BERKELEY LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORHIA Sfc^'IP t^ i .^ y m # # brist Cci L^ K a v- i es PIECES OF A BROKEN-DOWN CRITIC. PICKED UP BY HIMSELF. Vol. I. REVIEWS. BADEN-BADEN. PRINTED BY S C OT Z NI O VS K Y. 1858. lOAMSTACft 1 ^ ^ 3 8^^ TABLE OF CONTENTS. Pag. COOPER'S "INDIAN AND INGIN" 1 TRANSLATORS OF HOMER 11 PHONICS AND PHONETICS 57 THE PROSE WRITINGS OF ANDRE CHENIER 64 RECENT ENGLISH HISTORIANS OF ANCIENT GREECE 80 TABLE ESTHETICS ' 126 A TALE ABOUT THE PRINCESS 171 VANITY FAIR 195 OXFORD HEXAMETERS 215 NEW YORK SOCIETY AND THE WRITERS THEREON 220 ARISTOPHANES 249 THE 'WALTER MAPE8' POEMS 262 PROFESSOR LINCOLN'S HORACE 278 LATIN PRONUNCIATION 277 THE AJAX OF SOPHOKLES 283 PARIS IN LITTLE , AND SOME OF THE VANITIES THEREOF .... 294 APROPOS OF "RACHEL AND THE NEW WORLD" 331 26. COOPER'S "INDIAN AND INGIN." American Review, September 1846. VERY narrow and imperfect is the common notion about novels, that they are fictitious narratives written to amuse. So far is this from being the case that we are persuaded no successful novelist ever wrote , or , at least, continued to write, without some ulterior aim — the advocacy of some principle or sentiment. A man of vivid imagination is generally, (if indeed we must not say ne- cessarily,) also a man of strong personal feelings and partisan tendencies; and when he finds himself in the position of a moral agent, can he help making his fiction the vehicle of truth, or what he conceives to be truth? To uphold certain schools of art, literature or politics; to further social reforms ; to discourage prejudices , and expose abuses; to make one nation better known to, and therefore, better appreciated by, another; to influence popular opinion , and even modify national habits of thought — these are some of the novelist's aims — not merely as some suppose in their short-sightedness, to help board- ing-school misses and silly boys to kill time. Great, indeed, is his power for evil; but mighty is it likewise for good, nor is he always, thank God, a servant of Darkness. If D'Israeli perverts his dexterous humor to the gratification of private pique, and the resuscitation of defunct fallacies. Miss Martineau inculcates lessons of charity and long-suffering that are better than many sermons. If the French Romancers do their best to create a hell upon earth, by way of compensation for their dis- belief in one hereafter, our own great novelist presents that spectacle which has ever been the philosopher's admiration — an indie idual who dares to tell the truth to a tyrant. When "Satanstoe," the first of the Littlepage Manu- scripts, appeared, it excited in us feelings of unmitigated Vol. T. ^ pleasure and lively expectation. The "Chainbearer" did not alloy that pleasure, or disappoint that expectation. We were glad to see our distinguished countryman applying his talents and energies to the exposure and censure of that evil condition of things which is at once the danger and the disgrace of our State. We were glad that he had written a novel on the subject, not a pamphlet, or an essay, or a disquisition; for men will read novels who will not read pamphlets and disquisitions and essays. We were glad (for the first times in our lives) that he was a "Democrat," for many men will listen to a Democrat who would not think of hearing a "British Whig." Above all we were glad to find throughout these books abundant signs that their author aims at being a Christian as well as a gentleman — to meet with abundant recognitions of the Highest Authority — expressed indeed, at times, with that disagreeable dogmatism which seems as if by some fatality to attend on all Mr. Cooper's opinions — but unmistakably genuine, and as such heartily refreshing in a time of infidel litterateurs^ and infidel legislators. "The Redskins; or Indian and Ingin'' completes his proposed task. "This book," we quote from the preface, "closes the series of the Littlepage Manuscripts which have been given to the world as containing a fair account of the comparative sacrifices of time, money and labor made respectively by the landlord and the tenants on a New-York estate, together with the manner in which usages and opinions are changing among us ; as well as certain of the causes of these changes." The present illustration of these developments involves none of those thrilling incidents for which Mr. Cooper is so famous. His story is entirely subordinated to his moral. The narrative contains few, or, to speak plainly, no points of particular interest. A young man and his bachelor uncle, both large landed proprietors, return from their travels in Europe to find their tenants in arms, and their own homes in actual danger. Disguised as German pedlers they visit the seat of war, are present at an anti-rent meeting, and observe the actions and motives of sundry parties concerned in the movement. Discovering them- selves in a moment of excitement they are fairly besieged, and the rioters endeavor to make their house literally "too hot to hold them." But the arrival of some real 8 Indians (on a visit to an old chief, a friend of the family) enables them to repel the "armed and disguised," or pretended '^Ingins" till the sheriff comes to the rescue. Of course there is a heroine who is neither more nor less interesting than the author's heroines generally are, and a wedding to wind up with according to rule established. In all this, save the introduction of the Indians proper, (a very felicitous conception, and very neatly worked out,) there is nothing more than might happen to any landholder in the disturbed districts; not so much as has happened to some of them. In short, "the Redskins" is simply a vigorous exposure of Anti- Rentism. And it is also evident to us that the book was written for the masses, that it was designed to enlighten popular views, and expose popular fallacies. This we infer from the sedulous repetition of its chief points, and the labor expended in asserting and proving such posi- tions as these: That it is possible for the poor to tyrannize over the rich as well as the rich over the poor; that exclusiveness on the part of an individual is no infringe- ment of his neighbor's rights ; that money does not make the gentleman, or guide the gentleman in the choice of his friends — positions which to a gentleman are simple axioms, eg de Torcav eQlLir^vecov xaziQeL. The work exhibits throughout much of one of the last qualities many of our readers might be disposed to give Mr. Cooper credit for — strong common sense. No judge's charge could state the points at issue more clearly and forcibly. And pari passu with this common sense runs that common honesty which has of late grown very uncommon among us. An utter fearlessness of popular prejudices, and that mighty bug-bear, "public opinion," characterizes the book. To be sure, as it is our unfor- tunate tendency to run into extremes, the author some- times says annoying things which are merely annoying, and can do no good. For example, he is continually dwelling on the prooincialism of our city. Now here we happen to differ from him, and after our own limited experience of foreign cities, are convinced that in all the essentials and attributes of a metropolis, New-York may hold up its head with any of the second-class European capitals — Naples for instance. But suppose it otherwise — let New-York and New-Yorkers be as provincial as the novelist asserts, what good is there in his saying so? Nay, let them be as convinced of it as he is, what good would there be in their feeling so? Our own impulse would be rather to magnify and exaggerate the beauties of New^-York in the hope of exciting her citizens to greater zeal for the honor of the Empire State, and greater vigilance against the danger which threatens so fair a domain. Again, we find most unnecessary ofFensiveness of language in every expression relative to New-England. Thus, Puritanism is described in these conciliatory terms which might move the envy of D'Israeli himself: "The rowdy religion, half cant half blasphemy, that Cromw^ell and his associates entailed on so many English- men, but which was not without a degree of ferocious, narrow-minded sincerity about it after all." What would Thomas Carlyle say to this? But whatever blame we might otherwise be disposed to bestow on Mr. C. for his worse than useless violence on some minor matters vanishes before our admiration of the unflinching resoluteness with which he has achieved his great task — that of telling his countrymen the truth on subjects of vital importance, respecting which most erroneous ideas are prevalent. The main points affirmed, illustrated and conclusioelg proved in "'The Redskins" are these: 1. That the alleged grievances of the tenants are utterly false and frivolous. 2. That the aim and object of the Anti-Renters is simply and absolutely to get other men's property without paying for it. 3. That the landlords' rights have been disregarded because they are rich men ; and the rich being a minority, may, in this country of majorities, be tyrannized over with impunity. 4. That the present movement is only the first step to a general war upon property. 5. That there is still honesty enough in the commu- nity to put down anti-rentism at any moment, if the honest men will only exert themselves properly. Of course, we shall not be understood to say that these topics are treated of in regular order, or that they are the only ones introduced; but the readers of ''The Red- Skins" (and may their name be legion !) will agree in the justice of the above analysis. How all this has been done we shall endeavor par- tially to show, by extracts from the work itself, begin- ning with an indignant exposure of THE POPULAR CANT ABOUT ARISTOCRACY. "Lest this manuscript should get into the hands of some of those who do not understand the real condition of New- York society, it may be well to explain that 'aristocrat' means, in the parlance of the country, no other than a man of gentlemanlike tastes, habits, opinions and associations. There are gradations among the aristocracy ; of the State, as well as among other men. Thus , he who is an aristocrat in a hamlet, would be very democratic in a village; and he of the village might be no aristocrat in the town at all; though in the towns, generally, indeed always, when their popu- lation has the least of a town character, the distinction ceases alto- gether, men quietly dropping into the traces of civilized society, and talking or thinking very little about it. To see the crying evils of American aristocracy, then, one must go into the country. There, indeed , a plenty of cases exist. Thus , if there happen to be a man whose property is assessed at twenty- five per cent, above that of all his neighbors — who must have right on his side bright as a cloudless sun to get a verdict , if obliged to appeal to the laws — who pays fifty per cent, more for everything he buys, and receives fifty per cent, less for everything he sells, than any other person near him— who is surrounded by rancorous enemies, in the midst of a seeming state of peace— who has everything he says and does perverted, and added to, and lied about — who is traduced because his dinner-hour is later than that of 'other folks'— who don't stoop, but is straight in the back — who presumes to doubt that this country, in general, and his own township in particular, is the focus of civilization— who hesitates about signing his name to any flagrant instance of ignorance, bad taste, or worse morals, that his neighbors may get up in the shape of a petition, remonstrance, or resolution — depend on it, that man is a prodigious aristocrat, and one who, for his many offence and manner of lording it over mankind, deserves to be banished." ARISTOCRATIC EXCLUSIVENESS. (The interlocutors are the Pseudo- German and one of his tenants.) '"Well, Mr. Greisenbach, the difficulty about aristocracy is this Hugh Littlepage is rich, and his money gives him advantages that other men can't enj'y. Now. that sticks in some folks' crops.' h "'Oh! den it ist meant to divite broperty in dis coontry; und to say no man might haf more ast anudder?' "'Folks don't go quite as far that, yet; though some of their talk does squint that-a-way, I must own Now, there are folks about here that complain that old Madam Littlepage and her young ladies don't visit the poor ' "'Veil, if deys be hard — hearted, und hast no feelin's for der poor and miseraple — ' "'No, no; that is not what I mean, neither. As for that sort of poor, everybody allows they do more for them than anybody else about here. But they don't visit the poor that isn't in want.' " 'Veil, it ist a ferry coomfortable sort of poor dat ist not in any vant. Berhaps you mean dey don't associate wid 'em as equals ?' '"That's it." FEUDAL PRIVILEGES. "'Then the cry is raised of feudal privileges, because some of the Rensselear tenants are obliged to find so many days' work with their teams , or substitutes , to the landlord , and even because they have to pay annually a pair of fat fowls ! We have seen enough of America, Hugh, to know that most husbandmen would be delighted to have the privilege of paying their debts in chickens and work, instead of in money, which renders the cry only so much the more wicked. But what is there more feudal in a tenant's thus paying his landlord, than in a butscher's contracting to furnish so much meat for a series of years, or a mail contractor's agreeing to carry the mail in a four-horse coach for a term of years, eh? No one objects to the rent in wheat, and why should they object to the rent in chickens ? Is it because our republican farmers have got to be so aristocratic themselves, that they do not like to be thought poulterers? This is being aristocratrc on the other side. These dignitaries should remember that if it be plebeian to furnish fowls, it is plebeian to re- ceive them; and if the tenant has to find an individual who has to submit to the degradation of tendering a pair of fat fowls, the land- lord has to find an individual who has to submit to the degradation of taking them, and of putting them away in the larder. It seems to me that one is an offset to the other.'" HARDSHIP OF LONG LEASES. "The longer a lease is, other things being equal, the better it is for the tenant, all the world over. Let us suppose two farms , the the one leased for five years, and the other for ever: Which tenant is most independent of the political influence of his landlord, to say nothing of the impossibility of controling votes in this way in Ame- rica, from a variety of causes? Certainly, he who has a lease for ever. He is just as independent of his landlord, as his landlord can he of him, with the exception that he has rent to pay. In the latter case, he is precisely like any other debtor — like the poor man who contracts debts with the same storekeeper for a series of years. As for the possession of the farm, which we are to suppose is a desirable thing for the tenant, he of the long lease is clearly most independent, since the other may be ejected at the end of each five years. Nor is there the least difference as to acquiring the property in fee, since the landlord may sell equally in either case, if so disposed; and if not disposed, no honest man, under any system, ought to do anything to compel him so to do , either directly or indirectly ; and no truly honest man would." RESERVATION OF WOODLANDS. "This wood, exceeding a thousand acres in extent, stretched down from the hills along some broken and otherwise little valuable land, and had been reserved from the axe to meet the wants of some future day. It was mine, therefore, in the fullest sense of the word: and singular as it may seem , one of the grounds of accusation brought against me and my predecessors was that we had declined leasing it! Thus, on the one hand, we were abused for having leased our land, and, on the other, for not having leased it. The fact is, we, in common with other extensive landlords, are expected to use our property as much as possible for the particular benefit of other people, while those other people are expected to use their property as much as possible for their own particular benefit " PLEA OF IGNORANCE. (Loquitur an English servant ) "'What is it you wants, I says to him? you can't all be land- lords — somebody must be tenants ; and if you didn't want to be tenants, how come you to be so? Land is plenty in this country' and cheap too; and why didn't you buy your land at first, instead of coming to rent of Mr. Hugh: and now when you have rented, to be quarreling about the very thing you did of your own accord? "'Dere you didst dell 'em a goot t'ing; and vhat might der 'Squire say to dat?' "'Oh! he was quite dumb-founded, at first; then he said that in old times, when people first rented these lands, they didn't know as much as they do now, or they never would have done it.' "*Und you could answer dat; or vast it your dum to be dum- founded?' "'I pitched it into him, as they says; I did. Says I, how's this, says I — you are for ever boasting how much you Americans know — and how the people knows everything that ought to be done about politics and religion — and you proclaim far and near that your yeomen are the salt of the earth— and yet you don't know how to bargain for your leases !'" THE DEMAGOGUE THE COURTIER'S COUNTERPART "Although there was a good deal of the English footmann in John's logic and feeling, there M^as also a good deal of truth in what he said. The part where he accused Newcome of holding one set of opinions in private, concerning his masters, and another in public, is true to the life. There is not, at this moment, within the wide reach of the American borders, one demagogue to be found who might not, with justice, be accused of precisely the same deception. There is not one demagogue in the whole country, who, if he lived in a mo- narchy, would not be the humblest advocate of men in power, ready to kneel at the feet of those who stood in the sovereign's presence.'' "True to the life" indeed! It is old Aristotle over again. The Stagyrite has a passage worth referring to in this connection: "Another form of Democracy is where all citizens are eligible to office, as in the former instance, but the multitude is supreme, instead of the law; and this is the case when the people's resolutions (t'Well, but not wisely, loved a cruel maid" (involving as it does a choice bit of Shakspeare) an equivalent to Theocritus' ccTirjvea iixev ezaiQoy? Is Taylor's "Tramp, tramp along the land they rode. Splash, splash along the sea," an equivalent to Burger's Hurre, hurre, hop, hop, hop, Gings fort im sausenden galop?" In this last instance the imitation is admitted by both English and Germans to surpass the original. It is more than an equivalent, but on that very account not a translation. 