s 6(1. 
 
 Early English Poets. Edited, 
 
 with Introductions and Annotations, 
 by Rev. A. B.Grosart, D.D. Crown 
 8vo, cloth boards, 6s. per Volume. 
 
 Fletcher's (Giles, B.D.J Complete 
 Poems. One Vol. 
 
 Davies' (Sir John) Complete 
 Poetical Works. Two Vols. 
 
 Herrick's (Robert) Complete Col- 
 lected Poems. Three Vols. 
 
 Sidney's (Sir Philip) Complete 
 Poetica l Works. Three Vols . 
 
 Edwardes(Mrs. A.), Novels by: 
 
 A Point of Honour. Post 8vo, illus- 
 trated boards, 2s. 
 
 Archie Lovell. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 
 3s. 6d.; post 8vo, illust. bds.. 2s. 
 
 Eggleston. — Roxy:AINovei. ay 
 Edward Eggleston. Post 8vo, illust. 
 boards, 2s. 
 
 Emanuel. — On Diamonds and 
 
 PreciousStones: their History, Value, 
 and Properties ; with Simple '1 ests lor 
 ascertaining their Reality. By Harry 
 Emanuel, F.R.G.S. With numerous 
 Illustrations, tinted and plain. Crown 
 8vo, cloth extra. 6s. 
 
 Englishman s House, inc. .^ 
 
 Practical Guide to all interested in 
 Selecting or Building a Ilou'^e ; with 
 full Estimates of Cost, Quantities, &c. 
 By C. J. Richardson. Fourth Edition. 
 With Coloured Frontispiece and nearly 
 600 Ilhistrations. Crown 8vo, cloth 
 extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 Ewald (Alex. Charles, F.S.A.), 
 
 Works by: 
 
 The Life and Times of Prince 
 Charles Stuart, Count ot Albany, 
 commonly called the Young Pre- 
 tender. From the State Papers and 
 other Sources. New and Cheaper 
 Edition, with a Portrait. Crown 8vo, 
 cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 Stories from the State Papers. 
 With an Autotype Facsimile. Crown 
 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 Eyes, Our: How to Preserve 
 
 Them from Infancy to 04d Age. Bv 
 John Browning, F.R. A. S., &c. Eighth 
 Edition (Fourteenth Thousand). With 
 70 Illustrations. Crown Svo, cloth. !<?. 
 
 Familiar Short Sayings of 
 Great Men. By Samuei^ Arthui? 
 Bent, A.M. Fifth Edition, Revised 
 and Enlarge d. Cr . Svo, ch ex., 7s. 6d. 
 
 Farrer (J. Anson), Works by: 
 Military Manners and Customs. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 63. 
 War: Three Essays, Reprinted from 
 
 "^Iilitr^ry Manners," Crowa SVQ| 
 
 Is.; cloth, Is. 6d, '^
 
 CHATTO S' W INDUS, PICCADILLY. 
 
 Faraday (Michael), Works by: 
 
 Post 8vo, cloth extra, 43. 6d. each. 
 The Chemical History of a Candle: 
 
 Lectures delivered before a Juvenile 
 
 Audience at the Royal Institution. 
 
 Edited by William Crookes, F.C.S. 
 
 With numerous Illustrations. 
 On the Various Forces of Nature, 
 
 and their Relations to each other : 
 
 Lectures delivered before a Juvenile 
 
 Audience at the Royal Institution. 
 
 Edited by William Crookes, F.C.S. 
 
 With numerous Illustrations. 
 
 Fin-Bee. — The Cupboard 
 
 Papers : Observations on the Art of 
 Living and Dining. By Fin-Bec. Post 
 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d.^ 
 
 Fireworks, The Complete Art 
 
 of Making; or, The Pyrotechnist's 
 Treasury. By Thomas Kentish. With 
 267 Illustrations. A New Edition, Re- 
 vised throughout and greatly Enlargedfly 
 Crown 8vo, cloth ext ra, 53 . 
 
 Fitzgerald (Percy), Works by : 
 
 The World Behind the Scenes. 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. 
 
 Little Essays: Passages from the 
 Letters of Charlks Lamb. Post 
 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. 
 
 A Day's Tour: A Journey through 
 France and Belgium. With Sketches 
 in facsimile of the Original Draw- 
 ings. Crown 4to picture cover, Is. 
 
 Fatal Zero: A Homburg Diary. Cr. 
 Svo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. ; post 8vo, 
 illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 Bella Donna. | Never Forgotten. 
 The Second Mrs. Tillotson. 
 Seventy-five Brooke Street 
 Polly. I The Lady of Brant ome. 
 
 Fletcher's (Giles, B.D.) Com- 
 
 plete Poems: Christ's Victorie in 
 Heaven, Christ's Victorie on Earth, 
 Christ's Triumph over Death, and 
 Minor Poems. With Memorial-Intro- 
 duction and Notes by the Rev. A. B. 
 Grosart, D.D. Cr. 8vo, cloth bds., 6s. 
 
 Fonblanque. — Filthy Lucre: A 
 
 Novel. By Albany de Fonblanque. 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 Frederic (Harold), Novels by : 
 
 Seth's Brother's Wife. Post 8vo, 
 iUustrattd boards, 2s. 
 
 The Lawton Girl. With a Frontis- 
 piece by F. Barnard. Crown Svo, 
 cl oth extra, 6s. [Shortly. 
 
 French Literature, History of. 
 
 By Henry Van Laun. Complete in 
 3 Vols., demy Svo, cl. bds., 7s. 6d. each. 
 
 Francillon (R. E.), Novels by. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. Gd.eai-h; 
 
 post Svo, illust. boards, 23. each 
 One by One. I A Real Qu-en. 
 
 Queen Cop hetua. | King or Knave f 
 
 Olympla. Post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s. 
 
 Esther's Glove. Fcap. Svo, Is. 
 
 Romances of the Law. With a Front- 
 ispiece by D. II. Friston, Crown 
 Svo, cloth extra, 6s. ; post Svo, illus- 
 trated boards, 23. 
 
 Frenzeny.— Fifty Years on the 
 
 Trail : The Adventures of John Y. 
 Nelson, Scout, Guide, and Interpreter, 
 in the Wild West. By Harrington 
 O'Reilly. With over 100 Iljustrations 
 by Paul Frenzeny. Crown Svo.picture 
 cover, 3s. 6d. ; cloth extra, 4s. 6d. 
 
 Frere. — Pandurang Hari ; or, 
 
 Memoirs of a Hindoo. With a Preface 
 by Sir H.Bartle Frere, G.C. S.I. , &c. 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. 
 
 Friswell. — Oneof Two: ANovel. 
 By Hain Friswell. Post Svo, illus- 
 trated boards, 2s. 
 
 Frost (Thomas), Works by: 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, $3. 6d. each. 
 Circus Life and Circus Celebrities. 
 The Lives of the Conjurers. 
 Old Showmen and Old London Fairs. 
 
 Fry's (Herbert) Royal Guide 
 
 to the London Charities. Showing 
 their Name, Date of Foundation, 
 Objects, Income, Officials, &c. Edited 
 by John Lane. Published Annually. 
 Crown Svo, cloth, Is. 6d. 
 
 Gardening Books: 
 
 Post Svo, Is. each ; cl. limp, Is. 6d. each. 
 
 A Year's Work in Garden and Green- 
 house : Practical Advice tD Amateur 
 Gardeners as to the Management of 
 the Flower, Fruit, and Frame Garden. 
 By George Glenny. 
 
 Our Kitchen Garden : The Plants we 
 Grow, and How we Cook Them. 
 By Tom Jerrold, 
 
 Household Horticulture: A Gossip 
 about Flowers. By Tom and Jane 
 JiKROLD. Illustrated. 
 
 The Garden that Paid the Rent. 
 By Tom Jerrold. 
 
 My Garden Wild, and What I Grew 
 there. ByF.G. Heath. Crown Svo, 
 cloth extra, 63. ; gilt edges, 63. 
 
 Garrett. — The Cape! Girls: A 
 
 Novel. By Edward Garrett. Cr. Svo, 
 cl. ex., 33. Gd. ; post Svo, illust. bds., 23.
 
 Je 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED B? 
 
 Gentleman's Magazine (The) 
 
 foe 1890.— Is. Monthly.— In addition 
 to the Articles upon subjects in Litera- 
 ture, Science, and Art, for whicli this 
 Magazine has so high a reputation, 
 "Table Talk" by Sylvanus Urban 
 appears monthly. 
 ' *»* Bound Volumes for recent years are 
 
 kept in stock, cloth extra, price 83. 6d. 
 
 each ; Cases for binding, 2s. each. 
 
 Gentleman's Annual (The). 
 
 Published Annually in November. In 
 picture cover, demy 8vo, Is. 
 
 German Popular Stories. Col- 
 lected by the Brothers Grimm, and 
 Translated by Edgar Taylor. Edited, 
 with an Introduction, by John Ruskin. 
 With 22 Illustrations on Steel by 
 George Cruikshank. Square 8vo, 
 cloth extra, 63. 6d. ; gilt edges, 73. 6d. 
 
 Gibbon (Charles), Novels by: 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each ; 
 post 8vd, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 Robin Gray. 
 What will the 
 
 World SayP 
 Queen of the 
 
 Meadow. 
 The Flowerof the 
 
 Forest. 
 
 The Braes of Yar- 
 row. 
 
 A Heart's Prob- 
 lem. 
 
 TheGoldenShaft. 
 
 Of High Degree. 
 
 Loving a Dream. 
 
 In Honour Bound. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, Zs. each. 
 The Dead Heart. 
 For Lack of Gold. 
 What will the WoHd Say? 
 For the Khig. | In PasturesGreen. 
 In Love and War. 
 By Mead and Stream. 
 A Hard Knot. 1 Heart's Delight. 
 Blood-Money. 
 
 Gilbert (William), Novels by: 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 Dr. Austin's Guests. 
 /' The Wizard of the Mountain. 
 
 James Duke, Costermonger. 
 
 Gilbert (W. S.), Original Plays 
 
 by: In Two Series, each complete in 
 itself, price 2s. 6d. each. 
 
 The First Series contains — The 
 Wicked World — Pygmalion and Ga- 
 - tea — Charity — The Princess — The 
 Palace of Truth— Trial by Jury. 
 
 The. Second Series contains — Bro- 
 ken Hearts — Engaged — Sweethearts — 
 Gretchen — Dan'l Druce — Tom Cobb— 
 H.M.S. Pinafore— The Sorcerer— The 
 Pirates of Penzance, 
 
 Gilbert (W. S.), continued — 
 
 Eight Original Comic Operas. Writ- 
 ten by W. S. Gilbert. Containing: 
 The Sorcerer — H.M.S. "Pinafore" 
 — The Pirates of Penzance — lolanthe 
 — Patience — Princess Ida — The 
 Mikado — Trial by Jury. Demy Svo, 
 cloth limp, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Glenny. — A Year's Work in 
 
 Garden and Greenhouse : Practical 
 Advice to Amateur Gardeners as to 
 the Management of the Flower, Fruit, 
 and Frame Garden. By George 
 Glenny. Post Svo, Is.; cloth, Is. 6d. 
 
 Godwin. — Lives of the Necro- 
 mancers. By William Godwi.v. 
 Post 8vo, limp, 2s. 
 
 Golden Library, The: 
 
 Square i6mo(Tauchnitz size), cloth 
 limp, 2s. per Volume. 
 
 Bayard Taylor's Diversions of the 
 Echo Club. 
 
 Bennett's (Dr. W. 0.) Ballad History 
 of England. 
 
 Bennett's (Dr.) Songs for Sailors. 
 
 Godwin's (William) Lives of the 
 Necromancers. 
 
 Hoimoss Autocrat of the Break- 
 fast Table. Introduction by Sala. 
 
 Holmes's Professor at the Break- 
 fast Table. 
 
 Hood's Whims and Oddities. Com- 
 plete. All the original Illustrations. 
 
 Jesse's (Edward) Scenes and Oc- 
 cupations of a Country Life 
 
 Leigh Hunt's Essays: A Tale for a 
 Chimney Corner, and other Pieces. 
 Vv'ilh Portrait, and an Introduction 
 by Edmund Ollier. 
 
 Mallory's (Sir Thomas) Mort 
 d'Arthur: The Stories of King 
 Arthur and of the Ivniglits of the 
 Round Table. Edited by B. Mont- 
 GOMERiE Ranking. 
 
 Pascal's Provincial Letters. A New 
 Translation, with Historical Intro, 
 ductionand Notes byT.M'CRlE,D.D. 
 
 Pope's Poetical Works. 
 
 Rochefoucauld's Maxims and Moral 
 Reflections. With Notes, and In- 
 troductory Essay by Saint.-'-.-Bkuve. 
 
 Golden Treasury of Thought, 
 
 The: An Encyclop.^!dia of Quota- 
 tions from Writers of all Times and 
 Countries. Selected and Edited by 
 Theodore Taylor. Crown Svo, cloth 
 gilt and gilt edges, 73. 6d. 
 
 Gowing. — Five Thousand 
 
 Miles in a Sledge: A Mid-winter 
 Journey Across S.beria. By Lionei, 
 F. GowlNG. With a Map t y E. Wel- 
 LER aml.-jolflustr.itiousby C. J. Uken. 
 Large crown Svo, cloth extra, 8s.
 
 CHATTO &- W INDUS, PICCADILLY. 
 
 II 
 
 Graham. — The Professor's 
 
 V/ife : A Story. By Leonard Graham. 
 Fcap. 8vo, picture cover, Is. 
 
 Greeks an-d Romans, The Life 
 
 of the, Described from Antique Monu- 
 ments. By Ernst Guhl and W. 
 KoNER. Translated from the Third 
 German Edition, and Edited by Dr. 
 F. HuEFFER. With 545 Illustrations. 
 New and Cheaper Edition, large crown 
 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 Greenaway (Kate) and Bret 
 
 Hapte. — The Queen of the Pirate 
 Isle. By Bret Harte. With 25 
 original Drawings by Kate Green- 
 away, reproduced in Colours by E. 
 Evans. Sm. 4to, bds., 53. 
 
 Greenwood (James), Works by: 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 33. 6d. each. 
 The Wilds of London. 
 Low-Life Deeps: An Account of the 
 Strange Fish to be Found There. 
 
 Greville (Henry), Novels by : 
 
 Nikanoc: A Russian Novel. Trans- 
 lated by Eliza E. Chase. With 8 
 Ulusts. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 A Noble Woman. Translated by 
 Albert D. Vandam. Crown 8vo, 
 cloth extra, 5s. 
 
 Habberton (John), Author of 
 
 " Helen's Babies," Novels by: 
 Post 8vo, illt»strated boards, 23. each ; 
 cloth limp, 23. 6d. each. 
 Brueton's Bayou. 
 C ountfy Luck. 
 
 Hair (The): Its Treatment in 
 Health, Weakness, and Disease. 
 Translated from the German of Dr. J. 
 PiNCus. Crown 8vo, Is,; cloth. Is. 6d. 
 
 Hake (Dr. Thomas Gordon), 
 Poems by: 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 63. each. 
 New Symbols. 
 Legends of the Morrow. 
 The Serpe nt Pla y. 
 
 Maiden Ecstasy. Small 4to, cloth 
 extra, 8s. 
 
 Hall.— Sketches of Irish Cha- 
 
 racter. By Mrs. S. C. Hall. With 
 numerous Illuslrr tions on Steel and 
 Wood by Maclise, Gilbert, Harvey, 
 and G. Cruikshank. Medium 8vo, 
 __ cloth extra, 7s. 6d, 
 
 Halliday.— Every-day Papers. 
 
 By Andrew Halliday. Post 8vo, 
 
 illustrated boards, 23. 
 
 HandwritingT^'he Ph ilosophy 
 
 of. With over 100 Facsimiles and Ex- 
 planatory Text. By Don Felix de 
 Salamanca. Post 8vo, cL limp, 2R.6d. 
 
 Hanky-Panky: A Collection of 
 
 Very EasyTricks,Very Difficult Tricks, 
 White Magic, Sleight ot Hand, &c. 
 Edited by W. H. Cremer. With 2co 
 Illusts. Crown 8vo, cloth extra,43. 6d. 
 
 Hardy (Lady Duffus). — Paul 
 
 Wyntcr's Sacrifice: A Story. By Lady 
 Duffus Hardy. Post 8vo, iiluslrattd 
 boards, 2s. 
 
 Hardy (Thomas). — Under tha 
 
 Greenwood Tree. By Thomas Hardy, 
 Author ot "Far from the Madding 
 Crowd.'' Post 8vo, illustrated bds., 2s. 
 
 Harwood.— The Tenth Earl. 
 
 By J. Berwick Harwood. Post 8vo, 
 illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 Haweis (IVIrs. H. R.), Works by: 
 
 Square 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. each. 
 
 The Art of Beauty. With Coloured 
 Frontispiece and numerous Illusts. 
 
 The Art of Decoration. With nu- 
 merous Illustrations. 
 
 Chaucer for Children: A Golden 
 Key. With Eight Coloured Pictures 
 and nu merous Woodcut s. 
 
 The Art of Dress. With numerous 
 Illustrations. Small 8vo, illustrated 
 cover, Is.; cloth limp, Is. 6d. 
 
 Chaucer for Schools. Demy 8vo, 
 cloth limp, 2s. 6 d. 
 
 Haweis (Rev. H. R.). — American 
 
 Humorists: Washington Irving, 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes, James 
 Russell Lowell, Artemus Ward, 
 Mark Twain, and Bret Harte'. By 
 Rev. H. R. Haweis, M.A. Cr.8vo, 63 . 
 
 Hawiey Smart. — Without 
 Love or Licence : A Novel. By 
 Hawley Smart, Three Vols., crown 
 8vo. [Shortly. 
 
 Hawthorne (Julian), Novels by. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each , 
 
 post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 Garth. I Sebastian Stroma. 
 
 Ellice Quentln. Dust. 
 
 Fortune's Fool. | Beatrix Randolph, 
 
 David Poindexter's Disappearance. 
 The Spectre of the Camera. 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. e.ich. 
 
 Miss Cadog na. | L ove — or a Name. 
 
 Mrs. Gainsborough's Diamonds. 
 
 Fcap. 8vo, illustrated cover. Is. 
 A Dream and a Forgetting. Post 
 
 8vo, cloth. Is 6d. 
 
 Hays.— Women of the Day: A 
 
 Biographical Dictionary of N f-ible 
 Contemporaries. By Frances Hays, 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 5ii.
 
 12 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 Heath (F. G.). — My Garden 
 
 Wild, and What I Grew There. By 
 Francis George Heath, Author of 
 " The Fern World," iS:c. Crown 8vo, 
 cloth extra, 5s. ; cl. gilt, gilt edges, 6s^ 
 
 Helps (Sir Arthur), Works by : 
 
 Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. each. 
 
 Animals and their Masters. 
 
 Social Pr essu re. 
 
 Ivan de BTron: A Novel. Crown 8vo, 
 cloth extra, 3s. 6d.; post 8vo, illus- 
 trated boards, 23^ 
 
 Henderson.— Agatha Page: A 
 
 Novel. By Isaac Henderson. Crown 
 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. 
 
 Herrick's (Robert) Hesperides, 
 
 Noble Numbers, and Complete Col- 
 lected Poems. With Memorial-Intro- 
 duction and Notes by the Rev. A. B. 
 Grosart, D.D., Steel Portrait, Index 
 ot First Lines, and Glossarial Index, 
 &c. Three Vols., crown 8vo, cloth, 18s. 
 
 H e 8 s e - Wart e g g (C h e va lien 
 
 Ernst von), Works by: 
 
 Tunis: The Land and the People. 
 With 22 Illusts Cr. 8vo, cl. ex., 3s. 6d. 
 
 The New South West: Travelling 
 Sketches from Kansas, New Mexico, 
 Arizona, and Northern Mexico. 
 With IOC fine Illustrations and Three 
 Maps. Demy 8vo, cloth extra, 
 14s. [I't prepaiation. 
 
 Hindley (Charles), Works by: 
 
 Tavern Anecdotes and Sayings: In- 
 cluding the Origin of Signs, and 
 Reminiscences connected with 
 Taverns, Coflee Houses, Clubs, &c. 
 With Illustrations. Crown 8vo; cloth 
 extra, 3s. 6d. 
 
 The Lifeand Adventures of a Cheap 
 Jack. By One oi the Fraternity. 
 Edited by Charles Hindley. Crown 
 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d^ 
 
 Hoey.— The Lover's Creed. 
 
 By Mrs. Cashel Hoey. Post 8vo,illus- 
 trated boards. ?.s. 
 
 Hollingshead— NiagaraSpray: 
 
 Sketches. By John Hollingshead. 
 With Three Illustrations. Crown 8vo, 
 picture cover. Is. 
 
 Holmes. — The Science of 
 Voice Production and Voice Preser- 
 vation: A Popular Manual tor the 
 Use of Speakers and Singers. By 
 Gordon Holmes, M.D. With Illus- 
 trations. Crown 8vo, Is. ; cloth. Is. 6d. 
 
 Hood (Thomas): S 
 
 Hood's Choice Works, in Prose and 
 Verse. Including the Cream of the 
 Comic Annuals. With Life of the 
 Author, Portrait, and 200 Illustra- 
 tions. Crov.'n 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 Hood's Whims and Oddities. With 
 all the original Illustrations. Post 
 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 
 
 Hood (Tom).— From Nowhere 
 
 to the North Pole: A Noah's Arkae- 
 ological Narrative. By Tom Hood. 
 With 25 Illustrations by W. Brunton 
 and E. C. Barnes. Square 8vo, cloth 
 extra, gilt edges, 63. 
 
 Holmes (O.Wendell), Works by: 
 
 The Autocrat of the Breakfast- 
 Table. Illustrated by J. Gordon 
 Thomson. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 
 2s. 6d. — Another Edition in smaller 
 type, with an Introduction by G. A. 
 Sala. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 
 
 The Professor at the Breakfast 
 Table ; with the Story of Iris, Post 
 £vo, cloth limp, 2a, 
 
 Hook's (Theodore) Choice Hu- 
 morous Works, including his Ludi- 
 crous Adventures,Bons Mots, Puns, and 
 Hoaxes. With Life of the Author, 
 Portraits, Facsimiles, and Illustrations. 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 73.61. 
 
 Hooper. — The House of Raby : 
 
 A Novel. By Mrs. George Hooper. 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s, 
 
 Hopkins—" 'Twixt Love and 
 
 Duty:" A Novel. By Tighe Hopkins. 
 I Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 I Home. — Orion : An Epic Poem, 
 1 in Three Books. By Richard Hen- 
 gist HoRNE. With Photographic 
 Portrait from a Medallion by Sum- 
 mers. Tenth Edition. Crown 8vo, 
 cloth extra, 73. 
 
 Horse (The) and his Rider : An 
 
 Anecdotic Medley. By " Thormanby." 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 Hunt. — Essays by Leigh Hunt: 
 
 A Tale for a Chimney Corner, and 
 other Pieces. With Portrait, and In- 
 troduction by Edmund Ollier. Post 
 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 
 
 Hunt (Mrs. Alfred), Novels by: 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each; 
 post 8vo, illustrated bo.^rds, 2s. each. 
 
 Thornicroft's Model. 
 
 The Leaden Casket. 
 
 Self Condemned. 
 
 That other Person,
 
 CHATTO 6- W INDUS, PICCADILLY. 
 
 Hydrophobia: an Account of M. 
 Pasteur's System. Containing a 
 Translation ot'all his Communications 
 on the Subject, the Technique of his 
 Method, and the latest Statistical 
 Results. By Renaud Su^oit, M.B., 
 CM. Edin., and M.D. Paris, Commis- 
 sioned by the Government of the 
 Colony of Mauritius to study M. 
 Pasteur's new Treatment in Paris. 
 With 7 Illusts. Cr. Svo, cloth ex tra, 6 s. 
 
 Indoop Paupers. By One of 
 
 Them. Crown Svo, Is. ; cloth, Is. 6d.. 
 
 Ingelow.— Fated to be Free : A 
 
 Novel. By Jean Ingelow. Crown 
 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. ; post 8vo, 
 illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 Irish Wit and Humour, Songs 
 
 of. Collected and Edited by A. Per- 
 cevalGraves. Post Svo, cl. limp, 2s.6(i. 
 
 James. — A Romance of the 
 
 Queen's Hounds- By Charles James. 
 Post Svo, picture cover. Is. ; cl., Is. 6d. 
 
 Janvier. — Practical Keramics 
 
 for Students. By Catherine A. 
 Janvier. Crown Svo. clot h extra, 6s. 
 
 Jay (Harriett )7 Novels by : 
 
 Poit Svo, illuftr.ited boards, 2s. each. 
 The Dark Colleen. 
 The Queen of Connaught. 
 
 Jefferies (Richard), Works by: 
 
 Nature near London. Pott Svo, cl. 
 
 limp. 2s. 6d. 
 The Life of the Fields. Post Svo, 
 
 cloth limp, 23. 6d. 
 The Open Ah'. Crown Svo, cloth 
 
 extra, 6S. : post Sv o, cl. limp, 2s. 6d. 
 The Eulogy of Richard Jefferies. 
 
 By Walter Besant. Second Ed. 
 
 Photo. Portrait. Cr. Svo, cl. ex., 6s. 
 
 Jennings (H. J.), Works by: 
 Curiosities of Criticism. Post Svo, 
 
 cloth limp, 2s. 6d. 
 Lord Tennyson: A Biografhical 
 Sketch. With a Photograph-Por- 
 trait. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 Jerome. — Stageland : Curious 
 
 Habits and Customs of its Inhabitants. 
 By Jerome K. Jerome, Author of " Idle 
 Thoughts of an Idle Fellow." With 64 
 Illusts. by J. Bernard Partridge. 
 Fourth Edition. Fcap. 4to, cloth 
 extra, 3s. 6d. 
 
 Jerrold (Tom), Works by : 
 
 Post Svo, Is. eacJb ; cloth, Is. 6d. each. 
 
 The Garden that Paid the Rent. 
 
 Household Horticulture: A Gossip 
 • about Mowers. Illustrated. 
 
 Our Kitchen Garcen: The Plants 
 we Grow, and How we Cook Them, 
 
 Jesse. — Scenes and Occupa. 
 tlons of a Country Life. By Edward 
 Jesse. Post Svo, cloth limp, 2s. 
 
 Jeux d'Esprit. Collected and 
 Edited by Henry S. Leigh. PostSvo, 
 cloth limp, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Jones (Wm., F.S.A.), Works by: 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 7s. 61. each. 
 
 Finger Ring Lore: Historical, Le- 
 gendary, and Anecdotal. With over 
 Two Hundred Illustrations. 
 
 Credulities, Past and Present. In- 
 cluding the Sea and Seamen, Miners, 
 Talismans, Word and Letter Divina- 
 tion, Exorcising and Blessing ot 
 Animals, Birds, Eggs, Luck, &c. 
 With an Etched Frontispiece. 
 
 Crowns and Coronations: A History 
 of Regalia in all Times and Coun- 
 tries. One Hundred Illustrations. 
 
 Jonson's (Ben) Works, With 
 
 Notes Critical and Explanatory, and 
 a Biographical Memoir by William 
 Gifford. Edited by Colonel Cun- 
 ningham. Three Vols., crown Svo, 
 cloth extra, ISs. ; or separately, 6s. each. 
 
 Joseph US, The Com pleteWorks 
 
 of. Translated by Whiston. Con- 
 taining both "The Antiquities of the 
 Jews" and "The Wars of the Jews." 
 With 52 Illustrations and Maps. Two 
 Vols.. Hemy Svo, handsomely liall- 
 bound, 123 6 d. 
 
 Kempt. — Pencil and Palette: 
 
 Chapters on Art and Artists. By Ron e rt 
 Kempt. Post Svo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Kershaw. — Colonial Facts and 
 
 Fictions: Humorous Sketches. By 
 Mark Kershaw. Post Svo, illustrate 
 boards, 2s. ; cloth, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Keyser. — Cut by the Mess: A 
 
 Novel. By Arthur Keyser. Cr. Svo, 
 picture cover, Is.; cloth. Is. 6d. 
 King (R7'Ashe)7NoVels~by: ^ 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each ; 
 post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 A Drawn Game. 
 "The Wearing of the Groen." 
 
 Passion's Slave. Three Vols. Crown 
 
 8vo. 
 
 Kingsley (Henry), Novels by: 
 
 Oakshott Castle. Post Svo, illus- 
 trated boards, 2s. 
 
 Number Seventeen. Crown Svo, cloth 
 extra, Ss. 6d. 
 
 Kn l^htT— T he~PatIent^~Vade 
 
 Mecum: How to get most Benefit 
 from Medical Advice. By William 
 Knight, M.R.C.S.,and Edw. Knight, 
 L.R.C.P, Cr. Svo, ia. ; cloth, la. 6(i.
 
 14 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 Knights (The) of the Lion: A 
 
 RoQiance of the Thirteenth Century. 
 Edited, with an Introduction, by the 
 Marquess of Lorne, K.T, Crown 
 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 Lamb (Charles): 
 
 Lamb's Complete Works, in Prose 
 and Verse, reprinted from tjje Ori- 
 ginal Editions, with many Pieces 
 hitherto unpublished, Edited, with 
 Notes and Introduction, by R. H. 
 Shepherd. With Two Portraits and 
 Facsimile of a page of the " Essay on 
 Roast Pig." Cr.8vo,cl. extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 The Essays of Elia. Both Series 
 complete. Post 8vo, laid paper, 
 handsomely half-bound, 2s. 
 
 Poetry for Children, and Prince 
 Dorus. By Charles Lamb, Care- 
 fully reprinted from unique copies. 
 Small Svo, cloth extra, 53. 
 
 Little Essays: Sketches and Charac- 
 ters by Charles Lamb. Selected 
 from his Letters by Percy Fitz- 
 gerald. Post Svo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Lane's Arabian Nights. — The 
 
 Thousand and One Nights: com- 
 monly called in England " The 
 Arabian Nights' Entertain- 
 ments." A New Translation from 
 the Arabic, with copious Notes, by 
 - Edward William Lane. Illustrated 
 by many hundred Engravings on 
 Wood, from Original Designs by 
 Wm. Harvey. A New Edition, from 
 a Copy annotated by the Translator, 
 edited by his Nephew, Edward 
 Stanley Poole. With a Preface by 
 Stanley Lane-Poole. Three Vols., 
 demy Svo, cloth extra, 7s. 6cl. each. 
 
 Larwood (Jacob), Works by: 
 The Story of the London Pai^ks. 
 With lUusts. Cr. Svo, cl. ex., 3s. Gd. 
 Anecdotes of the Clergy: The An- 
 tiquities, Humours, and Eccentrici- 
 ties of the Cloth. Post Svo, printed 
 on laid paper and hf.-bound (uniform 
 with "The Essays of Elia" and 
 '' Gastr onomy as a Fine Art "), 2s. 
 
 Post Svo, cloth limp, 23. Gd. each. 
 Forensic Anecdotes. 
 Th eatrical Anecdotes. 
 
 Leigh (Henry S,), Works by: 
 
 Carols of Cockayne. A New Edition, 
 printed on fcap. Svo hand-made 
 paper, and bound in buckram, 5s. 
 
 Jeux d'Esprit. Collected and Edited 
 by Henry S. Leigh. Post Svo, cloth 
 limp, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Leys. — The Lindsays : A Ro- 
 mance of Scottish Life. By John K. 
 Lj£Y§. fo^t Svoj illiistjajed boards, 2s. 
 
 Life in London ; or, The History 
 of Jerry Hawthorn and Corinthian 
 Tom. With the whole of Cruik- 
 shank's Illustrations in Colours, after 
 the Original s. Cr. Svo, cl. extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 LinskiTl. — In Exchange for a 
 
 Soul. By I\Iar\ Linskill, Author of 
 "The Haven Under the Hill," &c. 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 Linton (E. Lynn), Works by: 
 
 Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. each. 
 Witch Stories. 
 
 Ourselves : Essays on Wo men. 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each ; post 
 
 Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 Patricia Kemball. 
 The Atonement of Learn Dundas. 
 The World Well Lost. 
 Under which Lord ? 
 " My Love ! " | lone. 
 Paston Carew, Millionaire &. Miser. 
 Post Svo, illusti-atedljoards, 2s. each. 
 With a silken Thread. 
 T he Rebel of th e Family. 
 
 Longfellow's Poetical Works. 
 
 Carefully Reprinted from the Original 
 Editions.- With numerous line Illustra- 
 tions on Steel and Wood. Crown Svo, 
 cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 Long Life, Aids to: A Medical, 
 
 Dietetic, and General Guide in Health 
 and Disease. By N. E. Daviks, 
 L.R.C.P. Cr. Svo, 2 3. ; cl. limp, 2s.6d. 
 