16 Let us look at the question in another point of view. If imitation is translation then imitators are plagiarists. Take any case of imitation, e. g. Homer's description of Olympus, "oS^i cpaol d^etov edog aoq^aXeg alel e'liiuEvar ovt'' aref.iOLGi rivaGoeTai, onre tiot' ofA^QV) devetaL ovre xiwv ercmikvaTai' ctXXa f^iaX'' ald-prj TieTiTaTdi avvicpelogf Xevxrj d' BTiididQOfxsv alyXr].^'' Thus imitated by Lucretius, "Apparet divuum numen sedesque quietse Quas neque concutiunt venti, nee nubila nimbis Aspergunt, neque nix acri concreta pruina Cana cadens violat; semper innubilus aether Integer et larg^ diffuso lumine ridet." Any by Tennyson, ''I am going a long way To the island-valley of Avilion, Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, Or ever wind blows loudly, but it lies .♦ Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea." Would any one accuse Lucretius and Tennyson of pla- giarizing from Homer ? Yet if imitation be translation, they can scarcely help being obnoxious to the charge. Let us take an ardent admirer and accurate critic of poetry, who is master of both his languages and has the facility of versifying and command of metre acquired by much poetic reading and study. It is quite possible for a man to posses all these qualities in a high degree without a single spark of that imagination which is the primary idea implied in (connoted by, as the Logicians would say) the term poet. Such a man, we contend, has all the re- quisites for a translator of poetry. He unterstands how to make the dress, and the figure is given him complete. In some respects he is even better qualified than a poet, for there is no fear of his trying to improve on his original as Pope was tempted to deal with Homer. We have been thus particular in explaining oursel- ves, because it is an indispensable preliminary to the comparison of different translations that we should have a clear idea of what the excellence of a tranlation con- sists in. According to the popular notion verse transla- tions are to be estimated by their merits as poems in ■^f. 17 their own vernacular; and that is the best translation which would be the best original poem if its original did not exist. According to our theory, (w^hich is that of Cow per, Elton, Carlyle, and we may add Wilson, in spite of the praise he has on one occasion bestowed upon Pope's Homer,) every translation must be rigorously compared with its original, and that is the best tranla- tion which would give a man ignorant of the original language, the best idea of what the original is like. Homer was the bible of his countrymen for several centuries: he has since been the admiration of the civi- lized world. It was most natural that many attempts should be made to re-produce hin in modern languages. In this respect the Germans have been fortunate. If the English have not, it has not been for want of trying. The complete translation of Homer best know^n are Chapman's, Pope's, Cowper's and Sotheby's. Besides these are Ogilby's and Hobbes', an Ossianic prose trans- lation by Macpherson, and the more recent versions of Morrice (?) and Brandreth in blank verse. Of partial translations from one book to ten, the number is very considerable. A friend recently enumerated to us eleven, to which we were able to add five, and there is little doubt that the list might be still further extended. We have now in Munford's Iliad an American edition to the roll of competitors. Chapman's (1600) was the first complete translation. (Hall had published, nineten years previously, the first ten books in Alexandrines, a translation of a translation.) After the appearance of Pope's Homer he lay unjustly in the shade for some time. He was restored to notice partly by the New School who favored irregular versi- fication, partly by a very different style of critic, Wilson. Since then it has been fashionable to exalt him immea- surably above Pope, and extol him as the prince of trans- lators. To do this is to talk very wildly: a cursory examination will show that his translation has serious defects. The most obvious is his breaking up the even flow of Homer's versification by constantly running his lines into one another. Now if there is any distinctive feature of Hexameter verse it is the full, rounded close of each line; to which Chapman pays no more heed than Vol. I. 2 IS if he were translating the Horatian Alcaic or any other continuous stanza. His interpolations, too, are sometimes very annoying. On no point do Chapman's admirers lay greater stress than his fidelity as a translator; yet he has taken as great liberties with his author in his way, as Pope in his. Most of these additions may be brought under one head— forced conceit. Conceit was the vice of that time. Thus Marlowe's Sestiad, an exceedingly beautiful and luscious poem, is so disfigured by the quaintnesses in its first fifty lines, that most readers are killed off there and unable to go further. The blemishes of a similar kind in Shakspeare are familiar to all. On opening Chapman at random (in the 5th book) we find examples of this on either page. "Who taking chariot, took his wound," and "bowed his knees to death and sacrificed to earth." All through Cooke Taylor's edition, which carefully discriminates the added matter, we find at the bottom of almost every page notes like these.: "Not in the original." "This play on words is Chap- man's, not Homer's." "No warranty for this expression in the original," &c. Other additions he makes for the sake of explanation, e. g. , in describing the sacrifice in the 3d book. "The true vows of the Gods (term'd theirs since made before their eyes.)" "with which away he cut The wool from both fronts of the lambs which (as a rite in use Of execration to their heads that brake the plighted truce) The heralds of both hosts did give the peers of both." Where the words within parentheses are entirely his own. Some of his expansions such as ^Aidrig (the Unseeing) into "that invisible cave that no light comforts," are more admissible as they help to bring out fully the au- thor's meaning. Yet even these are too paraphrastic to please us. But Chapman has also some great merits as a trans- lator. In the first place he has hit upon the only English metre which will suit all parts of Homer. For though some passages may be transfused into blank verge as Elton has shown, what blank verse or what Iambic rhyme can adequately express the Descent of Poseidon, or such dancing verses as these? 19 ^'aXX ay ifxaiv oxecov emprjoeo ocpqa I'drjai OiOL TQCj'ioL ^Innoi, iTCLOTai.ievoL Tiedloio xQaiTVi'cc jLiak^ sv&a diajxe/tiev tjde (pi^aGdaiT Well rendered by Chapman, "Come, then ascend to me, That thou may'st try our Trojan horse, how, skill'd in field they be. And in pursuing those that fly, or flying when pursued, How excellent they are of foot." Except that tqcoloi Ytttuoi means "the Horses of Tros," not "Trojan Horses." Next he expresses with much accuracy and felicity the Homeric epithets. Pope seems to have thought that because those epithets were constant, it was allowable, nay preferable, to omit them, as they had lost their ori- ginal definiteness. Now in some extreme cases this is true, e. g., cfLlog comes to be simply equivalent to the possessive pronoun; but in general these adjectives give precision as well as beauty. In the English ballads "Eng- land is always Merrie England, Douglas always thb Doughty Douglas; all the gold is red and all the ladies are gay." What should we think of a German translator who omitted these picturesque epithets? Again, whatever freedom Chapman may have used in other places, he always in his similes follows Homer as closely as possible, laboring to carry out all his points of comparison without adding any others. Ever and anon, too, amid his broken verse we come across a magnificently swelling line equal to Pope in harmony and superior to Cowper in fidelity. Many of Chapman's expressions are now obsolete; on w^hich account, as well as that already mentioned, Cooke Taylor's edition of him is very valuable , as it contains a full explanation of all those words wich would be likely to perplex an ordinary reader. Ogilby's work was published with much splendor for that day, and adorned with elaborate engravings of belligerents curiously out of drawing. It is a rare book, not on account of its merits. There are a few copies in this city, but we have not been able to lay hands on one, which is no severe disappointment to ourselves or great loss to our readers. Hobbes was past seventy when he began to learn 20 Greek. Nevertheless his Thucydides is the best trans- lation extant, not merely for forcible English, but for actual scholarship and comprehension of that very diffi- cult author. But his Iliad reads like a Burlesque. It is as if he had really taken pains to vulgarize it. For instance, Zeus thus addresses the assembled gods; "You Gods all and you Goddesses, d'ye hear?" and the confirmation of his oath to Thetis is thus ludi- crously narrated: "This said with his black brows to her he nodded, Wherewith displayed was his face divine, Olympus shook at stirring of his godhead. And Thetis from him jumped into the brine*" His Odyssey is rather better. Pope's Homer was extravagantly praised in its day, and by a natural re-action extravagantly disparaged since. Pope was a poet, and a great poet: whoever says he was not is simply an ass. We saw it coolly stated in print not long ago that "nothing could be worse than his translation of Homer." The individual who could make such an assertion deliberately should be condemned to read Sotheby and Munford straight through. The great merit of Pope's Homer is the perfect structure of his verse : its great defect, his utter misunderstanding or willful perversion of nearly all the similes. Cowper, though "among the warmest admirers of Mr. Pope as an original writer," could not be satisfied with him as a translator. His own version is one of the closest possibles. He pays great attention to the similes, the epithets, and what we may call the refrain lines. He presents Homer in all his simplicity, and nearly all his strength, but with scarcely a vestige of his harmony. For though sometimes successful in the onomatopoeic lines, he is generally dry and unmelodious to a painful degree; for which reason his translation, exellent as it is in many respects, can never be popular. The editor of the — will be glad to hear that Sotheby's translation has been published — some twelve years ago. It professed to combine Pope's elegance with Cowper's accuracy. How far this attempt was successful the reader shall have full opportunity of judging. The same object was aimed at by William Munford, a Virginian, whose Iliad has been recently published; 21 only he wrote in blank verse and Sotheby in rhyme. That a man should begin to translate Homer without having ever heard of Cowper's version is astonishing; that Munford should consider his own version superior to Cowper's is still more surprising. A translation of the Iliad into blank verse, at once accurate and harmonious, is not quite an impossibility, but it is by no means tov Tvxovxog. Tennyson could achieve one, were it possible to wake him up out of cloudland and inspire him with ordinary energy. Elton possibly might. We should be slow to trust any other man living, or that has lived for some time. Munford's performance is just such a one as any educated man might execute who would take the trouble; and has no possible value as an addition to the already existing stock of Homeric literature. Appended to it are various stale, stupid, common-place, congregational - country - parson - ish notes. Here, for example, is an original and brilliant one, containing some recherche information. — "Priam's spurious son. "The morality of ancient times was very loose, in relation to indulgence with women. The kings and heroes had many concubines as well as wives. The Christian religion alone introduced, and enfor- ced, by awful sanctions, a system of purity in this respect." To prove our words we proceed to put Munford to ihe test — severe indeed, but one challenged by every new translator — of comparison with his predecessors. And we begin with CHRYSES' PRAYER AND APOLLO'S VENGEFUL DESCENT. ''Qg Ecpax' eddsiGev S^ 6 yenioi', xal eneld^eTo juvO^to. x. t. L Lib. I. 33—49. LITERAL VERSION. Thus spake he: old man feared and obeyed his word. And went the silently along the shore of the loud-resounding sea.