 Lucy. — Gideon Fleyce: A Novel. 
 By Henry W. Lucy. Crown Svo, 
 cl. ex., 3s. 6d.; post Svo, illust. bds., 2s. 
 
 Lusiad (TlTe) of Camoens. 
 
 Translated into English Spenserian 
 Verse by Robert Ffrench Duff. 
 Demy Svo, v/ith Fourteen full-page 
 Plates, cloth boards, 18s. 
 
 Macalpine (Avery), Novels by : 
 
 Teresa Itasca, and other Stories. 
 
 Crown Svo, bound in canvas, 2s. 6d. 
 Broken Wings. Vk'ith Illusts.by W. J. 
 
 Hennessy. Cr. Svo, cloth extra, 6s, 
 
 M cCarthY" "(J^f st i rPiH^" M . P.), 
 
 Works by: 
 The French Revolution. 4 Vols., 
 
 demy Svo, 12s. each. 
 
 [Vols. I. & II. ill the press. 
 An Outlineof the History of Ireland, 
 
 from the Earliest Times to the Pre- 
 
 sent Day. Cr. Svo, Is. ; cloth. Is. 6d. 
 Ireland since the Union: Sketches 
 
 of Irish History from 1798 to 188G. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 England under Gladstone, 1880-85. 
 
 Second Edition, revised, Crovva 
 
 Svo, cloth extra, 63. 
 Haflz in London : Poems. Choicely 
 
 printed, Small Svo, gold cl9(h. 38, ^i
 
 CHATTO &• WINDUS, PICCADILLY. 
 
 15 
 
 McCarthy (Justin H.)) continued — 
 Harlequinade: Poems. Small 410, 
 
 Japanese vclJum, 8s. 
 Our Sensation Novel. Crown 8vo, 
 
 Is.; cloth, Is. 6d. 
 DolTy. A Sketch. Crown 8vo, picture 
 
 cover, Is. ; cloth, Is. 6d. 
 Lily Lass: A Romance. Crown 8vo, 
 
 picture cover, Is.; cloth, Is. 6d. 
 
 R/lcCarthy (J., M.P.), Works by : 
 
 A History of Our Own Times, from 
 the Accession ot Queen Victoria to 
 the General Election of 1880. Four 
 Vols, demy 8vo, cloth extra, 123. 
 each. — Also a Popular Edition, in 
 Four Vols. cr. 8vo, cl. e.\tra, 63. each, 
 •—And a Jubilee Edition, with an 
 Appendix of Events to the end of 
 1886, complete in Two Vols., square 
 8vo, cloth extra, 73. 6d. each. 
 
 A Short History of Our Own Times. 
 One Vol., crown 8vo, cloth extra, 63. 
 — Also a Cheap Popular Edition, 
 post 8vo, cloth extra, 2s. 6d. 
 
 A History of the Four Georges. Four 
 Vols, demy 8vo, cloth extra, 123, 
 each. [V ols. I. & H . noiv ready. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each; 
 post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 Dear Lady Disdain. | A Fair Saxon. 
 
 Tlie Waterdale Neighbours. 
 
 Miss Misanthrope. 
 
 Donna Quixote. | Maid of Athens. 
 
 The Comet of a Season. j 
 
 Camiola: A Girl with a Fortune, ^ 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 LInley Rochford.- 
 
 My Enemy's D aughter . 
 
 "The Right Honourable:" A Ro- 
 mance of Society and Politics. By 
 Justin McCarthy, M.P., and Mrs. 
 Ca mpeel l-Prae d. Cr. 8vo, cl. ex., 6s. 
 
 IVl ac Donald.— VVorksof Fancy 
 and Imagination. By George Mac- 
 donald, LL.D. Ten Volumes, in 
 handsome cloth case, 21s.— Vol. i. 
 Within and Without. The Hidden 
 Life.— Vol. 2. The Disciple. The 
 Gospel Women. A Book of Sonnets, 
 Organ Songs.— Vol. 3. Violin Songs. 
 Songs of the Days and Nights. 
 A Book OF Dreams. Roadside Poems. 
 Poems for Children. Vol. 4. Para- 
 bles. Ballads. Scotch Songs. — 
 Vols, s and 6. Phantastes: A Faerie 
 Romance.— Vol. 7. The Portent.— 
 Vol. 8. The Light Princess. The 
 Giant's Heart. Shadows. — Vol. g. 
 Cross Purposes. The Golden Key. 
 The Carasoyn. Little Daylight. — 
 Vol. 10. The Cruel Painter. The 
 Wowo' RivvEN. The Castle. The 
 Broken Swords. The Gray Wolf. 
 Uncle Cornelius. 
 
 l^he Volumes are also sold separately, 
 in Grolier-pattern cloth, at zs. 6rf. each. 
 
 MacCol! .— Mi\ Stranger's 
 
 Sealed Packet: A Story of Adven- 
 ture. By Hugh MacColl. Second 
 Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 53. 
 
 Macdonell. — Quaker Cousins: 
 
 A Novel. By Agnes Macdonell. 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. ; post 
 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 Macgregor. — Pastimes and 
 
 Players. Notes on Popular Games. 
 By Robert Macgregor, Post 8vo, 
 cloth limp, 23. 6d. 
 
 Mackay. — Interludes and Un. 
 
 dertones ; or, Music at Twilight. By 
 Charles Mackay, LL.D, Crown Svo, 
 cloth extra , 63. 
 
 Maclise Portrait-Gallery (The) 
 
 of Illustrious Literary Characters; 
 
 with Memoirs — Biop;raphical, Critical, 
 Bibliographical, and Anecdotal — illus- 
 trative of the Literature of the former 
 half of the Present Century. By 
 William Bates, B.A. With 85 Por- 
 traits printed on an India Tint. Crown 
 Svo, clot h extra, 7s.6d . 
 
 MacquQid (Mrs.), Works by: 
 
 Square Svo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. each, \ 
 
 In the Ardennes. With 50 fine Illus* 
 trations by Thomas R. Macquoid. 
 
 Pictures and Legends from Nor- 
 mandy and Brittany. With numer- 
 ous Illusts. by Thomas R. Macquoid, 
 
 Through Normandy. With 90 Illus- 
 trations byT. R. Macquoid. 
 
 Through Brittany. With numerous 
 Illustrations by T. R. Macquoid. 
 
 About Yorkshire. With 67 Illustra- 
 tions by T. R. Macquoid. 
 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. each 
 The Evil Eye, and other Stories. 
 Lost Rose. \ 
 
 Magician's Own Book (The); 
 
 Performances with Cups and Balls, 
 Eggs, Hats, Handkerchiefs, &c. All 
 from actual Experience. Edited by 
 W. H. Cremer. With 200 Illustrations, 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 4s. 6d. 
 
 Magic Lantern (The), and its 
 
 Management: including full Prac- 
 tical Directions for producing the 
 Limelight, making Oxygen Gas, and 
 preparing Lantern Slides. By T. C. 
 Hepworth. With 10 Illustrations, 
 Crown Svo, l3 . ; cloth. Is. 6d. 
 
 Magna Charta. An ex.act Fac 
 
 simile of the Original in the British 
 Museum, printed on fine plate paper, 
 3 feet by 2 feet, with Arms and ..Seals 
 emblazoned in Gold and Colours, 611,
 
 i6 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 Maliock (VV. H.), Works by: 
 
 The New Republic; or.Cnltiire, Faith, 
 and Philnsopliy inan lin^rlishCourtry 
 House. Post 8vo, picture cover, 2s. ; 
 cloth liinp, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Thi Mew Paul and Virginia; or, Posi- 
 tivism on an Island. Post 8vo, cloth 
 limp, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Poems. Small 4to, parchment, Os. 
 
 Is Life worth Living.' Crown 8vo, 
 cloth extra, 63. 
 
 Mallory's (Sip Thomas) P/iort 
 
 d'Arthur: The Stories ot King Arthur 
 and o the Kni;^hts ot the Round Table. 
 A Selection. Edited by B. Montgome- 
 RiE Ranking. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 
 
 Man - Hunter" (The) : Stories 
 
 irom the Note-book of a Detective. By 
 LiicK Donovan. J'ost 8vo, illustrated 
 boards, 2s. ; cloth, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Mark Twain, Works by: 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. each. 
 The Choice Works of IVlark Twain. 
 
 Revised and Corrected throughout by 
 
 the Autlior. With Life, Portrait, and 
 
 numerous Illustrations. 
 Roughing It, and The Innocents at 
 
 Home. With 200 Illustrations by F. 
 
 A. Fraser. 
 The Glided Age. By Mark Twain 
 
 and Charlhs Dudley Warner. 
 
 Willi 212 Illustrations by T. CopriN. 
 IVlark Twain's Library of Humour. 
 
 With nuMierons Illustrations. 
 A Yankee at the Court of King 
 
 Arthur. With 220 Illustrations by 
 
 Dan Beard. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, (illustrated), 
 7s. 6d. each; post 8vo (without Illus- 
 trations), illustrated boards, 23. each. 
 
 The Innocents Abroad ; or. The New 
 Pilgrim's Progress: "Mark Twain's 
 Pleasure Trip." 
 
 The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. 
 With III Illustrations. 
 
 The Frince and the Pauper. With 
 nearly 200 Illustrations. 
 
 A Tramp Abroad. With 314 lUusts. 
 
 Life on the Mississippi. With 300 
 Illustrations. 
 
 The Adventures of Huckleberry 
 Finn. With 174 Illustrations by 
 E. W. Kemble. 
 
 The Stolen White Elephant, &c. 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. ; post 
 Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 Marlowe's Works. Including 
 
 his Translations. Edited, with Notes 
 and Introductions, by Col. Cun- 
 ningham, Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 IVIarryat(FlopenGe), Novels by: 
 
 post evo, illustrated boards, 23. each. 
 
 A Harvest of Wild Oats. 
 
 Fighting the Air. i Written In Fire. 
 
 Open! Sesame! Crown 8vo, cloth 
 
 extra, 3s. 6d. ; post 8vo, picture boards, 
 
 2s. 
 
 Massinger's Plays. From the 
 
 Text of V/m. Gifford. Edited by Col. 
 Cunningham. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 63. 
 
 Masterman. — Half a Dozen 
 
 Daughters: A Novel. By J. Master- 
 man. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 Matthews. — A Secret of the 
 
 Sea, &c. By Brander Matthews. 
 Post Svo, illust. bds., 23^ ; cloth, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Mayfair Library, The: 
 
 Post Svo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. per Volume. 
 
 A Journey Round My Room. By 
 Xavikr de iMaistre. Translated 
 by Henry Attwell. 
 
 Quips and Quiddities. Selected by 
 W. Davenport Adams. 
 
 The Agony Column of "The Times," 
 from iSoo to 1S70. Edited, with an 
 Introduction, by Alice Clay. 
 
 Melancholy Anatomised: A Popular 
 Abridgement of " Burton's Anatomy 
 of Melancholy." 
 
 The Speeches of Charles Dickens. 
 
 Literary Frivolities, Fancies, Folliea» 
 and Frolics. By W. T. Dobson. 
 
 Poetical Ingenuities and Eccentrici- 
 ties. Selected and Edited by W. T. 
 DonsoN. 
 
 The Cupboard Papers. By Fin-Bec, 
 
 Original Plays by W. S. Gilbert. 
 First Series. Containing: The 
 \Vicked World — Pygmalion and 
 Galatea — Chnrity — The Princess — 
 The Palace ot Truth — Trial by Jury. 
 
 Original Plays by W. S Gilbert. 
 Second Series. Containing: Broken 
 Hearts — Engaged — Sweethearts — 
 Gretchen — Dan'l Druce — Tom Cobb 
 — H.M.S. Pinafore — The Sorcerer 
 —The Pirates of Penzance. 
 
 Songs of Irish Wit and Humour. 
 Collected and Edited by A. Perceval 
 Graves. 
 
 Animals and their Masters. By Sir 
 Arthur Helps. 
 
 Social Pressure. By Sir A. Helps. 
 
 Curiosities of Criticism. By Henry 
 J. Jennings. 
 
 The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. 
 By Oliver Wendell Holmes. Il- 
 lustrated bv J. Gordon Thomson. 
 
 Pencil and Palette. By R. Kempt. 
 
 Little Essays : Sketches and Charao- 
 ters by Chas. Lamb. Selected from 
 his Letters by Percy Fitzgerald. 
 
 Forensic Anecdotes; or, Humour and 
 Curiosities of the Law and Men of 
 Law. By Jacob Larwoop.
 
 CHATTO (S- iV INDUS. PICCADILLY. 
 
 17 
 
 Mayfair Library, continued — 
 Post 8vo, cloth limp, 23. 6d. per Volume. 
 Theatrical Anecdotes. By Jacob 
 
 Larwood. [Leigh, 
 
 Jeux d'Esprlt. Edited by Henry S. 
 WItoh Stories. By E. Lynn Linton. 
 Oureelves: Essays on Women. By 
 
 E. Lynn Linton. [Macgregor. 
 
 Pastimes and Players. By Robert 
 The New Paul and Virginia. By 
 
 W. H. Mallock. 
 New Republic. By W. H. Mallock. 
 Puck on Pegasus. By H.Cholmonde- 
 
 lfv-Pennkll. 
 Pegasus Re-Saddled. By H. Chol- 
 
 mondeley-Pennell. Illustrated by 
 
 George Du Maurier. 
 Muses of Mayfair. Edited by H. 
 
 Choi.mondf.ley-Pennell. 
 Thoreau : His Life and Aims. By 
 
 H. A. Pag):. 
 Punlana. By the Hon. Hugh Rowley. 
 More Puniana. By Hon. H. Rowley. 
 The Philosophy of Handwriting. By 
 
 Don Felix de Salamanca. 
 By Stream and Sea By William 
 
 Senior. 
 Leaves from a Naturalist's Note- 
 Book. By Dr. Andrew Wilson. 
 
 Mayhew. — London Characters 
 
 and the Humorous Side of London 
 Life. BvHenry Mayhew. With nume- 
 rous Illusts. Cr. 8vo, cl. extra, 3s. 6d. 
 
 Medicine, Family. — One Thou- 
 sand Medical Maxims and Surgical 
 Hints, lor Infancy, Adult Life, Middle 
 Age, and Old Age. By N. E. Davies, 
 L.R.C.P. Lond. Cr.8vo,ls.; cl., ls.6d. 
 
 Menken. — Infelicia: Poems by 
 
 Adah Isaacs Menken. A New Edi- 
 tion, with a Biographical Preface, nu- 
 merous Illustrations by F. E. Lummis 
 and F. O. C. Darley, and Facsimile 
 of a Letter from Charles Dickens. 
 Beautifully printed on small 410 ivory 
 paper, with red border to each pai.e, 
 and handsomely bound, price 7s. 6(1. 
 
 Mexican Mustang (On a), 
 
 through Texas, from theGulf to the Rio 
 Grande. By A. E.Sweet and J.Armoy 
 Knox, Editors of " Texas Siftings.'' 
 With 265 Illusts. Cr. Svo, cl.extra, 7s.6d. 
 
 Middlemass (Jean), Novels by: 
 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards. 2s. each. 
 Touch and Go. | Mr. Dorillion. 
 
 Miller. — Physiology for the 
 
 Young; or. The House of Life: Hu- 
 man Physiology, with its application 
 to the Preservation of Health. With 
 numerous Illusts. By Mrs. F. Fenwick 
 Miller. Small Svo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Milton (J. L.), Works by: 
 
 Sm. Svo, I3. each ; cloth ex.. Is. 6d. eacb. 
 
 The Hygiene of the Skin. Rules for 
 
 the Management of the Skin; with 
 
 Directions for Diet, Soaps. Baths,&c. 
 
 The Bath In Diseases of the Skin, 
 
 The Laws of Life, and their Relation 
 
 to Disea ses of the Skin. ^^ 
 
 M i nto.— Was She Good or Bad ? 
 
 A Romance. By William Minto. 
 Cr. Svo, pic ture cover. I s. ; cloth. Is. 6d. 
 
 Molesworth (Mrs.), Novels by: 
 
 Hathercourt Rectory. Post Svo, 
 
 illustrated boards, 2s. 
 That Girl in Black. Crown Svo, 
 
 picture cover, Is. ; cloth, Is. 6d. 
 
 Moore (Thomas), WorKS by : 
 
 The Epicurean, and Alciphron. A 
 
 New Edition. Post Svo, printed on 
 laid paper and half-bound, 2s. 
 Prose and Verse, Humorous, Satiri- 
 cal, and Sentimental, by T. Moore; 
 with Suppressed Passages from the 
 Memoirs of Lord Byron. Edited, 
 with Notes and Introduction, by R. 
 Herne Shepherd. With Portrait. 
 Crown Svo, cloth e xtra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 Muddock (J. E.), Stories by : 
 
 Stories Weird and Wonderful. Post 
 Svo, illust. boards, 2s. ; cloth, 2s. 6d. 
 
 The Dead Man's Secret ; or. The 
 Valley of Gold : Being a Narrative 
 of Strange and Wild Adventure. 
 With a Frontispiece by F. Barnard, 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 5s. 
 
 The Man from Manchester. With 
 a Frontispiece. Crown Svo, cloth 
 extra, 6s. [Slioitiy. 
 
 Murray (D. Christie), Novels 
 
 by. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s.6d. e&.;h ; 
 post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 A Life's Atonement. I A Model Father. 
 Joseph's Coat. | Coals of Fire. 
 
 By the Gate of the Sea. I Hearts. 
 Va! Strange. I Cynic Fortune. 
 
 A Bit of Human Nature. 
 First Person Singular. 
 The Way of the World. 
 
 Old Blazer's Hero. With Three Illus- 
 trations by A. McCoRMicK. Crown 
 Svo, cloth extra, 6s. ; post Svo, illus- 
 trated boards, 2s. 
 
 Murray (D. Christie) & Henry 
 
 Herman, Works by: 
 One Traveller Returns. Cr. Svo, cloth 
 
 e.\tra,6s. ; post Svo, ilhist. bds., 2s. 
 Paul Jones's Alias, (S.c. With Illusts. 
 
 by A. FoRKSTiER an ! G. Nicolet. 
 
 C^rown Svo, cloth extra, 6s. [Slwrtly, 
 The Bishop's Bible. Three Vols. 
 
 crown Svo. IShortly,
 
 ig 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BV 
 
 Murray.— A Game of Bluff: A 
 
 Novel. By Hexry Murray, joint- 
 Author with Christie Murray of " A 
 Dangerous Catspaw." Post 8vo, pic- 
 ture boards, 2s. ; cloth, 2s.6d. 
 
 Novelists. — Half-Hours with 
 the Best Novelists of the Century : 
 
 ChoiceReadingsfrom the finest Novels. 
 Edited, with Critical and Biographical 
 Notes, by H. T. Mackenzie Bell, 
 Crown 8vo, cl. ex., 3s. 6d.. [Prepaying, 
 
 Nursery Hints: A Mother's 
 
 Guide in Health and Disease. By N, E. 
 Davies.L.R.C.P. Cr.8vo, Is. ; cl., ls.6d. 
 
 Oberammergau. — The Coun- 
 try of the Passion Play, and the 
 Highlands of Bavaria. By L. G. 
 Seguin, Author of" Walks in Algiers." 
 With a Map and 37 Illustrations. 
 Third Edition, with a new Preface 
 for 1890. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. 
 
 O'Connor. — LordBeaconsfield: 
 
 ABiography. ByT. P.O'Connor, M.P. 
 Sixth Edition, with a New Preface, 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 53. 
 
 O'Hanlon (Alice), Novels by: 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 The Unforeseen. 
 Chance.^ or Fate? 
 
 Ohnet (Georges), Novels by: 
 
 Doctor Rameau. Translated by Mrs. 
 
 Cashel Hoey. With g Illustrations 
 
 by E. Bayard. Cr.Svo, cloth extra,6s.; 
 
 post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 A Last Love. Translated by Albert 
 
 D. Vandam. Crown 8vo, cl. ex., 5s, 
 
 Oliphant (Mrs.), Novels by: 
 
 Whiteladles. With Illustrations by 
 Arthur Hopkins and H. Woods. 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. ; 
 post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 The Primrose Path. 
 
 The Greatest Heiress In England. 
 
 O'Reilly.— Phoebe's Fortunes: 
 
 A Novel. With Illustrations by Henry 
 Tuck. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 23. 
 
 O'Shaughnessy (A.), Poems by : 
 
 Songs of a Worker. Fcap. Svo, cloth 
 
 extra, 7s. Gd. 
 Music and Moonlight. Fcap. Svo, 
 
 cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 Lays of France. Cr.Svo, cl.ex.,103. 6d. 
 
 Ouida, Novels by. Crown Svo, 
 
 cloth extra 3s. 6cl. each ; post Svo, 
 
 illustrated boards 2s. each. 
 Held In Bondage. I Pascarel. 
 Strathmore. I Signa [Ariadne. 
 
 Chandos In a Winter City, 
 
 Under Two Flags. ' Friendship. 
 Cecil Cast I e- 1 Moths. 1 Bimbl. 
 
 maine's Gaga. 
 Idalia. 
 Tricotrin. 
 Puck. 
 
 Folle Farine 
 TwoLlttleWooden 
 
 Shoes, 
 
 Pipistrello 
 In Maremma 
 A Village Com- 
 mune. 
 Wanda. 
 
 Frescoes. [Ine. 
 j Princess Naprax- 
 
 A Dog of Flanders,! Othmar 
 
 Guilderoy. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 
 
 3s. 6d. 
 Cuida's New Novel. Three Vols., 
 
 crown 8vo, [Immediately. 
 
 Wisdom, Wit, and Pathos, selected 
 from the \Vorks of Ouida by F, 
 Sydney Morris. Sm.cr.8vo,cI.ex.,5s, 
 Cheaper Edition, illust. bds., 23. 
 
 Page (H. A.), Works b^y : 
 
 Thoreau: His Life and Aims: A Study. 
 With Portrait. Post8vo,cl,Ump,2s.6d. 
 
 Lights on the Way : Some Tales with- 
 in a Tale. By the late J. H. Alex- 
 ANDER, B.A. Edited by H. A. Page, 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 63. 
 
 Animal Anecdotes. Arranged on a 
 New Principle. Cr. Svo, cl. extra, 5s. 
 
 Parliamentary Elections and 
 
 Electioneering in the Old Days (A 
 History of). Showing the State of 
 Political Parties and Party Warfare at 
 the Hustings and in the House of 
 Commons from the Stuarts to Queen 
 Victoria. Illustrated from the original 
 Political Squibs, Lampoons, Pictorial 
 Satires, and Popular Caricatures of 
 the Time. By Joseph Grego, Author 
 of "Rowlandson and his Works," 
 "The Life of Gillray," &c. A'New 
 Edition, crnwn Svo, cloth extra, with 
 Coloured Frontispiece aud 100 Illus- 
 trations, 7s. 6d. (■: [Preparing. 
 
 Pascal's Provincial Letters. A 
 
 New Translation, with Historical In- 
 troduction and Notes, by T. M'Crie, 
 D.D. Post Svo, cloth limp, 2s. 
 
 Patient's (The) Vade Mecum: 
 
 How to get most Benefit from Medical 
 Advice. By W. Knight, M.R.C.S.,and 
 E.Knight,L.R.C.P. Cr.bvo, Is.; cl, 1/6,
 
 CHATTO &' IV INDUS, PICCADILLY. 
 
 ID 
 
 Paul— Gentle and Simple. By 
 
 Margaret Agnes Paul. With a 
 Frontispiece by Helen Paterson, 
 Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. ; post 8vo, 
 illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 Payn (James), Novels by. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each; 
 
 post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 Lost Sir Massingbcrd. 
 
 Walter's Word. 
 
 Less Black than we're Painted. 
 
 By Proxy. | High Spirits. 
 
 ■Under One Roof. 
 
 A Confidential Agent. 
 
 Some Private Views. 
 
 A Grape from a Thorn. 
 
 The Talk of the Town. 
 
 From Exile. | The Canon's Ward 
 
 Holiday Tasks I Glow-worm Tales. 
 
 The Mystery of Mirbridge. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 Kit: A Memory. | Carlyon's Year. 
 
 A Perfect Treasure. 
 
 Bentinck's Tutor.' Murphy's Master. 
 
 The Best of Husbands. 
 
 For Cash Only. 
 
 What He Cost Her. | Cecil's Tryst. 
 
 Fallen Fortunes. | Halves. 
 
 A County Family. | At Her Mercy. 
 
 A Woman's Vengeance. 
 
 The Clyffards of ClyfTe. 
 
 The Family Scapegrace. 
 
 The Foster Brothers. Found Dead. 
 
 Gwendoline's Harvest. 
 
 Humorous Stories. 
 
 Like Father, Like Son. 
 
 A Marine Residence. 
 
 Married Beneath Him. 
 
 Mirk Abbey. | Not Wooed, but Won. 
 
 Two Hundred Pounds Reward. 
 
 In Peril and Privatio'.i ; Stories of 
 Marine Adventure Re-told. With 17 
 ' Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 
 3s. Cd. 
 
 The Burnt Million. Three Vols., 
 crown Svo. [Shortly. 
 
 Pears. — The Present Depres- 
 sion In Trade: Its Causes and Reme- 
 dies. Being the " Pears" Prize Essays 
 (of One Hundred Guineas). By Edwin 
 GoADBY and William Watt. With 
 an Introductory Paper by Prof. Leone 
 Levi, F.S.A., F.S.S. D emy Svo, Is. 
 
 Pennell (H. Cholmondeley), 
 
 Works by : ^ 
 
 Post Svo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. each. 
 
 Puck on Pegasus. With Illustrations. 
 
 Pegasus Re-Saddled. With Ten lull- 
 page Ulusts. by G. Du Maurier. 
 
 The Muses of Mayfair. Vers de 
 Societc, Selected and E4it§d by H. 
 
 C, PiJNNEtL, 
 
 Phelps (E. Stuart), Works by: 
 
 Post Svo, Is. each ; cl. limp, Is. 6d. each. 
 Beyond the Gates. By the Author 
 
 of "The Gates Ajar." 
 An Old Maid's Paradise. 
 Burglars in Paradise. 
 
 Jack the Fisherman. With Twenty- 
 two Illustrations by C. W. Reed, 
 Cr. Svo, picture cover, Is. ; cl. Is. 6d. 
 
 Plrkis (C. L.), Novels by: 
 
 Trooping with Crows. Fcap. Svo, 
 
 picture cover. Is. 
 Lady Lovelace. Post Svo, illustrated 
 
 boards, 2s. 
 
 Planche (J. R.), Works by: 
 
 The Pursuivant of Arms; or, Her- 
 aldry Founded upon Facts. With 
 Coloured Frontispiece and 200 Illus- 
 trations. Cr. Svo, cloth extra, 73. 6d. 
 
 Songs and Poems, from iSig to 1S79. 
 Edited, with an Introduction, by his 
 Daughter, Mrs. Mackarness. Crown 
 Svo, cloth e.\tra, 6s. 
 
 Plutarch's Lives of Illustrious 
 
 Men. Translated from the Greek, 
 with Notes Critical and Historical, and 
 a Life of Plutarcli, by John and 
 William Langhorne. With Portraits, 
 Two Vols., demy Svo, handsomely 
 half-bound, lOs. 6d. 
 
 Poe (Edgar Allan): €^ 
 
 The Choice Works, in Prose .'^nd 
 Poetry, of Edgar Allan Poe. W\;h 
 an Introductory Essaj- by Charles 
 Baudelaire, Portrait and Fac- 
 similes. Crown Svo, cl. extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 The Mystery of Marie Roget. and 
 other Stories. Post Svo, illust.bas.,23. 
 
 Pope's Poetical Works. Com- 
 plete in One Vol. Post Svo, cl . limp, 23, 
 
 Praed (Mrs. Campbell-) "The 
 
 Right Honourable:" A Romance of 
 Society and Politics. By Mrs. Camp- 
 bell-Praed and Justin McCarthy, 
 M.P. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 Price (E. C), Novels by: 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 33. 6d. each ; 
 post Svo, illustrated boards, 23. each. 
 Valentina. | The Foreigners. 
 
 Mrs. Lancaster's Rival. 
 
 Gerald. Post Svo, illust. boards, 23. 
 Princess Olga—Radna; or. The 
 
 Great Consp.iraqy of iSSr. By tha 
 Princess Olga, Cr. Svo, cl, ex., 6s,
 
 20 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 Proctor (R. A.), Works by: 
 
 Flowers of the Sky. With 55 Illusts. 
 
 Small crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. 
 Easy Star Lessons. With Star Maps 
 
 for Every Night in the Year, Draw- 
 ? ings ot the Constellations, &c. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 Familiar Science Studies. Crown 
 
 Svo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 Saturn and its System. New and 
 
 Revised Edition, with 13 Steel Plates. 
 
 Demy Svo, cloth e^ara, lOs. 6d. 
 Mysteries of Time and Space. With 
 
 Illusts. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 The Universe of Suns, and other 
 
 Science Gle.inings. With numerous 
 
 Illusts. Cr. Svo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 Wages and Wants of Science 
 
 Workers. Crown 8vo, Is. 6d. 
 
 Rambosson. — Popular Astro- 
 nomy. By J. Rambosson, Laureate of 
 the Institute of France. Translated by 
 C. B. Pitman. Witli numerous Illustra- 
 tions and a Coloured Chart of Spectra. 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 Randolph. — Aunt Abigail 
 
 Dykes: A Novel. By Lt.Col. George 
 Randolph, L'.S.A. Crown Svo. cloth 
 extra, 7s. 6d. [S/;oifO\ 
 
 Reade (Charles), Novels by: 
 
 Crown 8vo, doth extra, illustrated, 3s. 6d. 
 each ; post bvo, illu.st. bds., 2s. each. 
 Peg Wofflngton. Illustrated by S. L. 
 
 FiLDKS, A K.A. 
 Christie Jolmstone. Illustrated by 
 
 W ILLIAM Small. 
 It Is Never Too Late to Mend. Il- 
 lustrated by G. J. FiNWELL. 
 The Course of True Love Never did 
 run Smooth. Illustrated by Helen 
 Patekson. 
 The Autobiography of a Thief; Jack 
 of all Trades; and James Lambert. 
 Illustrated by Matt Stretch. 
 Love me Little. Love me Long. Il- 
 lustrated by M. Ellen Edwards. 
 The Double Marriage. Illust. by Sir 
 John Gilbert, R.A.,andC. Keene. 
 The Cloister and the Hearth. Il- 
 lustrated by Charles Keene. 
 Hard Cash. Illust. by F. W. Lawson, 
 Griflflth Gaunt. Illustrated by S L. 
 
 FiLDEs, A.R.A., and Wm. Small. 
 Foul Play. Illust. by Du Maurier. 
 Put Yourself in His Place. Illus- 
 trated by Robert Barnes. 
 A Terrible Temptation. Mlustrated 
 by Einv. Hughes and A. W. Cooper. 
 The Wandering Heir. Illustrated by 
 H. Patkrson, S. L. Fit. pes, A.R.A., 
 C. Grikn, and II. Wo('.n<;, A.R A. 
 A Simpleton. Illustrated by Kate 
 CrAI FORn. fCouLr.ERv. 
 
 A Woman Ha'ter. Illast. by Tkos. 
 
 Reade (Chai^les), continued — 
 
 SIngleheart and Doubleface: A 
 
 Matter-ol-fact Romance. Illustrated 
 
 by P. Macnab. 
 Good Stories of Men and other 
 
 Animals. Illustrated by E. A. .^bbey, 
 
 Percy Macquoid, and Joseph Nash. 
 The Jilt, and other Stories. Illustrated 
 
 by Joseph Nash. 
 Readiana. With a Steel-plate Portrait 
 
 ol Charles Reade. 
 
 Bible Characters : Studies of David, 
 Nehemiah, Jonah, Paul, &c. Fcap. 
 Svo, leatherette, Is^ 
 
 Reader's Handbook (The) of 
 
 Allusions, References, Plots, and 
 Stories. By the Rev. Dr. Brewer. 
 With an Appendix, containing a 
 Complete English Bibliography. 
 Fifteenth Thousand. Crown Svo, 1,400 
 pages, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 Riddell (Mrs. J. H.), Novels by: 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each ; 
 post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 Her Mother's Darling. 
 The Prince of Vv'ales's Garden Party, 
 Weird Stories. 
 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 The Uninhabited House. 
 Fairy Water. 
 The Mystery in Palace Gardens^ 
 
 Rimmer (Alfred), Works by : 
 
 Square Svo, cloth «ilt, 7s. 6d. each. 
 Our Old Country Towns. With over 
 
 50 Illustrations. 
 Rambles Round Eton and Harrow. 
 
 With 50 Illustrations. 
 About England with Dickens. With 
 
 5S Illustrations by Alfred Rimmer 
 
 and C. A. Vanderhoof. 
 