* Then going apart the aged man prayed much to King Apollo, whom fair-haired Leto bare. Hear me, God of the silver bow, who art wont to protect Chrysa, and Cilia the divine, and who rulest with might over Tenedos ; Smin- theus ! if ever I have built thy temple agreeably to thee , or ever * If you prefer the Reuchlinian pronunciation poliflisveeo you must translate "the many rippled sea." consumed to thee the fat thighs of bulls and goats, fulfil this my desire. May the Greeks atone for my tears by means of thy arrows. Thus spake he praying : him Phoebus Apollo heard. And descended the heights of Olympus angry at heart; having upon his shoulders his bow and completely-coVered quiver. And the arrows clashed on the shoulders of him enraged, as he moved. So he went on like the night. Then he sat apart from the ships and dispatched an arrow. And terrible was the clang of the silver bow. CHAPMAN. This said, the sea-beat shore (Obeying his high will) the priest trod off with haste and fear; And walking silent, till he left far off his enemies' ear, Phoebus, fair-hair'd Latona's son, he stirr'd up with a vow To this stern purpose: Hear, thou God that bear'st the silver bow, That Chrysa guard' st, rul'st Tenedos with strong hand, and the round Of Cilia most divine dost walk ; — O Sminthius ! if crown'd With thankful offerings thy rich fane I ever saw, or fired Fat thighs of oxen and of goats to thee, this grace desired Vouchsafe to me: pains for my tears, let these rude Greeks repay. Forced with thy arrows. Thus he pray'd, and PhcBbus heard him pray; And vex'd at heart, down from the tops of steep heaven stoop'd; his bow And quiver cover'd round, his hands did on his shoulders throw; And of the angry deity the arrows as he moved Rattled about him. Like the night he ranged the host, and roved (Apart the fleet set) terribly : with his hard-loosing hand His silver bow twang'd. This is not a favorable specimen. The best lines of the original are cut up and stowed away in odd corners of different verses. "Hard-loosing hand," is a forcible epithet, but "not in the original." All we can find to commend here is, "Thus he prayed and Phoebus heard him pray," and "the round dost walk" for aficpL^eiirjxag. POPE. The trembling priest along the shore return'd, And in the anguish of a father mourn'd. 23 Disconsolate, not daring to complain, Silent he wander'd by the sounding main : Till, safe at distance, to his god he prays. The god who darts around the world his rays. ''Oh Smintheus! sprung from fair Latona's line, Thou guardian powder of Cilia the divine, Thou source of light! whom Tenedos adores, And whose bright presence gilds thy Chrysa's shores: If e'er with wreaths I hung thy sacred fane, Or fed the flames with fat of oxen slain; God of the silver bow! thy shafts employ. Avenge thy servant, and the Greeks destroy." Thus Chryses pray'd: the favouring power attends, And from Olympus' lofty top descends. Bent was his bow, the Grecian hearts to tcound, Fierce as he moved, his silver shafts resound. Breathing revenge, a sudden night he spread. And gloomy darkness rolled around his head The fleet in view, he twang'd his deadly bow. And hissing fly the feather'd fates below. Here the second, third, and sixth lines are utterly redundant. The brief comparison of Phoebus' approach is amplified much to its injury. The Italicized couplet is a grand one, though the first line is too much written for the second, as is often the case in Pope's best couplets. The numerous additions and alterations it is needless to particularize more minutely. COWPER He spake, the old priest trembled and obey'd. Forlorn he roamed the ocean's sounding shore, And solitary, with much prayer his King Bright-hair'd Latona's son Phoebus, implored. God of the silver bow, who with thy power Encirclest Chrysa, and who reign'st supreme In Tenedos and Cilia the divine, Sminthian Apollo! If I e'er adorn'd Thy beauteous fane, or on thy altar burn'd The fat acceptable of bull's or goats, Grant my petition. With thy shafts avenge On the Achaian host thy servant's tears. Such prayer he made, and it was heard. The God, Down from Olympus with his radiant bow u And his full quiver o'er his shoulder slung, Marched in his anger; shaken as he moved His rattling arrows told of his approach. Gloomy he came as night; sat from the ships Apart, and sent an arrow. Clang'd the cord. Dread-sounding, bounding on the silver bow. Very close throughout. Radiant is almost the only word unwarranted by the original. "Full" is not correct for afUfijQefffa- "Encirclest Chrysa" is good. The second line, with its succession of open O's is very sonorous; probably the most successful attempt ever made to express the famous original. Now let us have HOBBES (Just for the fun of the thing J Frighted with this away the old man went, And often as he walked on the sand, His prayers to Apollo up he sent. Hear me Apollo wdth thy bow in hand. That honor'd art in Tenedos and Chryse, And unto whom Cilia great honor bears. If thou accepted hast my sacrifice. Pay th' Argives with thy arrows for my tears. His prayer was granted by the deity. Who with his silver bow and arrow keen Descended from Olympus silently In likeness of the sable night unseen. His bow and quiver both behind him hang, The arrows chink as often as he jogs (!) And as he shot the bow was heard to twang. How cleverly he spoils or omits every single point in the original! We give also, as a curiosity, a specimen of MACPHERSON. He, frowning, spoke; the old man feared and shrunk from his high commands. Sad^ silent, slow, he took his way, along the wide resounding main. Apart and distant from the host, he poured his mournful soul in prayer: he poured it forth to bowyer Phoebus, whom the long-haired Latona bore. Hear, bearer of the splendid bow! Guardian of Chrysa, of Cilia the divine! Thou that o'er Tenedos reign'st with fame! Smintheus, 4iear my prayer! If 25 ever with wreaths I adorned, O Phoebus! thy beauteous fane: if ever thine altars smoked with offerings — from the flocks and herds of Chryses: if me thou regardest in ought, O Phoebus, hear my prayer! Punish Greece for these tears of mine. Send thy deadly arrow^ abroad. He, praying, spoke. Apollo heard. He descended, from heaven, enraged in soul. On his shoulders his bow is hung: His quiver filled with deadly shafts! which harshly rattled, as he strode in his wrath. Like night he is borne along: then darkly sitting, apart from the host, he sends an arrow abroad. The bright bow emits a dreadful sound, as the shaft flies, unseen, from the string. Macpherson pretends to be quite literal, but is sufficiently diffuse, as the superfluous words which we have italicized in the above extract show. SOTHEBY. Hoar Chryses shuddering back his footstep bent, And by the sounding deep in silence went. Till far apart the hapless father pray'd. And thus invoked Apollo's vengeful aid — "God of the silver bow whose sovereign sway Thy Chrysa, Cilia, Tenedos obey. If e'er I wreathed thy splendid shrine, or fed Thy altars flaming as the victims bled, Loose thy avenging shafts, bid Greece repay. Tears of a father turned in scorn away!" Thus Chryses pray'd: his prayer Apollo heard. And heavenly vengeance kindled at the w^ord. He from Olympus' brow in fury bore His bow and quiver's death-denouncingstore. The arrows rattling round his viewless flight Clang'd as the God descended dark as night. Then Phoebus stay'd, and from the fleet apart Ijaunch'd on the host the inevitable dart. And ever as he Aving'd the shaft below Dire was the twanging of the silver bow. The fourth line is tame; the tenth line strong and harmonious; neither of them answer to anything in the orignal. The twelfth is in the style of Pope's very worst interpolations. The penultimate line is evidently written for the couplet, after the Popian precedent. "Inevitable" 26 and "death-denouncing" which are meant to be strengthening epithets have the very opposite effect. MUNFORD. The old man trembled, and his word obey'd. Silent he went, along the sounding shore Of loudly-roaring ocean; but, at length. Remote, he fervently implored the king Apollo, whom bright-hair'd Latona bore. Hear me, O thou, with silver boAV adorn'd Who guardest Chrysa with thy power divine, And heavenly Cilia! King of Tenedos, Great Smintheus, hear! If ever I have crown'd Thy honor'd fane with wreaths, or 6ver burn'd The fatted thighs of bulls or goats to thee; I pray thee now, accomplish my request! By thy avenging arrows may the Greeks, For these my tears, atone! So pray'd the priest, And dread Apollo heard him. And he, in wrath, Descended from Olympus' lofty cliffs, Arm'd with his bow, and quiver well encased. His fatal arrows rattled, threatening death. As fiercely he approach'd; and, dark as night, He came, terrific. From Achaia's fleet Apart, his stand he took, and sent his shaft. Shrill twang'd with direful clang, the silver bow. There is nothing particularly bad in this version (except the peculiarly enfeebling introduction of "terrific," nor anything particularly good. Its proper designation is ordinary. It is precisely the sort of translation that j nine out of ten readers of Homer would have the ability ' to write and the good sense not to publish. Our next selection shall be THE ORECIAN MUSTER. ^Hvre nvQ atdr^Xov, x. r. A. Lib. II. 455 — 473. LITERAL VERSION. As a destructive fire consumes an immense wood, on the peaks of a mountain, and the blaze is conspicuous from afar, so as they marched, the all-glittering gleam from their admirable armor went up through the firmament to heaven. And as the many tribes of winged birds, geese, or cranes, or long-necked swans, in the meadow of Asius, around the streams of Cayster, fly hither and thither upborne, exulting on their wings, and 27 the meadow resounds as they light-down-one-after-another. So of them the many tribes from the ships and tents poured forth into the Scamandrian plain, while the ground re-echoed terribly under the feet of themselves and their horses. So they stood in the flowery meadow of Scamander, innumerable, as many as the leaves and flowers grow in spring. As are the many tribes of thickly-congregated flies which hover about the shepherd's fold in the spring season, when also milk moistens the pails ; so many stood in the plain the long-haired Greeks against the Trojans, longing to destroy them utterly. CHAPMAN. And as a fire upon A huge wood, on the heights of hills, that far off hurls his light, So the divine brass shined on these, thus thrusting on for fight: Their splendor through the air reach'd heaven: and as about the flood Caister, in an Asian mead, flocks of the airy brood. Cranes, geese, or long-necked swans, here, there, proud of their pinions fly, And in their falls lay out such throats, that with their spiritful cry The meadow shrieks again; so here, these many na- tion'd men, Flow'd over the Scamandrian field, from tents and ships: the din Was dreadful, that the feet of men and horse beat out of earth. And in the flourishing mead they stood, thick as the odorous birth Of flowers, or leaves bred in the spring: or thick as swarms of flies Throng them to sheep-cotes, when each swarm his erring wdng applies To milk dew'd on the milk-maid's pails: all eagerly disposed To give to ruin the Ilians. The first two similes are most accurately rendered, mdiilov is the only omission; "spiritful" and "odorous" the only insertions. Some of the expressions are highly picturesque — "Far off" hurts his light -^^ ''Flowed over the Scamandrian plain," "The din beat out of earth," The 28 third simile Chapman has closed off in a hurry and injured by over compression. POPE. As on some mountain, through the lofty grove, The crackling flames ascend, and blaze above; The fires expanding as the winds arise, Shoot their long beams, and kindle half the skies: So from the polish'd arms, and brazen shields, A gleamy splendor flashed along the fields. Not less their number than the embodied cranes. Or milk-white swans in Asius' watery plains. That o'er the windings of Cayster's springs Stretch their long necks, and clap their rustling wings. Now towT.r aloft, and course in airy rounds; Now light with noise: with noise the field resounds. Thus numerous and confused, extending wide. The legions crow'd Scamander's flowery side; With rushing troops the plains are covered o'er, And thundering footsteps shake the sounding shore. Along the river's level meads they stand. Thick as in spring the flowers adorn the land. Or leaves the trees; or thick as insects play. The wandering nation of a summer's day , That, draw^n by milky streams, at evening hours. In gather'd swarms surround the rural bowers; From pail to pail vnth busy murmur run The gilded legions, glittering in the sun. So throng'd, so close, the Grecian squadrons stood In radiant arms, and thirst for Trojan blood. The first simile is here utterly misunderstood and misrepresented. Homer compares the sudden flash of armor to the immediate effect of a distant blaze. Pope gives us a gradual conflagration, and thus precisely destroys the point of comparison. In regard to the second, though not agreeing with Taylor, "that Homer's design was to describe confusion of movement rather than confusion of sound;" for we think it evident that both are represented; we must admit with him that Pope's epithet "embodied" is introduced "with more than usual infelicity." One of the most prominent ideas in the original is the successive lighting of the birds, which Pope has entirely overlooked. 29 The simile of the flies Chapman takes as alluding to the numbers of the Greeks. We think him right. His editor refers it to their eagerness for fight Pope seems to understand it of their appearance ; on which Taylor justly observes that "the flies that swarm round milk- pails are remarkable for anything rather than their glitter." ^^^Qfi elaQLVfj is Spring not Summer. COWPER. As when devouring flames some forest seize On the high mountains, splendid from afar The blaze appears, so, moving. on the plain, The steel clad host innumerous flash'd to heaven. And as a multitude of fowls in flocks Assembled various, geese, or cranes, or swans Lithe necked, long hovering o'er Cayster's banks On wanton plumes, successive on the mead Alight at last, and with a clang so loud That all the hollow vale of Asius rings ; In number such from ships and tents effused. They cover'd the Scamandrian plain; the earth Rebellow'd to the feet of horse and men. They overspread Scamander's grassy vale, Myriads, as leaves, or as the flowers of spring. As in the hovel where the peasant milks His kine in spring-time, when his pails are filled, Thick clouds of humming insects on the wing Swarm all around him, so the Grecians swarm'd An unsumm'd multitude o'er all the plain. Bright arm'd, high crested, and athirst for war. Generally correct but wanting life and spirit — Cow- per's usual fault. SOTHEBY. As flames on flames spread far and wide their light From forests blazing on the mountain height. Thus flash'd the lightning of their arms afar, And heaven's bright cope beam'd back the glare of war. As feathery nations sweeping on amain. Flights of the long-neck'd swan, and silvery crane. From Asius' meads by clear Cayster's spring. Now here, now there, exultant wind on w^ing. In gay contention strive, while long and loud do The champaign rings beneath the plumed cloud; So from their camp and fleet the innumerous train Pour'd forth their confluence on Scamander's plain. Beneath the march of myriads earth around Thunder'd and rattling war-hoofs rock'd the ground, In numbers numberless as leaves anfl flowers That fill the cup of spring and robe her bowers. As in fair springtime when the swain recalls The lowing cattle to their wonted stalls, Eve's milking hour from aether downward draws The flies' winged nations swarming o'er the vase; Thus Greece-poured forth her multitudinous throng, All burning to avenge their country's wrong. Very pretentious and very bad. All the distinctive epithets are omitted. ll'Cdr^lov, uanerov, deGTraoloio — not an attempt to express any of them, but instead a quantity of redundant and otiose adjectives in other places, ''silvery crane" (Sotheby, like Pope, thinks the goose too vulgar to introduce and turns him into a showy embellishment for his crane,) "clear Cayster's spring'' and a number of lines that have no connection with the original but are merely put in to make fine writing. Two of the most platitudinous we have italicized. "Vase" to rhyme with "drawls" is fearfully vulgar. MUNFORD. As raging fire consumes a wide-spread wood. On some high mountain's summit, whence the blaze Is seen afar; so, from their burnish'd arms. With radiant glories gleam' d effulgent light, Flaming through aether to the vault of heaven! And as unnumber'd flocks of swift-wing'd birds. Geese, cranes, or stately swans with arching necks, In Asius' meadow' round Cayster's streams. Fly here and there exulting on the wing. And (while with clamor they alight) the fields Their cries re-echo, so the numerous tribes Of Greeks, from ships and tents outpouring, throng'd Seaman der's plain. The ground, with dreadful din, Sounded beneath the feet of bounding steeds And trampling warriors. Numberless they stood. Covering that verdant meadow, as the leaves. And flowers of spring, or as the countless swarms 31 Of restless flies that in a shepherd's fold At summer eve, when milk bedews the pails, Play infinite! So numerous were the Greeks, Ardent for battle, breathing dire revenge And death against the Trojans. The first two lines are better than Cowper. The version is correct on the whole, except that eiaQiv^ is mistranslated, and the force of that important word, nQoxaO^LtovTcov overlooked. The italicized lines are as tawdry as Sotheby's, but, in general the fault is rather Cowper's — w^ant of life. We now turn to the Fourth Book, where PANDARUS, INSTIGATED BY ATHENE, SHOOTS AT MENELAUS AND BREAKS THE TRUCE. i^c; (f(XT ^^d-qvairi * ic^ de (pQsvag aq)QO}'i tiuO^ev. ^ t. X. LITERAL VERSION. Thus spoke Athene, and persuaded his mind, fool that he was! Straightway he drew-from-its case his well-polished bow [made of the horn] of a springing wild goat, which, as his wont was, he himself once hit under