 Robinson Crusoe. By Daniel 
 
 Defoe. (Major's Edition.) With 37 
 Woodcut Illustrations by George 
 Cruikshank. Post Svo, handsomely 
 half-bound (uniform with Lamb's 
 " Elia "), 2s^ [Shortly, 
 
 Robinson (F. W.), Novels by: 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each ; 
 post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 Women are Strange. 
 
 The Hands of Justice. 
 
 Robinson (Phil), Works by: 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. each. 
 
 The Poets' Birds. 
 
 The Poets' Beasts. 
 
 The Poets and Nature: Reptiles, 
 
 Fishes, and Insects. [Pieparing, 
 
 Rochefoucauld's Maxims a.nd 
 
 Moiv.l Reflections. With Notes, and 
 an Introductory Essay by Sainte- 
 Bei.vi;, Post bvo, cloth limp, 2s.
 
 CHATTO & IV INDUS, PICCADILLY. 
 
 21 
 
 Roll of Battle Abbey, The ; or, 
 
 A List ot the Principal Warriors who 
 came over from Normandy with Wil- 
 liam the Conqueror, and Settled in 
 this Country, a.d. 106C-7. With the 
 principal Arms emblazoned in Gold 
 and Colours. Handsomely printed, 5s. 
 
 Rowley (Hon. Hugh), Works by: 
 
 Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. each. 
 Puniana: Riddles and Jokes. With 
 
 numerous Illustrations. 
 More Puniana. Profusely Illustrated. 
 
 Runclman (James), Stories by : 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each; 
 
 cloth limp, 2s. 6d. each. 
 Skippers and Shellbacks. 
 Grace Balmaign's Sweetheart. 
 Schools and Scholars. 
 
 Russell (W. Clark), Works by: 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. each ; post 
 
 8vo, illustrated boards, 23. each. 
 Round the Galley-Fire. 
 In the Middle Watch. 
 A Voyage to the Cape. 
 A Book for the Hammock. 
 The Mystery of the "Ocean Star," 
 The Ro mance of Je nny Harlowe. 
 
 On the Fo'k'sle Head. Post 8vo, illus- 
 trated boards, 2s. 
 An Ocean Tragedy: A Novel. Three 
 
 Vols., crown 8vo. 
 
 Sala.— Gaslight and Daylight. 
 
 By George Augustu.s Sala. Post 
 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 Sanson. — Seven Generations 
 
 of Executioners: Memoirs of the 
 Sanson Family (1688 to 1847). Edited 
 byHENRySANSON. Cr.8vo,cl.ex.3s.6d. 
 
 Saunders (John), Novels by: 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Gd. each ; 
 post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 Guy Waterman. 1 Lion in the Path. 
 
 The Two Dreamers. 
 
 Bound to the Wheel. Crown 8vo, 
 cloth extra, 3s. 6d. 
 
 Saunders (Katharine), Novels 
 
 by. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 33. Gd. each; 
 
 post 8vo, illustrated boards, 23. each. 
 
 Margaret and Elizabeth. 
 
 The High Mills. 
 
 Heart Salvage, j Sebastian. 
 
 Joan Merryweather. Post 8vo, illus- 
 trated boards, 23. 
 
 Qideon's Rock. Crown 8vo, cloth 
 extra, 3s. 6(L 
 
 Science-Gossip for 1890: An 
 
 Illustrated Medium of Interchanga 
 for Students and Lovers of Nature. 
 Edited by Dr. J. E.Taylor, F.L.S.,&c. 
 Devoted to Geology, Botany, Phy- 
 siology, Chemistry, Zoology, Micros- 
 copy, Telescopy, Physiography, Pho- 
 tography, &c. Price 4d. Monthly ; or 5s. 
 per year, post-free. Vols. I. to XIX. 
 may be had at 7s. 6d. each ; and Vols. 
 XX. to date, at 5s. each. Cases tor 
 Binding, Is. 6d. each. 
 
 "Secret Out" Series, The: 
 
 Cr. 8vo, cl.ex.. Illustrated, 4s. 6d. each. 
 
 The Secret Out : One Thousand 
 Tricks with Cards, and other Re- 
 creations ; with Entertaining Experi- 
 ments in Drawing-room or " White 
 Magic." By W.H.Cremer. 3oolllusts. 
 
 The Art of Amusing : A Collection of 
 Graceful .\rts,Games,Tricks, Puzzles, 
 and Charades By Frank Bellew. 
 With 300 Illustrations. 
 
 hanky Panky: Very Easy Tricks, 
 Very Diflicult Tricks, Wliite Magic, 
 Sleight of Pland. Edited by W. H. 
 Cremer. With 200 Illustrations. 
 
 Magician's Own Book: Performances 
 with Cups and Balls, Eggs, Hats, 
 Handkerchiefs, &c. All from actual 
 Experience. Edited by W. H. Cre- 
 mer. 200 Illustrations. 
 
 SegTTin (L. CT.yTWorks by: ' 
 The Country of the Passion Play, 
 
 and the Highlands and Highlanders 
 of Bavaria. With Map and 37 Illusts, 
 and a New Preface for iSgo, 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. 
 Walks in Algiers and its Surround- 
 ings. With 2 Maps and i5 Illusts, 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 Senior.— By Stream and Seai 
 
 Vy W. S eni or. Po st 8vo,cl.Iimp, 2s.Gd. 
 
 Seven Sagas (TheTof Prehis- 
 
 torlo Man. By James H. Stoddart, 
 Author of " The Village Life." Crown 
 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 Shakespeare : ~~~~~ 
 
 The First Folio Shakespeare.— Mr, 
 
 William Shakespeare's Comedies, 
 Histories, and Tragedies. Published 
 according to the true Original 1 Copies. 
 London, Printed by Is.^ac Iaggakd 
 and Ed. Blount. 1623. — A Repro- 
 duction of the extremelyrareoriginal, 
 in reduced facsimile, by a photogra- 
 phic process — ensuring the strictest 
 accuracy in every detail. Small 8vo, 
 half-Roxburghe, 7s. 6d. 
 Shakespeare for Children: Tales 
 from Shakespeare. By Charles 
 and Makv Lamb. With numerous 
 Illustrations, coloured and plain, by 
 j, MoYR SuiTH, Cr, 4to, cl, gilt, 63,
 
 22 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 Sharp. — Children of To-mor- 
 row: A Novel. By William Sharp. 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s, 
 
 Shelley.— The GompleteWorks 
 
 In Verse and Prose of Percy Bysshe 
 Shelley. Edited, Prefaced and Anno- 
 tated by R. Herne Shepherd. Five 
 Vols., cr. 8vo, cloth bds., 33. 6d. each. 
 Poetical Works, in Three Vols, 
 
 Vol. I. An luiroiluction by the Editor; The 
 Posthumous Fraijments of Margaret Nichol- 
 son; ShelJey's Correspondence with Stock- 
 dale ; The W.-indennj; lew (tiie on'y cojuplete 
 version); Queen Mib, with tlie Notes; 
 Alastor, and other Poems; Rosalind and 
 Helen ; Prometheus Unbound ; Adonais, &:c. 
 
 Vol. II. Laon and Cythna (as orifjuially pub- 
 lished, instead of the emasculated " Revolt 
 of Islam") ; The Cenci ; Julian and Maddalo 
 (from Shelley's manuscript) ; Svvellfoot the 
 Tyrant (from the copy in the Dyce Library 
 at South KenMnirton); The Witch of Atlas; 
 Epipsycliidion; Hellas. 
 
 Vol. III. Posthumous Poems, published by 
 Mrs. Shelley in 1824 and 1839; TheM.asque 
 of Anarchy (from Shelley's manuscript); and 
 other Pieces not brought together iuthe ordi- 
 nary ediiions. 
 
 Prose Works, in Two Vols. 
 
 Vol. I. The Two Romances of Zastrozzi and St, 
 Irvyne ; the Dublin and Marlow Pamphlets ; A 
 Refutation of Deism ; Letters to Leiijh Hunt, 
 and some Minor VVriting^s and Fragments. 
 
 Vol. II. The Essays; Letters from Abroad; 
 Translations and iFragments, Edited by Mrs. 
 Shelley, and first published in 1S40, with 
 the addition of some Minor Pieces of great 
 interest and rarity, including one recently 
 discovered by Professor DOWDEN. With a 
 Bibliograjihy of Shelley, and an exhaustive 
 Index of the Prose Works. 
 
 ShePidan(General). — Personal 
 
 Memoirs of General P. H. Sheridan : 
 The Romantic Career of a Great 
 Soldier, told in his Own V/ords. With 
 22 Portraits and other Illustrations, 27 
 Maps, and numerous Facsimiles of 
 Famous Letters, Two Vols, of 500 
 pages each, demy 8vo, cloth extra, 243. 
 
 Sheridan (Richard Brinsley): 
 
 Sheridan's Complete Works, with 
 Life aud Anecdotes. Including his 
 Dramatic Writings, printed from the 
 Original Editions, his Worl<s in 
 Prose and Poetry, Translations, 
 Speeches, Jokes, Puns, &c. With a 
 Collection of Sheridaniana, Crown 
 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, with 10 full- 
 page Tinted Illustrations, 7s, 6d. 
 
 Sheridan's Comedies: The Rivals, 
 and The School for Scandal. 
 Edited, with an Introduction and 
 Notes to each Play, and a Bio- 
 graphical Sketch of Sheridan, by 
 Brander Matthews. With Decora- 
 tive Vignettes and lofull-page Illusts, 
 Demy tiyo, hait-parchmeut, 123. 6(|. 
 
 Sherard. — Rogues: A Ntsvel. 
 
 By R. H. Sherard. Crown 8vo, pic- 
 ture cover. Is.; cloth. Is. Sd. 
 
 Sidney's (Sir Philip) Complete 
 
 Poetical Works, including all those in 
 "Arcadia." With Portrait, Memorial- 
 Introduction, Notes, &e., by the Rev. 
 A. B. Grosart, D.D. Three Vols., 
 crown 8vo, cloth boards, 18s. 
 
 Signboards : Their History. 
 With Anecdotes of Famous Taverns 
 and Remarkable Cfiaracters. By 
 Jacob Larwood and John Camden 
 HoTTEN. With 160 Illustrations. 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d^ 
 
 Sims (George R.), Works by : 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s, each; 
 cloth linip, 2s. 6d. each. 
 
 Rogues and Vagabonds, 
 
 The Ring o' Bells. 
 
 Mary Jane's Memoirs, 
 
 Mary Jane Married. 
 
 Tales of To-day. 
 
 Cr. Svo, picture cover. Is. ea.;cl.,ls.6d.ea. 
 
 The Dagonet Reciter and Reader | 
 Being Readings and Recitations in 
 Prose and Verse, selected from his 
 own Worl;s by G. R, Sims. 
 
 How the Poor Live; and Horrible 
 Lond on, In One Volume, 
 
 Sister Dora: A Biography. By 
 
 Margaret Lonsdale. Popular Edi- 
 tion, Revised, v^fith additional Chap- 
 ter, a New Dedication and Preface, 
 and Four Illustrations. Sq. Svo, pic- 
 ture cover, 4d. ; cloth, 6d. 
 
 Sketchley. — A Match in the 
 
 Dark. By Arthur Sketchley. Post 
 8vo, illustrat ed boards, 2s. 
 
 Slang Dictionary, The: Ety. 
 mological, Historical, and Anecdotal, 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 6s. 6d. 
 
 Smart. — Without^' Love op 
 
 Licence : A Novel, By Hawley 
 Smart. Three Vols., cr. Svo. 
 
 Smith (J. IVIoyr), Works by : 
 The Prince of Argolis: A Story of the 
 
 Old Greek Fairy Time, With 130 
 
 Illusts. Small Svo, cloth extra, 3s.6d. 
 Tales of Old Thule. With numerous 
 
 Illustrations. Cr. Svo, cloth gilt,6s. 
 The Wooing of the Water Witch, 
 
 With Illustrations. Small Svo, 6s. 
 
 Society in London. By A 
 
 Foreign Resident, Crown Svo, Is. ; 
 cloth, Is. 6d. 
 
 Society in Paris: The Upper 
 
 Ten Thousand. A Series of Letters 
 from Count Paul Vasili to a Young 
 French Diplomat, Trans, by R, L, 
 DE Bii^yFopT- Cro^yn Svo, cl. es.j 6S.
 
 CHATTO &• WIND US. PICCADILLY. 
 
 23 
 
 Society out of Town. By A 
 
 Foreign Resident, Author of "So- 
 ciety in London." Crown 8vo, cloth 
 extra, 63. ^ IPrepanng. 
 
 Somerset.— Songs of Adieu. 
 
 By Lord Henry Somerset, Small 
 4to, Japanese vellnm, 63^ 
 
 Spalding.-Elizabetlian Demon. 
 
 ology : An Essay in Illustration of the 
 Belief in the Existence of Devils, and 
 the Powers possessed by Them. By T. 
 A. Spalding, LL.B. Cr. 8vo,cl. ex., S3. 
 
 Speiglit (T. W.), Novels by: 
 The Mysteries ot Heron Dyke. 
 
 With a Frontispiece by M. Ellen 
 
 Edwards. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 
 
 3s. 6d ; post 8vo, illustrated bds., 23. 
 Wife or No WIfeP Post Bvo, cloth 
 
 limp, Is. 6d. 
 A Barren Title. Crown Svo, cl., Is. 6d. 
 The Golden Hoop. Post Svo, illust. 
 
 boards, 23. 
 By Devious Ways, and A Barren 
 
 Title. Post Bvo, illunt. boards, 23. 
 The Sandycroft Mystery. Crown 
 
 Svo, picture cover, Is. [Slioitly. 
 
 Spenser for Children. By M. 
 
 H. TowRY. With Illustrations by 
 
 Walter J. Morgan. Crown 4to, cloth 
 
 gilt, 6 s. 
 
 Stageland : Curious Habits and 
 Customs of its Inhabitants. By Jerome 
 K. Jerome. With 64 Illustrations by 
 J. Bernard Partridge. Fourth Edi- 
 tion. Fcap. 4to,cl! th extra, 3s. 6d. 
 
 Starry Heavens, Tiie: A Poeti- 
 cal Birthday Book, Square bvo, cloth 
 extra, 2s Gd. 
 
 Staunton. — Laws and Practice 
 
 of Chess. With an Analysis of the 
 Openings. By Howard Staunton. 
 Edited by Robert B. Wormald. 
 Small crown 8vo, cloth extra, 53. 
 
 Stedman (E. C), Works by: 
 Victorian Poets. Thirteenth Edition. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 9s. 
 The Poets of America. Crown Svo, 
 
 cloth extra, 9s. 
 
 Sterndale. — The Afghan Knife: 
 
 ANovel. Bv Robert Armitage Stern- 
 dale. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d ; post 
 Svo, illustrated boards, 23. 
 
 Stevenson (R.Louis), Works by : 
 
 Post Svo, cloth limp, 2s. Gd. each. 
 Travels w/ith a Donkey in the 
 
 Cevenncs. Ei,i;lMh Edition. With 
 
 a Frontispiece by Walter Crane. 
 An Inland Voyage. Fourth Edition. 
 
 WithFrontispiece by WALTERCRAN.-i, 
 
 Stevenson (R. Louis), continued — 
 Cr. Svo, buckram extra, gilt top, 63. each. 
 Familiar Studies of Men and Books. 
 
 Filth Edition. 
 The Silverado Squatters. With 
 
 Frontispiece. Third Edition. 
 The Merry Men. Second Edition. 
 Underwoods: I'oerns. Fourth Edit. 
 Memories &, Portraits. Third Edit. 
 Virginlbus Puerlsque, and othef 
 Papers. Fifth Edition. 
 
 Cr. Svo, buckram extra, gilt top, 6s. each ; 
 post Svo, illust. boards, 2s. each. 
 New Arabian Nights. Eleventh Edit, 
 Prince Otto : Sixth Edition. 
 
 Stoddard. — Summer Cruising 
 
 In the South Seas. By Charles 
 
 Warren Stoddard. Illustrated by 
 Wallis Mackay. Crown Svo, cloth 
 extra, 3s. 6d. 
 
 Stories from Foreign Novel- 
 ists. With Notices of their Lives and 
 Writings. By Helen and Alice Zim- 
 mern. Frontispiece. Crown Svo, cloth 
 extra, 33. 6d. ; post Svo, illust. bds., 23. 
 
 Strange Manuscript{A) found 
 
 in a Copper Cylinder. With 19 full- 
 page Illustrations by Gilbert Gaul, 
 Third Edition. Cr. Svo, cl. extra, 53. 
 
 Strange Secrets. Told by 
 
 Percy Fitzgerald, Florence Mar- 
 rvat, James Grant, A. Con an Doyle, 
 DuTTON Cook, and others. With 8 
 Illustrations by Sir John Gilbert, 
 William Small, W. J. Hennessy, 
 &c. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 6s. ; post 
 Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 Strutt's Sports and Pastimes 
 
 of the People cf England; including 
 the Rural and Domestic Recr'^ations, 
 May Games, Mummeries, Shows, iScc, 
 from the Earliest Period to the Present 
 Time. Edited by Wm, Hone. With 140 
 Illustrations. Cr. Svo, cl. extra, 73.6(1. 
 
 Suburban Homes (The) of 
 
 London : A Residential Guide to 
 Favourite London Localities, their 
 Society, Celebrities, and Associations. 
 With Notes on their Rental, Rates, and 
 House Accommodation. VC'/thMapof 
 Suburban London. Cr.8vo,c'.ex.,73 6d. 
 
 Swift (Dean):— 
 Swift's Choice Works, in Prose and 
 
 Verse. With Memoir, Portrait, and 
 Facsimiles oi the Maps in the Origi- 
 nal Edition of " Gulliver's Travels." 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 A Monograph on Dean Swift. By 
 J. Churton Collins. Crown Svo, 
 cloth extra, 83. [Slwrilv,
 
 24 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 Swinburne (Algernon C), 
 
 Works by: 
 Selections from the Poetical Works 
 
 of A. C. Swinburne. Fcap. 8vo, 6s. 
 Atalanta in Calydon. Crown 8vo, 6s. 
 Cliastelard. ATragedy. Cr. 8vo, 7s. 
 Poems and Ballads. First Series, 
 
 Cr. 8vo, 9s. F'cap. 8vo, same price. 
 Poems and Ballads. Second Series. 
 
 Cr. 8vo, 9s. Fcap. 8vo, same price. 
 Poems and Ballads. Third Series. 
 
 Crown Svo, 7s. 
 Notes on Poems and Reviews. Svo.ls. 
 Songs before Sunrise. Cr. Svo, 10s 6(1. 
 Bothwell: ATragedy. Cr. 8vo,12s.6d. 
 George Chapman : An Essay. (See 
 
 Vol. II. of Geo. Chapman's Works.) 
 
 Crown Svo, 6s. 
 Songs of Two Nations. Cr. Svo, 63. 
 Essays and Studies. Crown Svo, 123. 
 Erechtlieus: ATragedy. Cr. Svo, 63. 
 Songsof the Springtides. Cr.Svo,6s. 
 Studies in Song. Crown Svo. 7s. 
 Mary Stuart: ATragedy. Cr. Svo, 8s. 
 Tristram of Lyonesse, and other 
 
 Poems. Crown Svo, 9s. 
 ACentury of Roundels. Small 4to, 8s. 
 A Midsummer Holiday, and othtr 
 
 Poems. Crown Svo, 7s. 
 Marino Faliero: ATragedy. Cr.8vo,63. 
 A Study of Victor Hugo. Cr. Svo, 6s. 
 Miscellanies. Crown Svo, 12s. 
 Locrine: ATragedy. Crown Svo, 63. 
 ^ A Study of Be n Jonson. Cr. Svo, 7s. 
 Sy m o n cl s. — Wi n e, Wonie n , an d 
 
 Song: Medireval Latin Students' 
 Songs. Now first translated into Eng- 
 lish Verse, with Essay by J. Addington 
 SvMONDS. Small Svo, parchment, 6s. 
 
 S y ntax's (Dr.) Three TouFsl 
 
 In Search of the Picturesque, in Search 
 of Consolation, and in Search of a 
 Wife. With the whole of Rowland- 
 SON'S dioll Illustrations in Colours, and 
 a Life of the Author by J. C. Hotten, 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 Taine's History~of ^Eriglish 
 
 Literature. Translated by Henry 
 Van Laun. Four Vols., small Svo, 
 cloth boards, 30s. — Popular Edition, 
 Two Vols., crown Svo, cloth extra, 15s. 
 
 Taylor's (Bayard) Diversions 
 
 of the Echo Club: Burlesques of 
 Modern Writers. Post Svo, cl. limp, 2s. 
 
 T ay I oyTD7\^7E;~FTL S. )rWor ks 
 
 by. Crown Svo. cloth ex., 7s. 6d. each. 
 
 The Sagacity and Morality of 
 Plants: A Sketch of tlie Life and 
 ("onduct of the Vegetable Kingdom. 
 Coloured Frontis. and loolllusts. 
 
 Our Common British Fossils, and 
 Where to Find Them: A Handbook 
 lo; Students. With 331 Illustrations. 
 
 The Playtime Naturalist. With 366 
 Illustrations. Crown Svo, cl. ex., 53. 
 
 Taylor's (Tom) Historical 
 
 Dramas: "Clancarty," "Jeanne 
 Dare," " 'Twixt Axe and Crown,'' " The 
 Fool's Revenge," " Arkwright's Wife," 
 "Anne Boleyn,'' " Plot and Passion.'* 
 One Vol., cr. Svo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 *** The Plays may also be had sepa- 
 rately, at Is. each. 
 
 Tennyson (Lord) : A "Biogra- 
 phical Sketch. By H. J. Jennings. 
 With a Photograph-Portrait. Crown 
 Svo, cloth extra, 6b. 
 
 Thackerayana: Notes and Anec- 
 dotes. Illustrated by Hundreds of 
 Sketches by William Makepeace 
 Thackeray, depicting Humorous 
 Incidents in his School-life, and 
 Favourite Characters in the books of 
 his every-day reading-. With Coloured 
 Frontispiece. Cr. Svo, cl. extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 Thames. — A New Pictorial His- 
 tory oi the Thames. By A. S. Krausse. 
 With 340 Illustrations. Post Svo, pic- 
 ture cover. Is. ; cloth, Is. 6d. 
 
 Thomas (Bertha), Novels by: 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each ; 
 post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 Cressida. | Proud Maisie. 
 
 The Violin-Player. 
 
 Thomas (M.).— A Fight tor Life : 
 
 A Novel. By W. Mov Thoma?. Post 
 Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 Thomson's Seasonsand CastTe 
 
 of Indolence. With Introduction 
 by Allan Cunningham, and over 50 
 Illustrations on Steel and Wood, 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 Thornbury (Walter),Works by; 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 7s. Gd. each. 
 
 Haunted London. Edited by Ed- 
 ward Walford, M.A. With Illus- 
 trations by F. W. F'airholt, F.S.A. 
 
 The Life and Correspondence of 
 J. M. W. Turner. Founded upon 
 Letters and Papers furnished by his 
 Friends and fellow Academicians. 
 With numerous Illusts. in Colours. 
 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, 23. each. 
 
 Old Stories Re-told. 
 
 Tales for the M arines. 
 
 Timbs (John), Works by: 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. each. 
 
 The History of Clubs and Club Life 
 In London. With Anecdotes of its 
 Famous Coffee-houses, Hostelries, 
 and Taverns. With many Illusts. 
 
 English Eccentrics and Eccen- 
 tricities: Stories of Wealth and 
 Fashion, Delusions, Impostures, and 
 Fanatic Missions, Strange Sights 
 and Sporting Scenes, Eccentric 
 Artists, Theatrical Folk, Men of 
 Letters, &c. With nearly 50 Illusts.
 
 CHATTO S- W INDUS. PICCADILLY. 
 
 25 
 
 Trollope (Anthony), Novels by: I 
 
 Crown 3vo, clolh extra, 3s. 6d. each; | 
 post 3vo, illustrated boards, 2s. sach. 
 
 The Way We Live Now. \ 
 
 Kept in the Oark. 
 
 Fr-au Frohmann. 1 Maflon Fay, 
 
 Mr. Scarborough's ramily. 
 
 The Land Leaguers. 
 
 Post 3vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 3ach. 
 The oolden Lion of Granpere. 
 JohnCaldigate. | American Senator* 
 
 ■^ rol I ope( Frances E.), Novels by 
 
 Crown 3vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. Bach; 
 post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. sach. 
 
 Like Ships upon the Sea. 
 
 Mabel's Progress, i Anne Furness. 
 
 trollope(T. A.).— Diamond Cut 
 
 Diamond, and other Stories. By 
 v. Adoli'hus Troi,(,ope. Post 8vo, 
 illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 Trowbridge.— Farneirs Folly: 
 
 A Novel. By J. T. Trowisridge. Post 
 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s 
 
 Tytler (C. C. Fraser-). — Mis- 
 tress Judith: A Novel. By C. C. 
 Fi!ASKR-TvTLKR. Cr. Svo, clotli e.\tra, 
 3s. 3d. ; post Svo, iUust. boards, 2s. 
 
 Tytler (Sarah), Novels by: 
 
 Crown 8v3, cloth extra, 3s. Sd. each ; 
 pist Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 What She Came Through. 
 The Bride's Pass. | Noblesse Oblige. 
 Saint Mungo's City, | Lady Bell. 
 Beauty and the Beast. 
 Buried Diamonds. 
 The Blac kbal l 3hosts. 
 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 Citoyenne .Jacqueline. 
 Disappeared, i TheHuguenotFaniily 
 
 Van Laun.— History of French 
 
 Literature. By H. Van Laun. Three 
 Vols., demy 3vo, cl. bds., 7s. 6d. eacli. 
 
 Villari.— A Double Bond. By L. 
 
 ViLLARi. Fcap. 8vo, picture sover. Is. 
 
 Walford (Edw., M.A.),Works by : 
 
 Watford's County Families of the 
 United Kingdom (1890). Containin,; 
 Notices oi the Descent, Birth, Mar- 
 riage, Education, &c., ot more than 
 12,000 distinguished Heads ol Fami- 
 lies, their Heirs Apparent or Pre- 
 sumptive, the Ofhces they hold, their 
 Addresses, Clubs, &c. Thirtieth 
 Annual Ed. Royal bvo, cl. gilt, 50s. 
 
 Walford's Shilling Peerage (1890). 
 Containing an Alphabetical List of 
 the House ol Lords, Scotch and 
 I'ish Peers, &c. samo, cloth^ Is. 
 
 Walford (Edward), continued — 
 
 Walford's Shilling Baronetage (1890), 
 Coiitaininn List ot the Baronets of the 
 United Kingdom, Biographical Not- 
 ices, Addresses, die. 32mo, clotli. Is. 
 
 Walford's Shilling Knightage (1890). 
 Coiilainin;^ 3n Alphabetical List of 
 tlie KniKhts ot the United Kingdom, 
 short Biographical Notices, Dates 01 
 Creation, .Addresses, &c. 32uio,cl.,lS. 
 
 Walfoi'd's Shilling House of Com- 
 mons (1890). Containing List of all 
 Members ot Parliament, their .Ad- 
 dresses, Clubs, &c. 32mo, cloth, Is, 
 
 Walford's Complete Peerage, Baron- 
 etage, Knightage, and House of 
 Commons (1890). Royal 32nio, 
 cloth sxtra, g.i\t edges, 5s. 
 
 Walford's Windsor Peerage, Baron- 
 etage, and Knightage (1890). 
 Cr. Hvo, clodi^xtra,_12s. 6d. 
 
 William Pitt: A Biography. Post Svo, 
 cloth extra, 5s. 
 
 Tales of our Great Families. A New 
 and Revised Edition. Crown Svo, 
 cloth extra, 3s. 6d. [Shortly. 
 
 Haunted London. By'WALTERTHORN- 
 BURY. Edited by Edward Walford, 
 M..\. Illusts. by F. W, Fairholt, 
 F. S^^_Cr^ 3vo, cloth extra. 78. Sd. 
 
 Walton and Cotton'sCom pi eta 
 
 Angler; or. The Contemplative Man's 
 Recreation. By Izaak Walton; and In- 
 structions how to Angle for a Trout or 
 Grayling in a clear Stream, by Charles 
 Cotton. With Memoirs and Notes by 
 Sir Harris Nicolas, and 5i Illusts. 
 Crown Svo, cloth antique, 7s. 6d. 
 
 Walt Whitman, Poe^ns by. 
 
 Selected and Edited, with an Intro- 
 duction, by William M. Rossetti. A 
 New Edition, with a Steel Plate Por- 
 trait. Crown 8vo, printed on hand- 
 made paper and bound in buckram, 6s. 
 
 Wanderer's Library, The: 
 
 Crown Svo , cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each. 
 Wanderings in Patagonia; or, Life 
 
 among the Ostrich-Hunters. By 
 
 Julius Beerbohm. Illustrated. 
 Camp Notes: Stories of S/ort and 
 
 Adventure in Asia, Africa, and 
 
 America. By Frederick Boyle. 
 Savage Life. By Frederick Boyle, 
 Merrie England In the Qlden Time, 
 
 By George Daniel. With lilustra* 
 
 tions by Robt. Cruikshank, 
 Circus Life and Circus Celebrities. 
 
 By Thomas Frost. 
 The Lives of the Conjurers. By 
 
 Thomas Frost. 
 The Old Showmen and the Old 
 
 Londcn Fairs. By Thomas Frost, 
 Low-Life Deeps. An Account of tho 
 
 Strange Fish to be found there. By 
 
 JAMES Greenwood.
 
 26 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 Wanderer's Library, continued— 
 
 The Wilds of London. By James 
 Greenwood. 
 
 Tunis: The Land and the People. 
 By the Chevalier de Hesse-War- 
 TEGG. With 22 Illustrations. 
 
 The Life and Adventures of a Cheap 
 Jack. Edited by Charles Hindlev. 
 
 The World Behind the Scenes By 
 Percy Fitzgerald. 
 
 Tavern Anecdotes and Sayings. 
 By Charles Hindley. With Illusts. 
 
 The Genial Showman : Life and Ad- 
 ventures of Artemus Ward. ByE.P. 
 HiNGSTON. With a Frontispiece. 
 
 The Stcy of the London Parka. 
 By Jacob Larwood. With Illusts. 
 
 London Characters. By Henry May- 
 hew. Illustrated. 
 
 Seven Generations of Executioners: 
 Memoirs of the Sanson Family (16B8 
 to 1847). Edited by Henry Sanson. 
 
 Summer Cruising in the South 
 Seas. By C. Warren Stoddard. 
 Illustrated by Wallis Mackay. 
 
 Warner. — A Roundabout Jour- 
 ney. By Charles Dudley Warner, 
 Author of " My Summer in a Garden." 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 Warrants, &c. : — 
 Warrant to Execute Charles 1. An 
 
 exact Facsimile, with the Fifty-nine 
 Signatures, and corresponding Seals, 
 Carefully printed on paper to imitate 
 the Original, 22 in. Dy 14 in. Price 23. 
 
 Warrant to Execute Mary Queen of 
 Scots. An exact Facsimile, includ- 
 ing the Signature of Queen Eliza- 
 beth, and a Facsimile of the Great 
 Seal. Beautifully printed on paper 
 to imitate the Original MS. Price 2s. 
 
 Magna Charta. An exact Facsimile 
 ot the Original Document in the 
 British Museum, printed on line 
 plate paper, nearly 3 feet long by 2 
 feet wide, with the Arms and Seals 
 emblazoned in Gold and Colours. 5s. 
 
 The Roll of Battle Abbey; or, A List 
 ot the Principal Warriors who came 
 over from Normandy with William 
 the Conqueror, and Settled in this 
 Country, a.d. 1066-7. With the 
 principal Arms emblazoned in Gold 
 an d Colours. Price 53. 
 
 Weather, How to Foretell the, 
 
 with the Pocket Spectroscope By 
 F. W. Cory, M.R.C.S. Eng., F.R.Met. 
 Soc, &o. With 10 Illustrations. Crown 
 8vo, Is. ; cloth, Is. 6d. 
 
 WestrotDp. — Handbook of Pot- 
 
 tery and Porcelain ; or. History of 
 those Arts from the Earliest Period. 
 By IIouDKR M. Westropp. With nu- 
 merous Illustrations, and a List 01 
 Marks, Crown 8vO; cloth limp, 4s, 6ftj 
 
 Whist. — How to Play Solo 
 
 Whist. With Specimen Hands in red 
 and black, and Revised Code of Laws. 
 By Absaham S. Wilks and Charles F. 
 Pardon. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. 
 
 Whistler's (Mr.) Ten o'cTock. 
 
 Crown 8vo, hand-made paper. Is. 
 