the breast, (having caught the animal in ambush as it stepped out of the rock), and pierced in the chest; so it fell backward on the rock. The horns from its head grew out sixteen palms; these a horn-polishing artificer arranged and fitted, and, having well smoothed the whole, put a golden .tip upon it. And this he [Pandarus] skillfully bent and made ready, while his brave comrades held their shields before him, for fear the warlike Grecian youths should rush up ere Menelaus the Martial, son of Atreus, was hit. Next he drew the case from his quiver and selected an arrow that-had-never-been shot, winged, the foundation of dark pangs. Then swiftly he adapted the keen arrow to the string, vowing that he would sacrifice to Lyceanborn, bow-renowned Apollo, a famous heca- tomb of a hundred firstling lambs, if he returned home to the walls of sacred Zelia. Then he took and drew at the same time the notched end and the ox sinews; the string he brought to his breast, the iron point to the bow. Thereupon, when he had stretched the mighty bow to a circle, the bow twanged, the string sung mightily, and the sharp-pointed shaft bounded forth longing to fly among the crowd, CHAPMAN. With this, the mad-gift-greedy man, Minerva did persuade ; Who instantly drew forth a bow, most admirably made Of the antler of a jumping goat, bred in a steep upland; Which archer-like, (as long before, he took his hidden stand, 32 The evick skipping from a rock,) into the breast he smote, And headlong fell'd him from his clift. The forehead of the goat Held out a wondrous goodly palm, that sixteen branches brought ; Of all which, (join'd,) a useful bow a skillful bowyer wrought ; (Which pick'd and polish'd,) both the ends he hid with horns of gold. And this bow, bent, he close laid down, and bade his soldiers hold Their shields before him: lest the Greeks, discerning him, should rise In tumults ere the Spartan king could be his arrow's prize. Mean space, with all his care he choosed and from his quiver drew. An arrow; feather' d best for flight, and yet that never flew; Strong headed, and most apt to pierce; then took he up his bow, And nock'd his shaft, the ground whence all their future grief did grow. When praying to his god the sun, that was in Lycia bred. And king of archers, promising that he the blood would shed Of full an hundred first fallen lambs, all offer'd to his name. When to Zelia's sacred w^alls, from rescued Troy he came ; — He took his arrow by the nock, and to his bended breast The oxy sinew close he drew, even till the pile did rest Upon the bosom of the bow; and as that savage prize, His strength constraint into an orb — as if the wind did rise — The coming of it made a noise, the sinew forged string Did give a mighty twang; and forth the eager shaft did sing (Afiecting speediness of flight) amongst the Achive throng. Very spirited and dashing. The earlier lines are not very close to the original, but Chapman improves in fidelity as he proceeds. "Evick" seems to be a ccTTa^ leyoiLievo)'. Taylor explains it "the evicted," i. e. "doomed one." "Y^iTLog is not "headlong," but quite the reverse. 33 POPE. He heard, and madly, at the motion pleased, His polish'd bow with hasty rashness seized. 'Twas formed of horn, and smooth'd with artful toil; A mountain goat resigned the shining spoil, Who pierced long since beneath his arrows bled; The stately quarry on the cliffs lay dead, And sixteen palms his brow's large honors spread; The workman join'd, and shaped the bended horns. And beaten gold each taper point adorns. This, by the Greeks unseen, the warrior bends, Screened by the shields of his surrounding friends. There meditates the mark; and couching low. Fits the sharp arrow to the well-strung bow. One from a hundred feather'd deaths he chose, Fated to wound, and cause of future woes. Then offers vows with hecatombs to crown Apollo's altars in his native town. Now with full force the yielding horn he bends. Drawn to an arch, and joins the doubling ends; Close to his breast he strains the nerve below, Till the barb'd point approach the circling bow; The impatient weapon whizzes on the wing; Sounds the tough horn, and twangs the quivering string. These are fine rolling stanzas. But the fourth line is exceedingly weak ; and all the minutioe which so graphically depict the goat's capture are omitted. The last couplets are fine, though "impatient" is not strong enough to express all the personality conveyed by y.aO^ ofxiXoi' eTilTirao^aL [levaaivcov. COWPER. So Pallas spake, to whom infatuate he Listening, uncased at once his polish'd bow. That bow, the laden brows of a wild goat Salacious had supplied; him on a day Forth issuing from his cave, in ambush placed He wounded with an arrow to his breast Dispatch'd, and on the rock supine he fell. Each horn had from his head tall growth attain'd, Full sixteen palms: them shaven smooth the smith Had aptly join'd, and tipt their points with gold. That bow he strung, then, stooping, planted firm Vol. I. 3 34 The nether horn, his comrades hold the while Screening him close with shields, lest ere the prince Were stricken, Menelaus, brave in arms. The Greeks with fierce assault should interpose, He raised his quiver's lid; he chose a dart Vnflown, full-fledged, and barb'd ivith pangs of dealh. He lodg'd in haste the arrow on the string. And vow'd to Lycian Phoebus bow-renown'd An hecatomb, all firstlings of the flock, To fair Zeleia's walls once safe restored. Compressing next nerve and nolch'd arrow head He drew back both together, to his pap Drew home the nerve, the barb home to his bow, And when the horn was curved to a wide arch, He twang'd it. Whizz'd the bowstring, and the reed Leafd off impatient for the distant throng Marvellously accurate, save only the mistranslation of i^alov. The closeness with w^iich Cowper here follows his original, even in places not easy to express in intel- ligible English prose, is really astonishing. You have read three noble translations of a noble passage. Draw a long breath, and then attack. SOTHEBY. Thus spake persuasively the blue-eyed Maid, And thoughtless Pandarus her word obey'd — Swift from its case drew forth his polished bow Form'd of the wanton goat's broad-horned brow. Whom once, in ambush as the archer lay, His shaft arrested on his mounted w^ay. And pierced beneath the breast that bathed in gore. The rock whereon he fell to rise no more. The horns that proudly turreted his head, A wondrous growth of sixteen palms outspread. The bowman these terrific to behold^ Had labored into shape and tipp'd with gold, That bow he strung, and where he couchant lay, His warriors closed their shields before his way. Lest unawares a Greek should forward start Ere the wing'd shaft reached Menelaus' heart. His quiver's lid he raised, an arrow chose Fresh fledged, and pregnant with severest w^oes, Then fixed it on the cord, and loudly vowed 35 His flock's choice firstlings to the archer god. Whene'er from Ilion's wall returned again His voice once more should hail Zeleia's fane. Now with the cord at once he backward drew The notch that quicer'd ere the arrow flew, Strain'd to his breast the string, and ere to part Poised on the bow the steel that barb'd the dart; And when the horns, now near and nearer strain'd. With all his strength, an ampler arch had gain'd, Shrill twang'd the bow, the cord with quivering sound Whizz'd, and the dart flew eager for the wound. We have marked a few of Sotheby's most obvious amplifications. Comment on their beauty is unnecessary. He gives as another neat rhyme in "vow'd" and "God." The third and fifth lines alone are commendable. MUNFORD. So spake Minerva, and his frantic mind Persuaded. Forth at once he drew his bow, Of horn smooth-polish'd of a lecherous goat, A wild one, which himself had in the breast Shot, as it issued from its rocky cave. He, lying near in ambush, from below Between the forelegs pierced it: on the rock It backwards fell outstretched. Upon its head Grew ample horns, full sixteen palms in length. These, bending to his purpose skillfully, A workman shaped^ and nicely polishing The bow elastic, tipp'd both ends with gold. This bow he, stooping, rested on the ground With sly contrivance; having strung it well. His watchful friends before him held their shields Protective, lest the Greeks should on him rush Ere he could shoot the gallant Spartan king. The leader of Achaia. He meanwhile Removed his quiver's lid, and chose a shaft Ne'er used till then, fresh-feather'd for its flight, Of black and bitter woe^ the direful cause! Quick to the string that fatal shaft he fix'd But vow'd to bright Apollo, god of day. Famed archer of the skies, to pay at home A splendid hecatomb of firstling lambs, Whene'er to Zelia's sacred walls return'd. 36 The arrow's notch and bow-string drawn at once, The string his breast, the point of steel approach'd The bow's great arch, and when its large round curve Was to the utmost bent, with sharp loud clang It sounded; shrilly twang'd the quivering string. Away the arrow flew among the crowd, Eager to bathe in blood its thirsty point! The spirit of his original has here put some life into our translator. The version is generally correct, except the wrong translation of i^alov and the false quantity of Zelia.* We now proceed to THE MEETING OF THE HOSTS. 01 ^ 0T€ drj Q ig x(J^QOv eva x. t. A. (Lib. IV. 446, sqq.) LITERAL VERSION. Now when, according to purpose, they were come into one place, meeting, they engaged their shields and their spears and the might of brazen-corsleted heroes; their bossy shields met each other, and a great uproar arose. Then was there mingled the cry and the exulting shout of men, both the slayers and the slain; earth flowed with blood. As when winter torrents, flowing down the mountains, combine-to- throw into a hollow-where-glens-meet a strong stream from copious sources , within a hollow defile, and the shepherd hears their din afar off among the mountains : such was their cry and their confusion while mingling. CHAPMAN. But when in one field both the foes their fury did content, And both came under reach of darts, then darts and shields opposed To darts and shields; strength answer'd strength; then swords and targets closed With swords and targets ; both with pikes ; and then did tumult rise Up to her heights; then conquerors' boasts mix'd with the conquer'd's cries: Earth flow'd with blood. And as from hills rain-waters headlong fall, * Unhappily, this is not Munford's worst mistake of the kind. In looking for some mare's nest pointed out in one of his luminous notes, we stumbled upon "With Thalia blooming in immortal youth." This from a Scholar (?) and a translator of Homer (II) 37 That all ways eat huge ruts, which, met in one bed, fill a vail With such a confluence of streams, that on the mountain grounds Far off*, in frighted shepherds' ears, the bustling noise rebounds : So grew their conflicts, and so show'd their scuffling to the ear. With flight and clamor still commix'd and all effects of fear. Not so successful as usual. The last couplet is very diffuse. POPE. Now shield with shield, with helmet helmet closed. To armor armor, lance to lance opposed. Host against host with shadowy squadrons drew, The sounding darts in iron tempests flew, Victors and vanquish'd join promiscuous cries. And thrilling shouts and dying groans arise; With streaming blood the slippery fields are died, And slaughter'd heroes swell the dreadful tide. As torrents roll, increased by numerous rills. With rage impetuous down their echoing hills; Rush to the vales, and, pour'd along the plain, Roar through a thousand channels to the main; The distant shepherd trembling hears the sound: So mix both hosts, and so their cries rebound. The first couplet is a grand one, and the third me- ritorious. ^'Shadowy squadrons" is not very intelligible. The fourth line is a rather common-place addition, and the eighth has taken the one fatal step beyond the sublime. "Earth flowed with blood," but it is too much to make the "slaughtered heroes" swim about in it. As usual, the point of the simile is lost. Homer's torrents do not "roar to the main:" they meet in a narrow place among the glens (f-uayayxetav). COWPER. And now the battle joined. Shield clashed with shield, And spear with spear, conflicting corslets rang, Boss'd bucklers met, and tumult wild arose. Then, many a yell was heard, and many a shout Loud intermix'd, the slayer o'er the maimed ^ 38 Exulting, and the field was drench'd with blood. As when two winter torrents rolling down The mountains, shoot their floods through gullies huge Into one gulf below, station'd remote The shepherd in the uplands hears the roar; Such was the thunder of the mingling hosts. Are only two torrents intended? We doubt it. Homer uses the plural, not the dual. SOTHEBY. Host against host, now nearer and more near. Corslet on corslet clattered, spear on spear. Close and more close the bosses, shield on shield, Clash'd, and wide spread the thunder of the field, And shouts and groans, the slayer and the slain Mixed, as the blood dark-gushed along the plain. As, when the springs with wintry storms o'erflow, Two torrents dashing from the mountain brow, Roar with conflicting floods that rush between The rocky windings of the rent ravine. Afar the shepherd, as the cataract raves. Hears on the cliff the clashing of the waves, Thus, as the hosts rush'd onward, rang afar The bray and thunder of the storm of war. Another rhyme that don't rhyme! But this is the best we have had from Sotheby so far. The opening couplets are capital, and "The rocky windings of the rent ravine," is an admirable line. The conclusion is too ambitious. MUNFORD. When now encountering, to close fight they came. Together met their shields, together flew Their javelins, hurl'd with utmost strength of men. Mail-clad, the bossy shields conflicting clashed, And loudly universal tumult rose. The doleful cry of dying men was there. The victor's joyful shout: earth stream'd with blood. As when two mountain torrents, swoln with rain. Pour down from sources vast, impetuous floods. Which meeting in a narrow vale between Confining precipices, foam and roar: The sound, among the mountains far remote, A shepherd startled hears : such was the cry And such the terror when they battle joined. There is nothing here to call for especial praise or censure. The ninth line is a tolerably good one. We should like to quote the Hector and Andromache scene , for the sake of showing off Elton ; but it is too long to extract. A few lines from the opening we must be allowed. ^^Qg ctQci ffOjyr^aaQ aui^n xoovdalokog ^'Etctcoq. x t. X. (Lib. VI. 369, sqq.) LITERAL VERSION IN HEXAMETERS. So thus having spoken, the casque-nodding Hector de- parted. Speedily then he came to his well-situate habitation. But he found not the white-armed Andromache there in her chambers ; For she with her boy and her well-clad female attendant, Standing upon the tower, was wailing, ay, and lamenting. Hector, then, when he found not his blameless spouse in the p alace , Went to the threshold, stopped, and thus accosted the maidens: "Come now, tell me, ye maids, the truth unerring relate me. Whither went forth the white-armed Andromache, out of her chamber? Or to her brothers' sisters, or well-clad wives of her brothers. Or to Athene's fane has she gone forth, there where the other Fair-haired women of Troy are the dreadful goddess appeasing?" Then to his speech in turn replied the housekeeper careful: "Hector, since your command is strict the truth to re- port you. Nor to her husband's sisters, nor well-clad wives of her brothers. Nor to Athene's fane has she gone forth, there where the other Fair-haired women of Troy are the dreadful goddess appeasing, &c. These beautiful introductory lines have not received so much care as they deserved at the hands of the trans- 40 lators, who have apparently been more solicitous to do justice to what followed. They are slurred over by CHAPMAN. This said, he went to see The virtuous princess, his true wife, whitearmed Andro- mache. She, with her infant son and maid, was climb'd the tow'r, about The sight of him that sought for her, w^eeping and crying out. Hector, not finding her at home, was going forth; retired — Stood in the gate — her women call'd; and curiously inquired Where she was gone; — bade tell him true, if she were gone to see His sisters, or his brothers' wives; or whether she should be At temple with the other dames, t' implore Minerva's ruth. Her woman answer'd: Since