 Williams (W. MattieuTF.R.A.S.), 
 
 V/orks by : 
 Science In Short Chapters. Crown 
 
 8vo, cloth extra, 73. 6d. 
 A Simple Treatise on Heat. With 
 Illusts. Crown 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. 
 The Chemistry of Cookery. Crown 
 
 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 Wilson (Dr. Andrew, F.R.S.E.), 
 
 Works by: 
 
 Chapters on Evolution: A Popular 
 History of Darwinian and Allied 
 Theories of Development. 3rd Ed. 
 With 259 Illusts. Cr.8vo,cl. ex.,73.6d. 
 
 Leaves from a Naturalist's Note- 
 book. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Leisure-Time Studies, chiefly Bio- 
 logical. Third Edit. With numerous 
 Illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cl. ex., 6s. 
 
 Studies in Life and Sense. With 
 numerous Illusts. Cr. Svo, cl. ex., 63, 
 
 Common Accidents, and How to 
 Treat them. By Dr. Andrew Wil- 
 son and others. With numerous Il- 
 lusts. Cr. 8vo, Is. ; cl. limp. Is. 6d. 
 
 Winter~(J."SO, StorJesHbyl ' 
 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 C avalry Life. | Regimental Legends. 
 
 Wood. — Sabina: A Novel. By 
 Lady Wood. Post Svo, illust. bds., 2s. 
 
 Wood(H.F.), Detective Stories 
 
 by: 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 6s. each ; post 
 
 Svo, illustrated boards, 23. each. 
 The Passenger from Scotland Yard. 
 The Englishman of the R ue Cain. 
 
 Woolley. — Rachel Armstrong; 
 
 or. Love and Theology. By Celia 
 Parker Woolley. Post Svo, iUus- 
 trated boards, 2s. ; cloth, 2s. 61. 
 
 Wright (Thomas), Works by: 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. each. 
 
 Caricature History of the Georges 
 (The House of Hanover.) With 400 
 Pictures, Caricatures, Squibs, Broad- 
 sides, Window Pictures, &c. 
 
 History of Caricature and of the 
 Grotesque in Art, Literature, 
 Sculpture, and Painting. Profusely 
 Illustrated by F. W. Fairh olt.F.S.A. 
 
 Yates (Edmund), Novels by: 
 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, 23. each, 
 Land at Last. | The Foi'lprn Ho.Qe> 
 Castaway.
 
 CHATTO & W INDUS, PICCADILLY, 
 
 27 
 
 THE PICCAD 
 Popular Stories by the Best Authors, 
 crown 8vo, cloth 
 BY GRANT ALLEN. 
 
 Phllistla. I This Mortal Coll. 
 
 The Devil's Die. | The Tents of Shem. 
 BY REV. S. BARING GOULD. 
 
 Red Spider. | Eve. 
 
 BY WALTER BESANT & J. RICE. 
 
 ReadyMoney IVlortlboy. 
 
 My Little Girl. 
 
 The Case of Mr. Lucraft. 
 
 This Son of Vulcan. 
 
 With Harp and Crown. 
 
 The Golden Butterfly. 
 
 By Celia's Arbour. 
 
 The Monks of Thelema. 
 
 'Twas In Trafalgar's Bay, 
 
 The Seamy Side. 
 
 The Ten Years' Tenant. 
 
 The Chaplain of the Fleet. 
 
 BY WALTER BESANT. 
 
 All Sorts and Conditions of Men. 
 
 The Captains' Room. 
 
 All In a Garden Fair. 
 
 Dorothy Forster. | Uncle Jack. 
 
 Children of Gjbeon. 
 
 The World Went Very Well Then. 
 
 Herr Paulus. 
 
 For Faith and Freedom. 
 
 BY ROBERT BUCHANAN, 
 
 A Child of Nature. 
 
 God and the Man. 
 
 The Shadow of the Sword. 
 
 The Martyrdom of Madeline. 
 
 Love Me for Ever. 
 
 Annan V\^ater. I The Now Abelard 
 
 Matt. I Foxglove Manor. 
 
 The Master of the Mine. 
 
 The Heir of LInne. 
 
 BY HALL CAINE. 
 
 The Shadow of a Crime. 
 
 A Son of Hagar. | The Deemster. 
 BY MRS. H. LOVETT CAMERON. 
 
 Juliet's Guardian. | Deceivers Ever. 
 BY MORTIMER COLLINS. 
 
 Sweet Anne Page. | Transmigration. 
 
 From Midnight to Midnight. 
 
 MORTIMER & FRANCES COLLINS. 
 
 Blacksmith and Scholar. 
 
 The Village Comedy, 
 
 You Play me False. 
 
 BY WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Antonina. | Basil. | The Law and the 
 
 Hide and Seek. 
 The Dead Secret 
 Queen of Hearts. 
 }j\y rvliscellanies. 
 Woman in White. 
 The Moonstone. 
 Man and Wife. 
 Poor Miss Finch. 
 Miss or Mrs. ? 
 New Magd,alen. 
 The Frozen Deep. 
 
 Lady. 
 Haunted Hotel. 
 The Fallen Leaves 
 Jezebel 'sDaughter 
 The Black Robe. 
 Heart and Science 
 " I Say No." 
 Little Novels. 
 The Evil Genius. 
 Tho Legacy of 
 
 Cain. 
 
 TheTwo Destinies A Rogue's Life. 
 
 ILLY NOVELS. 
 
 Library Editions, many Illustrated, 
 extra, 33. Gd. each. 
 
 BY BUTTON COOK, 
 Paul Foster's Daughter. 
 
 BY WILLIAM CYPLES, 
 Hearts of Gold. 
 
 BY ALPHONSE DAUDET. 
 The Evangelist; or, Port Salvation, 
 
 BY JAMES DE MILLE. 
 A Castle in Spain, 
 
 BY J. LEITH DERWENT, 
 Our Lady of Tears. 
 Circe's Lovers. 
 
 BY M. BETHAM-EDWARDS. 
 Felicia. 
 
 BY MRS. ANNIE ^DWARDES. 
 Archie Lovell. 
 
 BY PERCY FITZGERALD. 
 Fatal Zero. 
 
 BY R. E. FRANCILLON. 
 Queen Cophetua. I A Real Queen. 
 One by One. | King or Knave P 
 
 Prejaced by Sir BARTLE FRERE. 
 Pandurang Harl. 
 
 BY EDWARD GARRETT. 
 The Capel Girls. 
 
 BY CHARLES GIBBON. 
 Robin Gray. 
 In Honour Bound. 
 Queen of the Meadow. 
 The Flower of the Forest. 
 A Heart's Problem. 
 The Braes of Yarrow. 
 The Golden Shaft. 
 Of High Degree. 
 Loving a Dream. 
 
 BY JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
 Garth. 
 
 Ellice Quentln. 
 Sebastian Strome. 
 Dust. 
 
 Fortune's Fool. 
 Beatrix Randolph. 
 David Poindexter's Disappsaranoe. 
 The Spectre of tho Camera. 
 
 BY SIR A. HELPS. 
 Ivan de Biron. * 
 
 BY ISAAC HENDERSON. 
 Agatha Page. 
 
 BY MRS. ALFRED HUNT, 
 Thornicroft's Model. 
 The Leaden Casket. 
 Self Condemned. 
 That other Person. 
 
 BY JEAN INGELOW. 
 Fated to be Free,
 
 28 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 Piccadilly Novels, continued — 
 
 BY R. ASHE KING. 
 A Drawn Game. 
 "The Wearing of the Green." 
 
 BY HENRY KINGSLEY. 
 Number Seventeen. 
 
 BY E. LYNN LINTON, 
 Patricia Kemball. 
 The Atonement of Leam Dundas. 
 The World Well Lost. 
 Under which Lord P 
 " My Love !" 
 lone. 
 Paston Carew. 
 
 BY HENRY W. LUCY, 
 Gideon Fleyce. 
 
 BY JUSTIN McCarthy. 
 
 Th6 Waterdale Neighbours. 
 A Fair Saxon. 
 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 Miss Misanthrope. 
 Donna Quixote. 
 The Comet of a Season. 
 Maid of Athens. 
 Camiola. 
 
 BY AGNES MACDONELL, 
 Quaker Cousins. 
 
 BY FLORENCE MARRY AT. 
 Open ! Sesame! 
 
 BY D. CHRISTIE MURRAY. 
 Life's Atonement. I Coals of Fire. 
 Joseph's Coat. Val Stranga 
 
 A Model Father. 1 Hearts. 
 By the Gate of the Sea. 
 A Bit of Human Nature. 
 First Person Singular 
 Cynic Fortune. 
 The Way of the World. 
 
 BY MRS. OLIPHANT. 
 Whiteladles. 
 
 BY QUID A. 
 Held In Bondage. TwoLlttleWooden 
 Strathmore. Shoes. 
 
 Chandos. In a Winter City. 
 
 Under Two Flags. Ariadne. 
 Idalia. Friendship. 
 
 Cecil Castle- Moths. 
 
 maine'sGage. Piplstrello. 
 Tricotrln. A Village Com- 
 
 Puck. mune. 
 
 Folia Farln^. Bimbi. 
 
 ADogof FlanJcT^ Wanda. 
 Pascarei. Frescoes. 
 
 Signa. In Maremma 
 
 Princess NapraM- Othmar. 
 
 Ine. iGullderoy. 
 
 BY MARGARET A. PAUL. 
 Qentl« and Simple. 
 
 Piccadilly Novels, centimied— 
 BY JAMES PAYN. 
 
 Lost Sir Massing- 
 
 berd. 
 Walter's Word. 
 Less Black than 
 
 We're Painted 
 By Proxy. 
 High Spirits. 
 Under One Roof. 
 A Confidential 
 
 Agent. 
 From Exile. 
 
 A Grape from a 
 Thorn. 
 
 Some Private 
 Vj^ws. 
 
 The'Canon'sWard. 
 
 Glowworm Tales. 
 
 Talk of the Town. 
 
 In Peril and Pri- 
 vation. 
 
 Holiday Tasks. 
 
 The Mystery of 
 Mirbridge. 
 
 BY E. C. PRICE. 
 Vaientina. I The Foreigners. 
 
 Mrs. Lancaster's Rival. 
 
 BY CHARLES READE. 
 It is Never Too Late to Mend. 
 Hard Cash. | Peg Wofflngton. 
 
 Christie Johnstone. 
 Griffith Gaunt. | Foul Play. 
 The Double Marriage. 
 Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 
 The Cloister and the Hearth. 
 The Course of True Love 
 The Autobiography of a Thief. 
 Put Yourself in His Place. 
 A Terrible Temptation 
 The Wandering IHeir. j A Simpleton. 
 A WomanHater. | Readlana. 
 
 Singleheart and Doubleface. 
 The Jilt. 
 
 Good Stories of Men and othai 
 Animals. 
 
 BY MRS. J. H. RIDDELL, 
 Her Mother's Darling. 
 Prince of Wales's GardenParty. 
 Vv'eird Stories. 
 
 BY F. W. ROBINSON. 
 Women are Strange. 
 The Hands of Justice. 
 
 BY JOHN SAUNDERS. 
 Bound to the Wheel. 
 Guy Waterman. | Two Drearrers 
 The Lion in the Path. 
 
 BY KATHARINE SAUNDERS. 
 Marga^-et and Elizabeth. 
 Gideon s Rock. i Heart Salvage. 
 The High Mills. | Sebastian. 
 
 BY T. W. SPEIGHT. 
 The Mysteries of Heron Dyke. 
 
 BY R. A. STERNDALB. 
 The Afghan Knife. 
 
 BY BERTHA THOMAS. 
 Proud Malsie. | Cressida. j 
 The Violin-Player. 
 
 BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 The Way we Live Now. 
 Frau Frohmann. i Marlon Fay. 
 Kept in the Dark. 
 Mr. Scarborough's Family 
 The Land Leaguers.
 
 CHATTO &• WIN BUS, PICCADILLY. 
 
 29 
 
 Piccadilly Novels, continued— 
 BY FRANCES E. TROLLOPE. 
 
 Like Ships upon the Sea. 
 
 Anne Furness. | Mabel's Pi-ogress. 
 BY IVAN TURGENIEFF, &c. 
 
 Stories from Foreign Novelists. 
 BY C. C. FRASER-TYTLER. 
 
 Mistress Judith. 
 
 Piccadilly Novels, continued — 
 BY SARAH TYTLER. 
 What She Came Through. 
 The Bride's Pass. | Saint Mungo's City 
 Beauty and the Beast. 
 Noblesse Oblige. 
 
 Lady Bell. | Buried Diamonds. 
 
 The Blackhall Ghosts. 
 
 CHEAP EDITIONS OF 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated 
 BY EDMOND ABOUT. 
 The Fellah. 
 
 BY HAMILTON AIDE. 
 C&rr of Carrlyon. | Confidences. 
 
 By MRS. ALEXANDER. 
 Maid, Wife, or Widow P 
 Valerie's Fate. 
 
 BY GRANT ALLEN. 
 Strange Stories. 
 Philistia. I The Devil's Die. 
 
 Babylon. | This Mortal Coil. 
 
 In all Shades. 
 The Beckoning Hand. 
 For Maimie's Sake. 
 
 BY REV. S. BARING GOULD. 
 Red Spider. | Eve. 
 
 BY SHELSLEY BEAUCHAMP. 
 Grantley Grange. 
 
 BY WALTER BESANT & J. RICE. 
 Ready-Money Mortiboy. 
 With Harp and Crown. 
 This Son of Vulcan. | My Little Girl. 
 The Case of Mr. Lucraft. 
 The Golden Butterfly. 
 By Celia's Arbour 
 The Monks of Thelema. 
 'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay. 
 The Seamy Side. 
 The Ten Years' Tenant. 
 The Chaplain of the Fleet. 
 
 BY WALTER BESANT. 
 AM Sorts and Conditions of Men. 
 The Captains' Room. 
 All in a Garden Fair. 
 Dorothy Forster. 
 Uncle Jack. 
 Children of Gibeon. 
 The World Went Very Well Then. 
 Herr Paulus. 
 
 BY FREDERICK BOYLE. 
 Camp Notes. | Savage Life. 
 Chronicles of No-man's Land. 
 
 BY BRET HARTE. 
 An Heiress of Red Dog. 
 The Luck of Roaring Camp. 
 Callfornian Stories. 
 Gabriel Conroy. | Flip. 
 
 Maruja. | A Phyllis of the Sierras- 
 
 BY HAROLD BRYDGES. 
 Uncle Sam at Home. 
 
 POPULAR NOVELS. 
 
 boards, 2s. each. 
 
 BY ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 The Shadow of i The Martyrdom 
 
 the Sword 
 A Child of Nature. 
 God and the Man. 
 Love Me for Ever. 
 Foxglove Manor. 
 
 of Madeline. 
 Annan Water. 
 The New Abelard. 
 Matt. 
 The Heirof Linno 
 
 The Master of the Mine. 
 
 BY HALL CAINE. 
 The Shadow of a Crime. 
 A Son of Hagar. | The Deemster 
 
 BY COMMANDER CAMERON. 
 The Cruise of the " Black Prince." 
 
 BY MRS. LOVETT CAMERON, 
 Deceivers Ever. | Juliet's Guardian. 
 
 BY MRS. ARCHER CLIVE. 
 Paul Ferroll. 
 Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife. 
 
 BY M ACL A REN COBBAN. 
 The Cure of Souls. 
 
 BY C. ALLSTON COLLINS. 
 The Bar Sinister. 
 
 BY WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 My Miscellanies. 
 Woman in White. 
 The i/loonstone. 
 Man and Wife 
 Poor Miss Finch 
 The Fallen Leaves 
 Jezebel's Daughter 
 The Black Robe. 
 Heart and Science 
 "I Say No." 
 The Evil Genius. 
 Little Novels. 
 
 Antonina. 
 Basil. 
 
 Hide and Seek. 
 The Dead Secret. 
 Queen of Hearts. 
 Miss or Mrs. P 
 New Magdalen. 
 The Frozen Deep. 
 The Law and the 
 
 Lady. 
 TheTwo Destinies 
 Haunted Hotel. 
 A Rogue's Life. I 
 
 BY MORTIMER COLLINS. 
 Sweet Anne Page. I From Midnight to 
 Transmigration. | Midnight. 
 A Fight with Fortune. 
 MORTIMER & FRANCES COLLINS. 
 Sweet and Twenty. | Frances. 
 Blacksmith and Scholar. 
 The Village Comedy. 
 You Play me False. 
 
 BY M. J. COLQUHOUN. 
 Every Inch a Soldier. 
 