he ask'd, and urged so much the truth. The truth was she was neither gone to see his brothers' wives, His sisters, nor t' implore the ruth of Pallas on their lives. By turning the direct address and reply into an indirect narration, the whole force of the passage is destroyed. POPE. He said, and pass'd with sad presaging heart To seek his spouse, his soul's far dearer part; At home he sought her, but he sought in vain; She, with one maid of all her menial train. Had thence retired; and with her second joy. The young Astyanax, the hope of Troy: Pensive she stood on Ilion's towery height. Beheld the war, and sicken'd at the sight; There her sad eyes in vain her lord explore, Or weep the w^ounds her bleeding country bore. But he who found not whom his soul desired, Whose virtue charm'd him as her beauty fired. Stood in the gates, and ask'd what way she bent Her parting step. If to the fane she went, 41 Where late the mourning matrons made resort; Or sought her sisters in the Trojan court? ''Not to the court," replied the attendant train, ''Nor mix'd with matrons to Minerva's fane." Here the answer is given, the address only mentio- ned. And while the minute inquiry and response are thus hurried over, whole lines of extraneous matter are inserted previously. For the simple and strong epithets of the original, "the well-situate dwelling," "the blameless wife," "the white-armed Andromache," we have, substituted, such phrases as "with sad, presaging heart," "whom his soul desired," "the wounds her bleeding country bore," &c. Of the eighteen lines, six are entirely independent of the original. COWPER. So spake the dauntless hero, and withdrew. But reaching soon his own w^ell-built abode He found not fair Andromache; she stood Lamenting Hector, with the nurse who bore Her infant, on a turret's top sublime. He then, not finding his chaste spouse within, Thus, from the portal, of her train inquired. Tell me ye maidens, whither went from home Andromache the fair? Went she to see Her female kindred of my father's house. Or to Minerva's temple, where convened The bright-haired matrons of the city seek To sooth the aw^ful goddess? Tell me true. To w^hom his household's governess discrete. Since, Hector, truth is thy demand, receive True answer. Neither went she forth to see Her female kindred of thy father's house. Nor to Minerva's temple, where convened The bright-haired matrons of the city seek To sooth the awful goddess." SOTHEBY. Thus Hector said, nor longer there remained. But with swift foot his stately palace gained. Yet — haply — found not there, more loved than life, Her whom alone he sought, his beauteous wife. She, with her babe and nurse, that mournful hour, 42 Watch'd, steep'd in tears, on Ilion's topmost tower Then at the threshold, hastening to depart, "Where" — Hector cried : — "the wife of Hector's heart ? Sought she some sister's anguish to restrain. Or join'd the matrons at Minerva's fane?" "None dares," the guardian of the house replied — "None dares, thus charged, the truth from Hector hide," &c. The excellence of Sotheby's second line awakens a hope soon to be disappointed. The omissions are as numerous and as bad as Pope's; the additions about as bad, though not so numerous. MUNFORD. This said the chief of heroes. Hector, thence Departing, soon his splendid palace reach'd. With rooms commodious ; but he found not there His white-armed princess, fair Andromache; For with her child and maid, with graceful garb. She stood in Ilion's tower, moaning sad. Weeping and sighing. Finding not within His blameless wife, he on his threshold stood, And of his servants thus inquiry made: Be quick ^ and tell me truly, whither went My lovely consort, fair Andromache? To any of my sisters did she go, Or brother's wives, or to Minerva's fane. Where other Trojan dames with flowing hair, That awful goddess by their prayers appease? His household's faithful governess replied: O Hector, since thou bidd'st me tell thee true. To none of all thy sisters did she go, Or brothers' wives, nor to Minerva's fane, Where other Trojan dames with flowing hair, That awful goddess by their prayers appease, Particularly prosaic, throughout. ELTON. Straight to his roomy palace Hector came, But found not in the mansion her he sought, White-armed Andromache. She witlj her son And her robed handmaid stood upon the tower. Wailing with loud lament. But when in vain He sought within her house his blameless wife, 43 Hector, advanced upon the threshold, stood And to the damsels spake, "Now tell me true. Ye damsels! whither from her home went forth The fair Andromache? Say doth she seek Her husband's sisters or her brethren's wives. Or at Minerva's temple join the train Of Trojan w^omen who propitiate now With offerings the tremendous Deity?" The careful woman of the household then Addressed reply: "To tell thee. Hector, truth. As thou requirest, neither doth she seek Her husband's sisters nor her brethren's wives. Nor in Minerva's temple join the train Of Trojan w^omen who propitiate now^ With offerings the tremendous Deity," &c. As close a translation as could well be made, even to the nice distinction between eivariQiov and yalotov'^ and as musical as Cowper's and Munford's are unmusical. There is one couplet in Andromache's speech which Sotheby has translated admirably. She has lost all her kindred; Artemis slew her mother; Achilles her father and brethren. "ExzoQ dzccQ ov jiiol iooi TccarjQ YMi norvict fir]Tr^() 7]Se yaaiyvrjTog, ov de f.iOL d^aleQog Tza^axoiTrjg. "But thou. Hector, art to me father and lady mother, and brother, and thou my blooming husband. CHAPMAN. Yet all these gone from me. Thou amply renderest all; thy life makes still my father be ; My mother, brothers ; and besides thou art my husband too . POPE. Yet while my Hector still survives I see My father, mother, brethren, all in thee. COWPER. Yet Hector — oh my husband! I in thee Find parents, brothers, all that I have lost. ELTON. Thou, Hector, art my father! thou to me Art mother, brother, all my joy of life, My husband! u MUNFORD. Yet Hector, thou alone art all to me, Father and honor'd mother. He thinks he has made a point by introducing noxvia^ and doesn't know what the word means. Father and honor'd mother, brother too. My husband dear and partner of my youth! SOTHEBY. Yet thou, my Hector! thou art all, alone, Sire, mother, brethren, husband, all in one. There are some lines of Yriarte, "Sin reglas de arte," &c. , which it might be ill-natured to quote in reference to Sotheby's success here. Now let us leave earth for awhile and ascend to the GODS' COUNCIL. 'ifwg ^ikv xnoxoTienkog ixidiaTO naaav in atav. x. r. A. (Lib. viii. 1—27.) LITERAL VERSION. The saffron-robed morn was spreading over all the earth , when Zeus, the thunder-loving, held for himself an assembly of the Gods, on the highest summit of mannypeaked Olympus. He in person ha- rangued them, and the Gods all listened attentively. "Hear me, Gods and Goddesses all, while I speak what the spirit in my breast bids me. Therefore let no female nor any male divinity endeavor to infringe this my command, but do ye all together approve of it, that I may accomplish these actions as quickly as possible. That deity whom I recognize afar, willingly gone to assist either the Tro- jans or the Greeks, shall return to Olympus, indecorously beaten; or else I will seize and hurl him into gloomy Tartarus, very far oif) where there is a gulf exceedingly deep under ground: where the gates are iron and the flor brass; as far below Hades, as heaven is above earth. Then shall ye know how much the strongest of all the Gods I am. But come now, try me, deities, that ye may all know. Let down a golden chain from heaven and do ye all, Gods and Goddesses, take hold of it : yet will ye not draw down from heaven to earth the supreme counsellor, Zeus; no, not though ye labor exceedingly. But when I too, on my part, shall be willing and eager to draw it, I will draw it up, earth, sea and all. Then will I bind the chain about the peak of Olympus, and all these things shall become suspended in air. So much am I superior to Gods and superior to men, 45 CHAPMAN. The cheerful lady of the light, deck'd in her saffron robe, Dispersed her beams through every part of this enflow- er'd globe, When thundering Jove a court of gods, assembled by his will. In top of all the topmost heights that crown th' Olym- pian hill. He spake, and all the gods gave ear: Hear how I stand inclined, That god nor goddess may attempt t' infringe my sover- eign mind: But all give suffrage; that with speed I may these dis- cords end. What god soever I shall find endeavor to defend Or Troy or Greece, with wounds, to heaven he, shamed, shall reascend: Or (taking him with his offence) I'll cast him down as deep As Tartarus, (the brood of night,) where Barathrum doth steep Torment in his profoundest sinks: where is the floor of brass, And gates of iron; the place, for depth, as far doth hell surpass As heaven, for height, exceeds the earth. Then shall he know from thence How much my power, past all the gods, hath sovereign eminence. Endanger it the whiles and see ; let down our golden chain; And at it let all deities their utmost strength constrain, To draw me to the earth from heaven. You never shall prevail, Though with your most contention, ye dare my state assail: But when my will shall be disposed to draw you all to me, Even with the earth itself, and seas, ye shall enforced be. Then will I to Olympus' top our virtuous engine bind. And by it everything shall hang, by my command inclined: So much I am supreme to gods ; to men supreme as much. Nobly translated, and very faithful. Almost the only deviations from the original, are the introduction of "en- flower'd," the beautiful expansion of 'Hcbg into "the cheer- ful lady of the light," and the substitution of "virtuous (powerful) engine," for "chain," (aeLQriv.) 46 POPE. Aurora now, fair daughter of the dawn, Sprinkled with rosy light the dewy lawn; When Jove convened the senate of the skies. Where high Olympus' cloudy tops arise. The sire of Gods his awful silence broke, The heavens attentive trembled as he spoke: "Celestial states, immortal gods! give ear; Hear our decree, and reverence what ye hear: The fix'd decree, which not all heaven can move; Thou, Fate! fulfill it; and, ye powers! approve! What god but enters yon forbidden field, Who yields assistance, or but wills to yield, Back to the skies with shame he shall be driven, Gash'd with dishonest w^ounds, the scorn of heaven; Or far, oh far from steep Olympus thrown. Low in the dark Tartarean gulf shall groan. With burning chains fix'd to the brazen floors, And lock'd by hell's inexorable doors; As deep beneath the infernal centre hurl'd. As from that centre to the ethereal world. Let him who tempts me dread those dire abodes; And know, the Almighty is the god of gods. League all your forces, then, ye powers above. Join all, and try the omnipotence of Jove : Let down our golden everlasting chain. Whose strong embrace holds heaven, and earth, and main: Strive all, of mortal, and immortal birth. To drag, by this, the Thunderer down to earth. Ye strive in vain! If I but stretch this hand, I heave the gods, the ocean, and the land; I fix the chain to great Olympus' height, And the vast world hangs trembling in my sight ! For such I reign, unbounded and above; And such are men and gods compared to Jove." "Dewy lawn" is weak in this context. The ninth and tenth lines are superfluous. The concluding couplets powerful. Why are the Goddesses left out? In Homer they occupy a conspicuous place. COWPER. The saffron-mantled morning now was spread O'er all the nations, when the thunderer Jove, 47 On the deep-fork'd Olympian's topmost height Convened the gods in council, amid whom He spake himself; they all attehtive heard. Gods! Goddesses! Inhabitants of heaven! Attend; I make my secret purpose known. Let neither god nor goddess interpose My counsel to rescind, but wdth one heart Approve it, that it reach, at once, its end. Whom I shall mark soever from the rest Withdrawn, that he may Greeks or Trojans aid, Disgrace shall find him; shamefully chastised He shall return to the Olympian heights, Or I will hurl him deep into the gulphs Of gloomy Tartarus, where hell shuts fast Her iron gates and spreads her brazen floor, As far below the shades, as earth from heaven. There shall he learn how far I pass in might All others ; which if ye incline to doubt. Now prove me. Let ye down the golden chain From heaven, and at its nether links pull all Both goddesses and gods. But me your King, Supreme in wisdom, ye shall never draw To earth from heaven, toil adverse as ye may. Yet I, when once I shall be pleased to pull. The earth itself, itself the sea, and you Will lift with ease together, and will wind The chain around the spiry summit sharp Of the Olympian, that all things upheaved Shall hang in the mid heaven. So far do I, Compared wdth all who live, transcend them all. Very nervous and remarkably close; sometimes even too literal, e. g., he misses the idiom in avrrj yal/j avr^ SOTHEBY. Morn, golden-robed, had earth illumed, when Jove Convened in council all the pow^ers above. And on Olympus' many-mountained crest The attentive synod of the gods address'd; "Hear, all ye gods! ye, every goddess, hear The word I speak, and what Jove speaks, revere. Let none — ' tis vain — the will of Jove withstand But all approve, so perfect my command, 48 Whoe'er, apart, what god may dare descend. And heavenly aid to Greek or Trojan lend, Shall by unseemly wounds on his return The force and fury of my vengeance learn. Or I Avill hurl him to Tartarean hell Down the far depth where night and horror dwell, The abyss that underneath dark Hades lies Far as yon earth below the ethereal skies; Profoundest gulf of ever during woes. Where iron gates the brazen floor enclose — There shall he know how far all gods above The unimaginable might of Jove. Gods! all your powers concentrate; try the proof; Loose a gold chain from yon celestial roof. There, all in counterpoise all heavenly birth Strive from my throne to draw me down to earth. Vain toil — while I at once uplift each god With all the world of waves and man's abode: Then round the Olympian crest the chain enwreath, Centre of all above, around, beneath. Where all sublimely poised at rest remains W^hile Jove's omnipotence the whole sustains. "Morn, golden-robed had earth illumed," is as stiff and bad a translation as could well be made. The em- phatic conclusion of Zeus, "So much am I above," &c., is most infelicitously omitted. The matter intervening between this unfortunate commencement and conclusion, is not much better. The eighth line is hardly intelligible, and the redundant construction in the ninth very awkward, to say the least. "Shall learn on his return," is wrong. Zeus did not intend to wait for the delinquent's return, but meant to take summary vengeance on him. MUNFORD. Morn, safiron-robed, now shone o'er all the earth, W^hen Jove, rejoicing in his thunderbolts. The gods assembled on the topmost height Of all the summits of immense Olympus. He spoke, and they with awful reverence heard; Hear, all ye gods and all ye goddesses. The sovereign mandate by my mind approved. Let not a male or female deity Attempt to contravene my sacred word, 49 But, all assenting, be it straight fulfilPd If I shall any of the gods perceive Withdrawing from the rest, with rash design To give the Trojans or Achaians aid, That god, with wounds disfigured, shall return, Or headlong, by my forceful arm be hurPd To the deep gulf of gloomy Tartarus, Where, far remote, beneath the ground descends The dark abyss; a dungeon horrible, With gates of iron and with floors of brass. As far below e'en Hades as the space Between earth's surface and the starry sky! By proof then, shall he know, how far indeed My matchless might surpasses all the gods. But come, ye deities, if such your wish, The trial make! Suspending from the skies Our golden chain, let all the powers of heaven Confederate, strive to drag me down to earth! Yet never would your utmost labor move The strength invincible of Jove supreme. But when my sovereign will would draw that chain, With ease I lift it, e'en with earth itself And sea itself appended! Firmly then, I bind it, round Olympus' cliff sublime. And earth and ocean raise aloft in air! So far do I both men and gods transcend! This is Cowper and water. The comparison of the Trojan watchfires to the stars on a clear night, introduces a brief and beautiful des- cription of MOONLIGHT. ^Qg 6' 6V Ev ovQavco aoxQa. x. t. L (Lib. viii, 555-559.) LITERAL VERSION. As when in heaven around the brilliant moon the stars appear very conspicuous: when also the air is free from wind; all the cliffs and high headlands and valleys appear out: the immense mist* breaks up from heaven: all the stars are seen, and the shepherd rejoices at heart. * ccld^TjQ here has generally been taken for "sky," whereby all the translators have stumbled. In Chapman's first version we have - •'And lets a gi-eat sky out from heaven." Vol. I. 4 50 CHAPMAN. As when about the silver moon, when air is free from wind, And stars shine clear; to whose sweet beams, high pro- spects, and the brows Of all steep hills and pinnacles, thrust up themselves for shows; And even the lowly valleys joy, to glitter in their sight, When the unmeasured firmament bursts to disclose her light, And all the signs in heaven are seen that glad the shepherd's heart. This is hardly to be surpassed for beauty and fide- lity. Yet many prefer the elaborate paraphrase of POPE. As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night! O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light, When not a breath disturbs the deep serene. And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene; Around her throne the vivid planets roll. And stars unnumbor'd gild the glowing pole, O'er the dark trees a yelloAver verdure shed, And tip with silver every mountain's head; Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, A flood of glory bursts from all the skies; The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight. Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light. Few passages in Pope are oftener quoted or more admired than this. Of its beauty as a description there can be no doubt. Its merits as a translation are another matter. Respecting them, we must "say ditto" to Elton. "In the first line we are informed that the moon is ^the refulgent lamp of night.' 'Sacred,' in the second, is a cold, make-weight epithet, and adds no sensible image : Hhe solemn scene' is general, where all should be local and particular : the simple reality of moonlight is impaired by the metaphor and personification in the words 'around her throne.' A flood of glory not only verges on bom- bast, but conveys nothing distinct: we receive no clear impression of the boundless firmament opening on the vision by the breaking of the mist overhead, nor of the multitude of stars that are taken in at once by the scope of sight; and the mountain shepherd looking up at the 51 moon from among his flocks, with a sudden sensation of cheeriness in his solitude, is displaced by a vulgar com- pany of swains eyeing the blue vault and blessing the light because it is useful." [Preface to the ''Specimens/') COWPER. As when around the clear bright moon, the stars Shine in in full splendor, and the winds are hush'd, The groves, the mountain-tops, the headland-heights Stand all apparent, not a vapor streaks The boundless blue, but aether opened wide All glitters, and the shepherd's heart is cheer'd. Simple and stately: but there is a redundancy in the '^clear bright moon." Brilliant, would be better; or even shining: this latter would preserve the resemblance bet- ween g)a6Lvrjv and cpaivtTO "In full splendor" is very good for ccQLUQeTiia. ELTON. As beautiful the stars shine out in heaven Around the splendid moon, no breath of wind Ruffling the blue calm aether; cleared from mist The beacon hill-tops, crags and forest dells Emerge in light; the immeasurable sky Breaks from above and opens on the gaze. The multitude of stars are seen at once Full sparkling, and the shepherd looking up Feels gladdened at his heart. ^'Splendid moon" we don't like. ''Calm sether" is superfluous. "Beacon hilltops" and "forest -dells" are legitimate expanisous to give the full force of oxotilch and varcat. The concluding lines are more diffuse than is Elton's wont. SOTHEBY. As when in heaven the stars at night's still noon Beam in their brightness round the fullorb'd moon, When sleeps the wind, and every mountain height. Rocks, cliffs and groves, shine towering up in light, ^ And the vast firmament, immensely riven, Expands for other stars another heaven. Gladdening the shepherd's heart. 4* 52 "At night's still noon," is no part of the original specification. The second couplet is a decided case of anacoluthon. The sonorousness of the third only makes its want of meaning more conspicuous. MUNFORD. As when, in heaven, around the full orb'd moon Resplendent shine the stars, (the clear blue sky Unruffled by a breeze); when all the cliffs And mountain tops, and shadowy groves, though dark. Distinct appear; then, through the parting clouds, Unbounded aether bursts upon the view, And every star is seen; the shepherd's heart Rejoices at the sight Like Cowper he has given both translations of ald^rjQ to be sure of having the right one. The insertion "though dark" and the two parentheses are very stupid. Now let us step over four books — nearly as long a stride as Poseidon's when he stalked down to ^gae — and mount his chariot with him. ^rj 6^ ildav em xv/naT, x. v. h (Lib. xiii. 27 — 31.) LITERALLY IN HEXAMETERS. Over the waves he proceeded to drive; the whales un- derneath him Leaped on all sides from their pits, nor failed their king to acknowledge. While for delight asunder the sea stood: so they flew onward Rapidly, neither beneath was the brazen axletree wetted. So then his swift-springing steeds him bore to the ships of the Grecians. CHAPMAN. And then the god begun To drive his chariot through the waves. From whirlpits every way The whales exulted under him, and knew their king; the sea For joy did open; and his horse so swift and lightly flew, The under axletree of brass no drop of water drew; And thus these deathless coursers brought their king to the Achive ships. 53 Glorious lines these. To be sure, ivaxaQ&f.ioi does not mean "deathless." POPE. He sits superior, and the chariot flies: His whirling wheels the glassy surface sweep; The enormous monsters, rolling o'er the deep, Gambol around him on the watery way; And heavy whales in awkward measures play. The sea subsiding spreads a level plain. Exults and owns the monarch of the main; The parting waves before his coursers fly: The wondering waters leave his axle dry. Pope is continually spoiling Homer's gold by trying to gild it. Hence the "glassy surface," "enormous monsters," "wondering waters," &c. The ideas of subsiding and exulting are not very consistent. COWPER. He o'er the billows drove; the whales. Leaving their caverns, gambol'd on all sides Around him, not unconscious of their king; He swept the surge that tinged not as he pass'd His axle, and the sea parted for joy. His bounding coursers to the Grecian fleet Conveyed him swift. The rapid movement of the original is lost, as indeed it must be in any blank verse. "The sea parted for joy" halts sadly. 60THEBY. And onward urged his car That smoothly glided, while along the waves From the deep darkness of unfathomed caves Huge whales on every side with gamboling bound Leapt, conscious of their king, his steeds around, The sea with joy dividing smoothed the way Where 'mid the glassy main his passage lay. There as they flew, his steeds no brine upcast. Nor ocean bathed his axle as it passed. MUNFORD. O'er ocean's waves the winged coursers flew; Huge whales unwiedly left their secret caves, 54 And joyfully around him gambol'd, all Acknowledging their king, the gladsome sea, Subsiding, gave him way; the coursers bore So rapidly the smoothly-gliding car That not a briny drop of billowy spray Bedewed the whirling axle. To the ships They bore their lord. Two more attempts at improving on Homer by the use of fine words. We now proceed to where APHRODITE LENDS HER GIRDLE TO HERE, BY WHICH SHE CAPTIVATES ZEUS. H, xal aTto atj^d-eocpLv iluaaro xeorov l/navra, x. t. I. (Lib. xiv. 214-217—346-351.) LITERAL VERSION, She spake, and loosed from off her breasts her broidered, varied band: in it were all her charms. In it was friendship, in it desire, in it beguiling converse, that deceives men's minds, very wise though they be. The son of Cronos spoke and clasped his wife in his arms. Beneath them earth divine, caused-to-spring-up fresh verdant herbage, dewy lotus and crocus and hyacinth, thick and soft, which lifted them up from the ground. Amid this they lay down, and were girt by a lovely golden cloud: bright dews distilled from it. CHAPMAN. She answered: 'Tis not fit nor just thy will should be denied, Whom Jove in his embraces holds. This spoken, she untied And from her odorous bosom took her Ceston, in whose sphere Were all enticements to delight, all loves, all longings were, Kind conference, fair speech, whose power the wisest doth inflame. ^ ^ ^ This resolved, into his kind embrace He took his wife ; beneath them both fair Tellus strew'd the place With fresh-sprung herbs, so soft and thick, that up aloft it bore 55 Their heavenly bodies : with his leaves did dewy lotus store The Elysian mountain; saffron flowers and hyacinths help'd make The sacred bed; and there they slept; when suddenly there brake A golden vapor out of air, whence shining dews did fall. POPE. She said. With awe divine the queen of love Obey'd the sister and the wife of Jove ; And from her fragrant breast the zone unbraced, With various skill and high embroidery graced. In this was every art, and every charm, To win the wisest and the coldest warm: Fond love, the gentle vow, the gay desire, The kind deceit, the still reviving fire. Persuasive speech, and more persuasive sighs, Silence that spoke, and eloquence of eyes. Gazing he spoke, and kindling at the view. His eager arms around the goddess threw. Glad Earth perceives, and from her bosom pours Unbidden herbs and voluntary flowers ; Thick newborn violets a soft carpet spread, And clustering lotos swell the rising bed, And sudden hyacinths the turf bestrow. And flamy crocus made the mountain glow, There golden clouds conceal'd the heavenly pair, Steep'd in soft joys, and circumfused with air; Celestial dews, descending o'er the ground. Perfume the mount, and breathe ambrosia round. This is one of the most favorable specimens of Pope ; a beautiful imitation of a beautiful original. The addi- tions are so gracefully expressed that it is impossible to find fault with them. COWPER. So saying, the cincture from her breast she loosed Embroider'd, various, her all-charming zone. It was an ambush of sweet snares, replete With love, desire, soft intercourse of hearts, And music of resistless whisper'd sounds That from the wisest steal their best resolves. 5e So spake the son of Saturn, and his spouse Fast lock'd within his arms. Beneath them earth With sudden herbage teem'd; at once upsprang The crocus soft, the lotus bathed in dew, And the crisp hyacinth with clustering bells; Thick was their growth, and high above the ground Upbore them. On the flowery couch they lay, Invested with a golden cloud that shed Bright dew-drops all around. This passage really seems to bring out our translators in their full strength. These three versions, each in its way, are most excellent. But alas ! for SOTHEBY. Then from her breast unclasp'd the embroider'd zone. Where each embellishment divinely shone; There dwell the allurements all that love inspire, There soft seduction, there intense desire. There witchery of words whose flatteries weave Wiles that the wisdom of the wise deceive. This is not so bad, but wait a moment. He spake, and clasp'd his bride, the joyous earth Burst into bloom of odoriferous birth; There the blue hyacinth, gold crocus rose, And the moist lotus oped its cup of snows; There underneath them their soft broidery spread, Swell'd gently up and formed their fragrant bed; And as the gods lay there dissolved in love. Resplendent dew-drops gemm'd their gold alcove QO This is rather too much. Zeus and Here in an alcove! He should have put them into an entresol in the Rue Richelieu at once. MUNFORD. She said; and from her breast a zone unclasp'd, Embroider'd rich with variegated dyes. That girdle all her sweet enticing arts Contained. There fondness dwelt, there tender looks. Attractive, soothing speech, and flattery's charms, Which steals the wits of wisest men away. * ^ * * * * * * The son of Saturn spake, and in his arms 5T His consort clasp'd. For them the sacred earth, Spontaneous, herbage from her bosom pour'd, With new-born flow'rets; lotus, dewy moist. And ruddy saffron, purple hyacinth, Thickly bestrewed and soft, a fragrant bed, Which, swelling, raised them high above the ground. There they delighted lay, conceal'd within A beauteous golden cloud, which glittering dews Around them shed. Whe had some more passages marked to extract, but by this time the reader must be ready to unite with us in the question. Why did Munford translate the Iliad, and why did his friends publish his translation? There are three men living who could translate Homer well, Elton, Tennyson and Aytoun; but the first is too old, the second too lazy, and the third too busy. PHONICS AND PHONETICS. Literary World, January 1848. ComstoclCs Phonetic Reader. Philadelphia: E. H. Butler & Co. 1847. Comstock's Phonetic Speaker. Do. Do. Comstock's Phonetic Magazine. Philadelphia: A. Comstock. 1847. DR. COMSTOCK, or, as he spells himself phonetically, and doubtless prefers to be spelled, Dr. Komstok, pro- poses simply to alter and remodel the entire orthography of our language; and as a necessary means of carrying out this somewhat comprehensive and radical reform, he announces a perfect alphabet. A perfect alphabet ! When it is considered that per- fection is predicable of few sublunary works, and that all existing alphabets are allowed to have some imper- fections in the way of deficiency, redundancy, or incon- gruity of some sort, the announcement is not a little startling, and savors of something very like arrogance. But "to us much meditating'' (as Brougham saith after 58 Cicero), another interpretation has occurred which renders the assertion less wonderful and more admissible. There is a popular use of the adjective perfect as an intensive epithet without involving the exact idea of freedom from imperfection. Thus, when particularly injured or annoyed by the stupidity of some not over-sagacious individual, we irately speak of him as ^'a perfect fool." Thus, Mr. Headley denominates a number of unfortunate de- ceased, ^^a perfect carpet of corpses." And thus, when we have occasion to show^ up some would-be scholar, poet, or philosopher, his friends are sure to cry out by way of irresistible vindication of him and confutation of ourselves, that he is "a perfect gentleman." We may then call Dr. Komstok's a perfect alphabet, meaning thereby, as we should say in common parlance, that it is "quite an alphabet," or "considerable of an alphabet," or as Punch's "fast man" would express it, "no end of an alphabet." And indeed this last phrase is not inap- propriate to the "Phonetic Alphabet," considering its length. It comprises forty-four letters, thirty-eight "simple" and six "compounds." Of the simple letters, fifteen are vowels, including all the vowel and nearly all the diph- thongal sounds of the language, viz. the four sounds of a^ the ordinary long and short sounds of e, i, and m, the 00 or continental u long (which Dr. K. classes with the sounds of o), the short sound of the same as in full (which he classes with the sounds of ii) and the diph- thong ow or ou. The consonants, divided into fourteen "subvowels" and nine "aspirates," are the established English consonants, minus c and x, with additional cha- racters or new appropriations of old characters to repre- sent sh, eh, wh, ng, the French j , and the sounds of th. Each letter has its distinct character, and five of the compound letters, oi, j, ch, gs, x, have characters com- pounded of the simple ones, expressing their component sounds. The sixth, ai in fair , has a character of its own. "All the consonants in the Anglo-American ('alias the Phonetic') alphabet are sanctioned by English, French, Greek, or Gothic usage." For instance, c represents the sound of sh^ because (we are not answerable for the logic here) ch in French has the same sound. There are some obvious objections to the theoretical construction of this alphabet. Thus we may ask, why 59 is 01 to be considered a compound letter and ou a simple one? The former, is as Dr. K. properly enough states, composed of the sounds aw^ et ; is not the latter as clearly composed of the sounds ah, oo? Does not the power of the diphthong au in Spanish, Italian, and German, confirm this? Nay more, are not the sounds of i and ii long diphthongal sounds quite as much as oi^ and do they not exist as diphthongs in the continental languages? And how is ai in fair to be made out a diphthong? Dr. K. says, it is compounded of a lon^ and u short and he makes lair and layer equivalent sounds. Now, with all submission, it strikes us that layer is decidedly a dissyl- lable with the sound of the consonant y distinctly appre- ciable in it. As to the supposed distinction between ai in fair and a in fate^ whe have said enough on that point lately. Our more immediate concern, however, is with the practical applicability of the alphabet. Of course, the first obstacle which meets ns in limine is, that it is no joke to ask a whole people to unlearn their letters and learn them over again. To this Dr. K. replies, that the perfection of his alphabet enables any one to learn it in an hour; and there is a case adduced of a won- derful "phonic girl in Michigan," who did so. Now, we do not profess to be "phonic" ourselves (not clearly understanding what it means, but like the little boy in the story who was called a philosopher, we "hope ifs nothing bad"), and that may make some difference, but we have studied the type of the Phonetic Magazine much more than an hour (more we confess to decipher some specimens of Cherokee and other curious tongues which we found in it, than with any intention of adopting the Komstokography) and are yet far from being able to read it with fluency. One constant source of confusion is, that familiar characters have new sounds affixed to them. Thus e represents long a; c, sh; z, the French j, and so on. With the written alphabet it is still worse ; different forms of the same letter (according to the pre- sent system) are made to stand for different sounds, and sounds as different in some cases as e and x; some of the characters very nearly resemble each other; and, indeed, the Phonetic written alphabet seems to us nearly as inconvenient as the German — and what that is, any one who has learned, or tried to learn to write eo German, can testify. Again, there are cases in which the proposed spelling is contrary not merely to habit, but to the very genius and theory of the language. It is one of the most striking peculiarities of English pro- nuniciation that e final is mute, and that this mute e final when preceded by a single consonant lengthens the vowel preceding that consonant which would otherwise be short. To write the words mate^ mite ^ as Dr. K. proposes, met, mit, is not merely foreign, but absolutely repugnant to the idea of every one who has at all examined the prin- ciples of his own language. The next obvious objection is that the new system would throw out all the printed books now in existence, so that, unless reprinted, they would be lost to future generations. To this Dr. K. answers that we must reflect that "the English tongue has been racked by periodical changes in spelling, which appear to have been founded not upon phonology, but upon caprice. By these fluctua- tions in orthography, many words have been repeatedly rendered unintelligible, and consequently useless, until reprinted in a new spelling." (So the remedy for this is to render all works "unintelligible, and consequently useless," until, &c.) and he then proceeds to argue from sundry examples (very ingeniously and plausibly selected, we admit), that the changes which the language has undergone, are chiefly in spellinq , those in pronunciation being very slight, so that "the New Alphabet is restoring^ not destroying the language." If any one wishes to know how far this will hold water, let him recall to mind the first two couplets of Chaucer; or, without going so far back, recollect how ocean was pronounced by Milton, and Rome by Shakspeare. But so far is Dr. K. from being moved by any of these things, that he is preparing to adapt his "phonetic alphabet" to the European lan- guages, beginning with the French ; and one of the num- bers of his magazine contains an ''Avis mix Frangais^^^ on the matter, which we sincerely hope may some day meet the eye of the Charioari. And certainly his plan derives some encouragement from that most erroneous popular idea which makes education to consist in cram- ming the mind with facts, not in disciplining it to use the facts it meets with, and therefore seeks to dispense with or abridge as much as possible all preparatory steps. 61 We have an excellent specimen of this in a Mr. O. Whee- lock,* who writes thus to the editor of the Phonetic Magazine. "DEAR SIR: — I have examined the last Number of your monthly Magazine, and I take the liberty to say that I heartily approve of your Phonetic Alphabet — the more so on account of the perplexity I have expe- rienced in spelling, both in learning and teaching; for I have ever considered the spelling of a class of pupils a mere game of haphkzard, and have often felt the necessity of some such system, long before I ever heard of yours. Of the 85,000 words in our language, only about 60, I think, are spelled strictly according to their sound — nearly 85,000 separate impressions are to be stamped upon the me- mory before he can spell perfectly the English language! This it takes him [whom?} a lifetime to accomplish [! !] to the neglect of the more useful branches. Were a person required to remember the names of 85,000 plants, the task would be thought too great for the mind to accomplish; still how much greater the task to learn and remember the exact position of all the letters of 85,000 words ! [How exactly parallel the two cases are !J Yet should a man make pretension to an education, and spell one word wrong, he would subject himself to ridicule." Of course the next step after the Perfect Alphabet will be a Perfect Grammar, with no irregular inflections, or exceptions to any of its rules. Such a scheme, indeed, is quite as sensible in theory and as feasible in practice, as that of the New Alphabet. It will help us to form an idea of the practicability of establishing a universal alphabet, if w^e look at another uniformity which, though involving far less difficulty, has never yet been attained — we mean a uniform pronun- ciation of the ancient languages. In this respect, the literary world has made no progress since the time of Erasmus: the Englishman who speaks Latin is unin- telligible to the German; the German who speaks Latin is ridiculous to the Frenchman. Even in our own country it has not been possible to bring about this uniformity — Greek is still pronounced one way in New York and another in Boston. We remember that some years ago there was a congress of professors held here to take * So ignorant is this gentleman of the principles of our language, that he is actually at a loss for a rule to determine the sound of a in male. 62 into consideration this very matter. Various schemes were proposed. There was much talk about the modern Greek system. Professor Woolsey informed the conclave (whether in real or ironical recommendation, or whether simply as sl piece of information, we w^ill not pretend to say) that this was the pronunciation of the uncient Boeotians; and at length the grave assembly broke up decidedly re infecta. But let us suppose the Phonetic system established as the standard orthography of the English language : is it certain that it would put an end to all the difficulties, of the subject, and that it w^ould render mispronunciation impossible — a point on which Dr. K. is particularly san- guine? Here, again, an analogy from experience will afford us some aid. The Spanish alphabet is remarkably simple, having but one silent letter,* and two letters with dif- ferent sounds; but we have yet to learn that it is a phenomenon to find a Spaniard who spells or pronounces incorrectly, or that the Spanish language is particularly free from dialects and local peculiarities. We may be sure that those sturdy democrats of language w^ho find the ordinary rules of orthography too grievous a burden, would not long submit even to the rules of Dr. K. The mere desire to distinguish between words pronounced alike, such as fair and fare^ which the "Phonetic" system completely confounds (this is an objection, and a very serious one, which seems never to have occurred to the "Phonologists"), would introduce some variation. Again there are words as to the pronunciation of which the best authorities differ (e. g. either and neither)^ j" and others in which the American usage differs from the English (e. g. all w^ords beginning with wh). How can this fail to introduce a diversity? — unless Dr. K. is to be the sole arbiter of pronunciation as w^ell as spelling. Were this new orthography established, it would soon dege- nerate into general license: one man's "system" w^ould * The Spanish h affords a striking exemplification of the occa- sional value of those silent letters which our Phonetic reformers so contemptuously reject. Though of no use at all in pronunciation, it is of great importance to the philologist as it represents the Latin f, facis, hacer, filius, hijo, &c. \ "Do you say either or eether?" some one asked Dr. Johnson. '•^Naytherr replied the Lexicographist. 6B be confusion to his neighbors. Probably every one of our readers can furnish from his own experience some instance of amusing perplexity caused him by a practical "phonographer" — for phonographers were living before Dr. Komstok, though generally in very humble Vv^alks of life. The story of Dr. Franklin's chambermaid * is well known. We have heard one nearly as good. Some ship-owners during the last war received a letter from their Captain, w^hose literary abilities were not quite equal to his nautical. After passing through various ^'Phonetic" spellings, such as bloked for blockade^ they were at length brought to a full stop by the occurrence of the word wig^ in a place where it could not possibly be made to harmonize with the context. As a last resort an old tar who had more than once sailed under the captain was summoned. Jack glanced at the hierogly- phic, and instantly interpreted thus, "Its all plain enough, Cap'n says as how the wyge (voyage) 'II be a good one after all." Indeed the "Phonetic Reformers" are already disa- greeing among themselves. We see in the Phonetic Ma- gazine much thunder launched against one Pitman, an Englishman, who uses some characters "like those on a tea-chest" (misled perhaps by some fancied etymological connexion between teachest and teacher)^ and others "like Apothecaries' drams and scruples" (Dr. K. has no scruples about his alphabet). There is also a paper published in this city called the Anglo-Sacsun ^ on yet another dif- ferent system of "Phonotypy," which publishes a list of 150 teachers of, and lecturers on "the true system of spelling w^ords — that is, just as they are pronounced." We are uncharitable enough to doubt whether all these teachers and lecturers believe in their own graphy and typy^ whatever it may be, and w^hether some of them are not speculating on the public avidity for new hobbies and delusions. Of Dr. K. himmself , w^e would not wil- * Franklin is claimed as the parent of "Phonography," and thus spoken of in the Phonetic Magazine : "His facetiousness and reputation set that Phonetic spirit in action which has now reached its perfection in form through the genius of Dr. Andrew Comstock." Chapeau bus! Chapeau has! Gloire au Marquis de Carabas! 64 lingly suppose anything harsh, especially after the flat- tering things he has said of our "tight little island," respecting which he states poetically (for the Doctor is a poet no less than a philosopher), that "Manhattan is an isle , Where talent is spontaneous ; Where people freely write Their pieces miscellaneous." Of him then, and of all sincere believers in ''Phonotypy," we cannot take leave better than in the words of Thu- cydides. "We bless their innocence, but do not envy their simplicity." THE PROSE WRITINGS OF ANDRE CHENIER.* American Review, January 1848. EVERY one at all conversant with French literature has heard of the young poet, who "struck his lyre at the foot of the scaffold," and whose last verses were interrupted by the summons of the executioner. It is not so generally known that this man was one of the most vigorous, independent, and sagacious prose writers of the exciting period at which he lived. The first feeling on reading his political essays is one of surprise, that writers on the French Revolution should have alluded to him only as the poet — or rather the youth who would have been a poet, had he not perished so young. Even his cousin^ M. Thiers, while going so far as to call him a distinguished poet,f makes not the least mention of his controversial writings. * (Euvres en Prose d' Andre Chenier. Paris : Charles Gosselin 1840. f "Dans le nombre etaient deux poetes celebres, Roucher, I'auteur des Mois, et le jeune Andre Chernier, qui lassa d'admirables ebauches." — Thiers^ Revolution Fran(^aise, vi. 200. 65 Now in this we are persuaded that Ch^nier has not been fairly treated. His poetry, rough and fragmentary as most of it is, does not put him very high on Par- nassus — even the Gallic Parnassus. His longer pro- ductions are principally imitations of the classics; and everybody knows what French imitations of the classics are, and that they resemble the Greek originals about as much as the domestic madonnas, so common in a certain city of this Union, do the Raphaels at Florence. To our mind the man who could translate allalaig XaKevvxai tsov yaf.iov at xvnaQLoaaL, C'est ce bois qui de joie et s'agite et murmure, had fallen very far short of the spirit of Theocritus. In shorter pieces, (such as his stanzas to Fanny, and other erotics,) where he had, partially at least, escaped from the influence of his classic pseudo-models, there is more poetic fire. But even his last and best known verses, "Comme un dernier rayon, comme un dernier zephyre," &c., owe their celebrity more to the unexampled circumstances under which they were written, than to any intrinsic merit. And, generally, his "rough sketches," (ebauches,) as Thiers appropriately calls them, have been praised by his compatriots, chiefly for the promise they gave, as if, to use his own dying words, he "had something in his head," which would have come out with more time and opportunity. Now this sort of reputation is, we repeat it, very far below Chenier's deserts. And we would vindicate for him, not the vague and doubtful renown of a possible poet, but the real and tangible character of an excellent political writer, with a strong and clear style, an indomitable spirit of independence, and a saga- city which, considering the circumstances in which he was placed, is but faintly depicted by the epithet extra- ordinary. Before proceeding to justify this claim of ours in detail, we will mention two facts which may, at any rate, tend to gain us a hearing. It was Andr^ Ch^nier whom the conservative secession from the Jacobin Club, selected to prepare their manifesto and profession of faith. It was Andr^ Ch^nier who composed that letter in which the unfortunate Louis XVI. made his last appeal to the people. Vol. I. 5 66 Louis Ch^nier, a French consul, married a Greek beauty. His third son, Andre, was born at Constantinople, in 1762. Sent to France in his infancy, and liberally educated, he entered the army, and at the age of twenty was in quarters at Strasburg as a sub-lieutenant. A soldier's life, in time of peace, is particulary unsatis- factory to an active and ambitious young man. In six months Andre quitted his profession forever, and returned to Paris. There he began to study furiously. He seems to have proposed for himself w^hat Chatham is said to have proposed for his son, "to learn the whole Cyclo- paedia." As is usual in such cases, he read himself nearly to death. His health was partially restored by a journey in Switzerland, during which he made some eftorts to commit his impressions to paper; but his enthusiasm was too buoyant to be thus fixed, and he had not sufficient command over his own feelings. Next he w^ent to Eng- land, in the suite of the ambassador, (the Count of Lu- cerne,) a very likely way of taming any excess of spirits. With England he was displeased, as most foreigners, and especially most Frenchmen, may well be on short acquaintance. Yet his penetrating mind fully appreciated the strong