 BY DUTTON COOK. 
 Leo. 1 Paul Foster's Daughter-
 
 3G 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BV 
 
 Cheap Popular Novels, continued — 
 
 BY C. EGBERT CRADDOCK. 
 The Prophet of the Great Smoky 
 Mountains. 
 
 BY WILLIAM CYPLES. 
 Hearts of Gold. 
 
 BY ALPHONSE DAUDET. 
 The Evangelist; or, Port Salvation. 
 
 BY JAMES DE MILLS. 
 A Castle in Spain 
 
 BY J. LEITH DERWENT. 
 Our Lady of Tears. | Circe's Lovers. 
 
 .By CHARLES DICKENS. 
 Sketches by Boz. I Oliver Twist. 
 Pickwick Papers. | Nicholas Nickleby 
 
 BY DICK DONOVAN. 
 The Man-Hunter. 
 Caught at Last ! 
 Tracked and Taken. 
 
 BY MRS. ANNIE EDWARDES. 
 A Point of Honour. 1 Archie Lovell. 
 
 BY M. BETHAM-EDWARDS. 
 Felicia. 
 
 BY EDWARD EGGLESTON. 
 Roxy. 
 
 BY PERCY FITZGERALD. 
 Bella Donna. I Never Forgotten, 
 The Second Mrs. Tiilotson. 
 Polly. I Fatal Zero- 
 
 Seventy-five Brooke Street. 
 The Lady of Brantome. 
 
 BY PERCY FITZGERALD, &c. 
 Strange Secrets. 
 
 BY ALBANY DE FONBLANQVE. 
 Filthy Lucre. 
 
 BY R. E. FRANCILLON. 
 Olympia. I Queen Cophetua, 
 
 One by One. King or Knave. 
 
 A Real Queen. I Romances of Law. 
 
 BY HAROLD FREDERIC. 
 Seth's Brother's Wife. 
 
 BY HAIN FRISWELL. 
 One of Two. 
 
 BY EDWARD GARRETT, 
 The Capel Girls. . 
 
 BY CHARLES GIBBON. 
 
 Robin Gray. 
 
 For Lack of Gold. 
 
 What will the 
 World Say ? 
 
 In Love and War. 
 
 For the King. 
 
 In PasturcsGreen 
 
 Queen of the Mea- 
 dow. 
 
 A Heart's Problem 
 
 The Dead Heart. 
 
 BY WILLIAM GILBERT. 
 
 Dr Austin's Guests. | James Duk 
 
 The Wizard of the Mountain. 
 BY JOHN HABBERTON. 
 
 Bruetoh's BayoU. | Country Luck. 
 BY 4NDJ^EW HALLWAY, 
 
 Every Day Papers. 
 
 In Honour Bound 
 The Flower of the 
 
 Forest. 
 Braes of Yarrow. 
 The Golden Shaft. 
 Of High Degree. 
 Mead and Stream. 
 Loving a Dream. 
 A Hard Knot. 
 Heart's Delight. 
 Blood-Money. 
 
 Cheap Popular Novels, continued— 
 
 BY LADY DUFFUS HARDY. 
 Paul Wynter's Sacrifice. 
 
 BY THOMAS HARDY. 
 Under the Greenwood Tree. 
 
 BY J. BERWICK HARWOOD, 
 The Tenth Earl. 
 
 BY JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
 
 Sebastian Stroma 
 
 Dust. 
 
 Beatrix Randolph] 
 
 Love— or a Name. 
 
 Garth 
 
 ElliceQuentin. 
 
 Fortune's Fool 
 
 Miss Cadogna. 
 
 David Poindexter's Disappearance. 
 
 The Spectre of the Camera. 
 
 BY SIR ARTHUR HELPS. 
 Ivan de Biron. 
 
 BY MRS. CASHEL HOEY. 
 The Lover's Creed. 
 
 BY MRS. GEORGE HOOPER, 
 The House of Raby. 
 
 BY TIG HE HOPKINS. 
 'Twixt Love and Duty. 
 
 BY MRS. ALFRED HUNT. 
 Thornicroft's Model. 
 The Leaden Casket. 
 Self Condemned. | That other Person 
 
 BY JEAN INGELOW. 
 Fated to be Free. 
 
 BY HARRIETT JAY. 
 The Dark Colleen. 
 The Queen of Connaught. 
 
 BY MARK KERSHAW. 
 Colonial Facts and Fictions. 
 BY R. ASHE KING. 
 A Drawn Game. 
 "The Wearing of the Green." 
 
 BY HENRY KINGSLEY, 
 Oakshott Castle 
 
 BY JOHN LEYS. 
 The Lindsays. 
 
 BY MARY LINSKILL. 
 In Exchange for a Soul. 
 
 BY E. LYNN LINTON. 
 Patricia Kemball. 
 The Atonement of Learn Dundas. 
 The World Well Lost. 
 Under which Lord ? | Paston Carew* 
 With a Silken Thread. 
 The Rebel of the Family. 
 "My Love." I lone. 
 
 BY HENRY W. LUCY, 
 Gideon Floyce. 
 
 BY JUSTIN McCarthy. 
 
 DearLadyDlsdaIn 
 The Waterdalo 
 
 Neighbours. 
 My Enemy's 
 
 Daughter. 
 A Fair Saxon. 
 Linley Rbchford. 
 
 MissMisanthropa 
 Donna Quixote. 
 The Comet of a 
 
 Season. 
 iy|aid of Athens. 
 Camiola.
 
 CHATTO &- IV INDUS, PICCADILLY. 
 
 31 
 
 Cheap Popular Novels, continued— 
 
 BY AGNES MACDONELL. 
 Quaker* Cousins. 
 
 BY KATHARINE S. MACQUOID. 
 The Evil Eye. | Lost Rose. 
 
 BY \V. H. MALLOCK. 
 The New Republic. 
 
 BY FLORENCE MARRY AT. 
 Open! Sesame. 1 Fighting the Air, 
 A Harvest of Wild Written in FIra. 
 Oats. I 
 
 BY ;}. MASTERMAN. 
 Half-a-dozen Daughters. 
 
 BY BRANDER MATTHEWS. 
 A Secret of the Sea. 
 
 BY JEAN MIDDLEMASS. 
 Touch and Go. | IVlr. Dorilllon. 
 
 BY MRS. MOLESWORTH. 
 Hathercourt Rectory. 
 
 BY J. E. MVDDOCK 
 Stories Weird and Wonderfi I. 
 
 BY D. CHRISTIE MURRAY. 
 ALife'sAtonement Hearts. 
 A Model Father. Way of the World. 
 Joseph's Coat. A Bit of Human 
 
 Coals of Fire. Nature 
 
 By theGateof the First Person Sin- 
 Val Strange [Sea. gular. 
 Old Blazer's Hero. Cynic Fortune. 
 One Traveller Returns. 
 
 BY HENRY MURRAY. 
 A Game of Bluff. 
 
 BY ALICE O'HANLON. 
 The Unforeseen. | Chance? or Fate? 
 
 BY GEORGES OHNET. 
 Doctor Rameau. 
 
 BY MRS. OLIPHANT. 
 Whiteladies. | The Primrose Path. 
 The Greatest Heiress In England. 
 BY MRS. ROBERT O'REILLY. 
 Phoebe's Fortunes. 
 
 BY OUIDA. 
 Held In Bondage. TwoLIttleWooden 
 
 Strathmore. 
 
 Chandos. 
 
 Under Two Flags. 
 
 Idalia. 
 
 Cecil Castle- 
 
 maine's Gage. 
 Tricotrin | Puck. 
 Folle Farlne. 
 A Dog of Flanders. 
 Pascarel. 
 Signa. [ine. 
 
 Princess Naprax- 
 In a Winter City. 
 
 BY MARGARET AGNES PAUL. 
 Gentle and Simple. 
 
 BY JAMES PAYN. 
 Lost Sir Massing- ' A County Family. 
 
 berd. , At Her Mercy. 
 
 APerfectTreasure | A Woman's Ven- 
 Bentlnck's Tutor. geance. 
 Murphy's Master. iQeQil's Tryst. 
 
 Shoes. 
 
 Ariadne. 
 
 Friendship. 
 
 Moths. 
 
 Pipistrello. 
 
 A Village Com- 
 mune. 
 
 Bimbl. I Wanda. 
 
 Frescoes. 
 
 In Maremma. 
 
 Othmar. 
 
 Ouidals Wisdom, 
 Wit, and Pathos. 
 
 Cheap Popular Novels, continued— 
 
 Clyffards of Clyffe 
 
 The Family Scape- 
 grace. 
 
 Foster Brothers. 
 
 Found Dead. 
 
 Best of Husbands. 
 
 Walter's Word. 
 
 Halves. 
 
 Fallen Fortunes. 
 
 What He Cost Her 
 
 Humorous Stories 
 
 Gwendoline's Har- 
 vest. 
 
 £200 Reward. 
 
 Like Father, Like 
 Son. 
 
 Marine Residence. 
 
 Married Beneath 
 Him. 
 
 Not Wooed, but 
 Won. 
 
 Mirk Abbey. 
 Less Black than 
 
 We're Painted. 
 By Proxy. 
 Under One Roof. 
 High Spirits. 
 Carlyon's Year. 
 A Confidential 
 
 Agent. 
 Some Private 
 
 Views. 
 From Exile. 
 A Grape from a 
 
 Thorn. 
 For Cash Only. 
 Kit : A Memory. 
 The Canon's Ward 
 Talk of the Town. 
 Holiday Tasks. 
 Glow-worm Tales 
 The Mystery of Mlrbridge. 
 BY C. L. PIRKIS, 
 Lady Lovelace. 
 
 BY EDGAR A. POE. 
 The Mystery of Marie Roget. 
 
 BY E. C. PRICE. 
 Valentlna. | The Foreigners 
 
 Mrs. Lancaster's Rival. 
 Gerald. 
 
 BY CHARLES READS. 
 It Is Never Too Late to Mend. 
 Hard Cash. | Peg Wofflngton. 
 
 Christie Johnstone. 
 Griffith Gaunt. 
 Put Yourself in His Place. 
 The Double Marriage. 
 Love Me Little, Love Me Long, 
 Foul Play. 
 
 The Cloister and the Hearth. 
 The Course of True Love. 
 Autobiography of a Thief. 
 A Terrible Temptation. 
 The Wandering Heir. 
 A Simpleton. I A Woman-Hatep 
 
 Readiana. | The Jilt. 
 
 Singleheart and Doubleface. 
 Good Stories of Men and other 
 Animals. 
 
 B Y MRS. 7. H. RIDDELL, 
 Her Mother's Darling. 
 Prince of Wales's Garden Party. 
 Weird Stories. | Fairy Water. 
 The Uninhabited House. 
 The Mystery in Palace Gardens, 
 
 BY F. W. ROBINSON 
 Women are Strange. 
 The Hands of Justice. 
 
 BY JAMES RUNCIMAN. 
 Skippers and Shellbacks. 
 Grace Balmalgn's Sweetheart. 
 
 §ehQ9l§ an?) §gho!ars.
 
 32_^ IJUUK5 PUBLISHED BY CHATTO S^ WINDUS. 
 
 Cheap Popular Novels, continued— 
 
 BY IF. CLARK RUSSELL. 
 Round the Galley Fire. 
 On the Fo'k'sle Head. 
 In the Middle Watch. 
 A Voyage to the Cane. 
 A Book for the Hammock. 
 The Mystery of the "Ocean Star." 
 The Romance of Jenny Harlowe 
 
 BY GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA. 
 Gaslight and Daylight. 
 
 BY JOHN SAUNDERS. 
 Guy Waterman. | Two Dreamers. 
 The Lion In the Path. 
 
 BY KATHARINE SAUNDERS 
 Joan Merryweather. | The High Mills 
 Margaret and Elizabeth. 
 Heart Salvage. I Sebastian. 
 BY GEORGE R. SIMS. 
 Rogues and Vagabonds. 
 The Ring o' Bells.l Mary Jane Married 
 Mary Jane's Memoirs. 
 Tales of To-day. 
 
 BY ARTHUR SKETCHLEY 
 A Match In the Dark. 
 
 BY T. W. SPEIGHT 
 The Mysteries of Heron Dyko 
 The Golden Hoop. I By Devious V/ays. 
 
 BY R. A. STERNDALE. 
 The Afghan Knife. 
 
 BY R. LOUIS STEVENSON 
 New Arabian Nights. | Prince Otto. 
 
 BY BERTHA THOMAS 
 Cressida. | Proud Maisle. 
 
 The Violin-Player. 
 
 BY IV. MOY THOMAS. 
 A Fight for Life. 
 
 BY WALTER THORNBURY, 
 Tales for the Marines. 
 Old Stories Re-told. 
 
 BY T. AIJOLPHUS TROLLOPS 
 Diamond Cut Diamond. 
 
 By F. ELEANUR TROLLOPE. 
 Like Ships upon the Sea. 
 AnneFurness. | Mabel's Progress 
 
 Cheap Popular Novels, continue 
 BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE 
 The Way We Live Now. 
 The American Senator. 
 Frau Frohmann. | Marion Fay. 
 Kept in the Dark. 
 Mr. Scarborough's Family 
 The Land-Leaguers.l John Caldigat* 
 1 he Golden Lion of Granpere. 
 
 BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE. 
 Farnell's Folly. 
 
 BY IVAN TURGENIEFF, &c 
 Stories from Foreign Novelists. 
 
 BY MARK TWAIN. 
 Tom Sawyer. | A Tramp Abroad 
 The Stolen White Elephant. 
 A Pleasure Trip on the Contlne 
 Huckleberry Finn. [of Europ 
 
 Life on the Mississippi. 
 The Prince and the Pauper. 
 
 BY C. C. FRASER.TYTLER. 
 Mistress Judith. 
 
 BY SARAH TYTLER. 
 What She Came Through. 
 TliG Bride's Pass. | Buried Diamond 
 Saint Mungo's City. 
 Beauty and the Beast. 
 Lady Bell. | Noblesse Oblige. 
 Citoyenne Jacqueline | Disappeared 
 The Huguenot Family. 
 The Blackhall Ghosts. 
 
 BY J. S. WINTER. 
 Cavalry Life. | Regimental Legend 
 
 BY H. F. WOOD. 
 The Passenger from Scotland Yard 
 I he Englishman of the Rue Cain.' 
 
 BY LADY WOOD. 
 Sablna. 
 
 BY CELIA PARKER WOOLLEY 
 Rachel Armstrong; or,Love&Theolog) 
 
 BY EDMUND YATES 
 The Forlorn Hope. I Land at Last. 
 Castaway. 
 
 Jeff Briggs's Love Story. By Bret 
 
 Harte. 
 The Twins of Table Mountain. By 
 
 liuET Harte. 
 A Day's Tour. By Percy Fitzgerald 
 Esther's Glove. By R. E. Francillon " 
 The Professor's Wife. By L. Graham 
 Mrs. Gainsborough's Diamonds. Bv 
 
 Julian Hawthorne. 
 Niagara Spray. By J. Hollingshead 
 A Romance of the Queen's Hounds' 
 
 By Charles James. 
 The Garden that Paid the Rent. By 
 
 Tom Jerrold. 
 Cut by the T.Vjss. By Arthur Kevser 
 Our Sensation Novel. Edited by Justin 
 
 H. McCarthy, M.P. /J^^^'in 
 
 POPULAR SHILLING BOOKS. 
 
 Dolly. By Justin H. McCarthy M P 
 Lily Lass. Justin H. McCarthy M P 
 Was She Good or Bad .3 By VV Minto 
 That Girl in Black. By Mrs. Moles 
 
 worth. 
 Beyond the Gates. By E. S. Phelps 
 Old Maid's Paradise. By E.S.Phelps 
 Burglars in Paradise. By E. S. Phelps 
 Jack the Fisherman. By E. S. Phelps' 
 Trooping with Crows. By C.L. Pirki^ 
 Bible Characters. ByCHAs.READE 
 Rogues. By R. H. Sherard. 
 The Dagonet Reciter. By G. R. Sims 
 How the Poor Live. By G. R. Sims.* 
 The Sandycroft Mystery. By T VV 
 
 Speight. j . >». 
 
 A Double Bond. By Linda ViLlar*. 
 
 I. OGDEN A.WD CO. LLvnitD, PRINTERS, GrIsat siiFi^FlHIZrEX.
 
 R. 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Santa Barbara 
 
 STACK COLLECTION 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW. 
 
 0> 
 
 18S4 
 
 •'AR2719??S1QI
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A A 001 423 953