common sense of the English people; and the contrast which he subsequently drew betw^een the political clubs of London and those of Paris, was not at all flattering to his countrymen. It was not till 1790 that he established himself at Paris, and applied himself seriously to poetic composition. The state of public affairs soon turned his talents in ano- ther direction. The Friends of the Constitution^ afterwards so formidable as the Jacobins^ had in their progress to- wards anarchy, eliminated from themselves a number of moderate men, among whom were De Pange and Con- dorcet. The result was the Society of 1789, a society whose object was pretty w^ell indicated by its title. Ch^nier joined these men, and to him as the best or boldest, or both, of their writers, was the task assigned of putting forth an official statement of their principles, of "defining their position," as our phrase is. This he did in an essay on the momentous question, ^^Who are the real enemies of the French? He begins with a graphic sketch of the con- dition of France at that time: — 67 "When a great nation, after having grown gray in careless error, wearied at length of evils and oppression, wakes from this long le- thargy, and by a just and lawful insurrection enters upon all its rights, and overturns the order of things which violated all those rights, it cannot in an instant find itself calmly established in its new condition. The strong impulse given to so weighty a mass, makes it vacillate for some time before it can recover its equilibrium. After all that is bad has been destroyed, and those charged with the execution of reforms are pursuing their work in haste, we must not hope that a people still heated with emotion , and exalted by success , can stay quiet and wait peaceably for the new government that is preparing for them. All imagine they have acquired the right of co-operating in the government, and demand the exercise of that right with an unrea- sonable impatience. Every one wishes, not merely to assist and protect, but even to preside over a part, at least, of the fabric; and as the general interest of these partial reforms is not so striking to the multitude, their unanimity is less thorough and active. The number of feet retards the general progress ; the number of arms the general action. "In this state of uncertainty, politics take hold of every mind. All other labors are suspended ; all the old-fashioned kinds of indu- stry are banished; men's heads are heated; they originate ideas, or think they originate them ; they pursue them ; they see nothing else ; the patriots who at first made but one body, because they looked to but one end, begin to discover differences, in most cases imaginary, among themselves ; every one labors and struggles ; every one wishes to show himself; every one would carry the flag; every one in his principles, his speeches, his actions, wishes to go beyond all others. * * * * ^ * * * * "These agitations, provided that a new order of things, wisely and promptly established, does not give them time to go too far, may not be injurious, nay, may turn out a public benefit, by exciting a sort of patriotic emulation ; and if while all this is going on, the na- tion is enlightening and fashioning itself by really liberal principles; if the representatives of the people are not interrupted in the work of forming a constitution ; and if the whole political machine is ten- ding towards a good government, all these trifling inconveniences will vanish of themselves, and there is no cause for alarm. But if we see that, for from disappearing, the germs of political hatred are taking deeper root ; if we see grave accusations and atrocious impu- tations multiplied at random ; if we see everywhere a false spirit and false principles working blindly, as if by some fatality, in the most numerous class of citizens; if we see at the same moment in every corner of the empire illegal insurrections brought on in the same manner, founded on the same misapprehensions, defended by the same 5* 68 Bophistries; if we see frequent appearances in arms on the part of that lowest class of the people, who understanding nothing, having nothing, possessing no interest in anything, can only sell themselves to whoever will huy them; then such symptoms must be alarming." Here was enough to fix upon Chenier the fatal enmity of the Jacobins. What, the "poor and virtuous people" that Robespierre delighted to prate about, ready to "sell themselves to whoever would buy them!" The young conservative w^as a doomed man adready. He goes on to say that such a deplorable state of things must be owing to the machinations of some public enemies? Kot the Austrians, fatigued and exhausted by their own wars; nor the English, "that nation about w^hich the Parisians talk so much and know so little ;" * nor yet the emigrants. These last have been influenced by fear, prejudice and ignorance. The surest way to bring them back and make them good citizens is to present such a spectacle of order and tranquillity as will show them that their fears and prejudices are unfounded. But even admitting their hostility, what can such a faction accomplish if the State is united? And this leads to the first conclusion, that the real public enemies are those causes which 'prevent the re-establishment of public tranquillity. Now what are these causes? "Everything that has been done in this revolution, good or bad, is owing to writings: in them, perhaps, then, we shall find the source of the evils that threaten us." And, accordingly, he proceeds to show that these public enemies are the encouragers and apologists of popular excesses. After a hasty summary of these excesses, he exclaims, with a natural and virtuous indignation — "And to think that there are writers blood- thirsty or cowardly enough to come forward as the pro- tectors and excusers of these murders! That they dare to abet them ! That they dare to point out this and that victim! That they have the audacity to give the name of popular justice to these horrible violations of all justice and all law! To be sure, the power of hanging, like all other powers, is ultimately referable to the people, but it is a frightful thing, if this is the only power which they are not willing to exercise by their representatives." Then follow several pages of just and powerful in- Equally true this, at the present day. 69 vective against "those people to whom all law is bur- densome, all restraint insupportable, all rule odious ; peo- ple for whom an honest life is the most oppressive of yokes! They hated the old government, not because it was bad but because it was a government; they will hate the new; they will hate all, whatever be their nature." How accurately Chenier foresaw what would be the consequence of giving in to these people may be seen from the following extract: — ''Now, as I was saying, is it not evident that, on the one hand, the workmen and day-laborers of every class, who only live by con- stant and steady work, abandoning themselves to this turbulent indo- lence, will no longer be able to gain a subsistence, and before long, stimulated by hunger, and the rage which hunger inspires, will only think of seeking for money wherever they imagine it may be found? On the other hand, it is hardly necessary to say that the farms and workshops thus abandoned will cease to be capable of supplying that income of individuals which alone makes the public income. No more taxes then; consequently no more public service; consequently the upper classes reduced to misery and despair ; the army disbanded and pillaging the country; the infamy of a national bankruptcy ac- complished and declared; the citizens all in arms against each other. No more taxes ; consequently no more government; the National As- sembly obliged to abandon its task, and put to flight; universal slaughter and conflagration : provinces towns, and individuals mutually accusing one another of their common disasters ; France torn to pieces by the convulsions of this incendiary anarchy." There was no want of respectable persons to laugh at these alarms and pity the alarmists. Chenier has a word for these: ''I should like these persons, for our entire satisfaction , to deign to take pen in hand, and prove that these fermentations, these tem- pests, these continued pangs, have not the tendency which I attributed to them; that they do not produce a spirit of insubordination and want of discipline ; or, if they please, that this spirit is no the most formidable enemy of law and liberty, I should like them also to show us what will become of France, if the bulk of the French people? wearied of their own indiscretions and the anarchy resulting from them , wearied of never arriving at the goal which they have them- selves continually put further off, should come to believe that liberty is only to be found in disgust of liberty, and, as the remembrance of former evils is readily efl'aced, should end by regretting their old yoke of quiet degradation." He proceeds to draw an important distinction: — ^0 "These same persons are never tired of repeating to us that things are preserved by the same means which have acquired them. If by this they mean that courage, activity and union are as neces- sary to preserve liberty as to win it, nothing is more incontrovertible or more irrelevant ; but if they understand that in both cases this courage, and activity, and union, are to manifest themselves in the same way and by the same actions, they are very much mistaken. The very contrary is the truth, for in destroying and overthrowing a colossal and unjust powder, the more ardent and headlong our courage the more certain our success. But afterwards, when our ground is cleared and we have to rebuild on extensive and durable foundations, when we must make after having unmade, then our courage should ce the very reverse of what it was at first. It should be calm, pru- dent and deliberate; it should manifest itself only in wisdom, tenacity and patience ; it should fear to resemble those torrents which ravage without fertilizing. Hence it follows that the means which accomplis- hed the Revolution, if they continue to be employed without addition or qualification, can only destroy its efficiency by hindering the con- stitution from being established. Hence again it follows that those wild pamphleteers, those unruly demagogues, who, enemies, as we have seen, of all government and all restraint, thundered against old abuses at the beginning of the Revolution, were then right enough.* for they found themselves for the moment united with all honest men in proclaiming the truths which have made us free ; but that now they ought not to claim our confidence as a debt, or accuse our want of attention as a want of gratitude, while in using the same expres- sions and the same declamations against an absolutely new order of things, they are preaching an entirely different doctrine, which would conduct us to a different end. What remedies and safeguards are to be adopted? Popular errors are apt to arise from ignorance, rather than deliberate wickedness. The real principles of civil liberty must be carefully inculcated. Here are some of the things which every citizen ought to know and feel : - "That there can be no happiness and freedom in society without government and public order. "That there can be no private wealth, unless the public revenue, or in other words, the public wealth, is secure. "That the public wealth cannot be secure without public order. * An application of the same principle explains what has puzzled some good men — how Protestants may consistently join with skeptics in opposing the abuses of the Romish Church, where Romanism is the prevailing religion. 71 '■''That, while in despotic states a blind obedience to the caprices of despots is called public order, under a free constitution founded on the national sovereignty, public order is the only safeguard of persons and property, the only support of the constitution. "That there is no constitution, unless all the citizens are freed from every illegal restraint , and cordially united to bear the yoke of the law — a yoke always light when all bear it equally. '"■That every respectable nation respects itself. "That every nation which respects itself respects its own laws and magistrates. "That there is no liberty without law. "That there is no law if one part of society, be it the majority or not, can forcibly assail and attempt to overthrow the former ge- neral wish which has made a law, without waiting for the times and observing the forms indicated by the constitution. "That, when the constitution gives a legal way of reforming a law which experience has shown to be faulty, insurrection against a law is the greatest crime of which a citizen can be guilty : for he thereby dissolves society so far as in him lies, and this is the real crime of treason. "That there is no liberty if all do not obey the law, and if any one is obliged to obey anything except the law and its agents. "That no one ought to be arrested, searched, examined, judged, or punished, except according to law and by the agents of the law* "That the law is only applicable to actions, and that all inquisi- tions upon opinions and thoughts are no less violations of liberty when exercised in the name of the people, than when exercised in the name of tyrants." If these brief sentences had been written at the present day; if they had appeared, for instance, in an article of the Courier and Enquirer, or our own Review, against the anti-renters, while it could not be denied that they expressed sound political views in a bold and forcible manner, it might be said that they contained nothing very striking or remarkable, but were only a succinct and vigorous statement of what all honest and sane men believed. But composed, as they were, at a period when of the two great experiments whence we derive most of our political experience, the one was just beginning and the other had not had time to w^ork; a period when the majority of reformers and philosophers thought vdth Jefferson, that "the old system of govern- ment had been tried long enough," and the only escape from it w^as to rush into the opposite extreme of no 72 government at all except the temporary will of an occa- sional majority, they denote uncommon sagacity and foresight, and prove that Ch^nier had the head of a statesman no less than the heart of a patriot. Most particularly worthy of notice is the clearness of his finan- cial views, and the accuracy with which he traced the connection between private and public wealth. It was then a favorite delusion, that the nation might be bankrupt without affecting the fortunes of individuals. The great hero and apostle of democratic despotism who rose out of the Revolution, fell into the contrary error of supposing that the public treasury might continue to be recruited by the appropriation of private capital, not seeing that, to use an ancient but apposite illustration, he was thus killing the goose that laid the golden eggs. It was reserved for a still more modern democracy to invent a still wiser and honester financial expedient — that of repudiating the obligations, while they enjoy the acquisitions, of past generations. The Avis aux Frnncais made a great sensation, which was not confined to France. Two circumstances will show the extent and force of its influence. The Polish king Stanislaus Augustus, caused it to be translated into his language, and sent a token of his esteem to the au- thor, who returned a letter of thanks: of course, the friends of the Constitvtion were still more amiably disposed to him, after this royal correspondence. And Condorcet, finding that he could no longer take the lead in the Society of 1789, broke up that association so far as lay in his power, and went straight over to the Jacobins. Chenier's reputation emboldened him to present himself in the following year, (1791,) as a candidate for the assembly; but, as might have been predicted of a man so independent and so much beyond his age, he was unsuccessful. After this he contnued to attak and expose the Jacobins in the Journal de Paris, a paper professedly neutral, and publishing communications on any side as paid advertisements, but edited by men of a conversative leaning. The Jacobins were not slow to answer their bold assailant. They set upon him his own brother, Marie Joseph, the youngest of the four, who had by some means been inveigled into their ranks. The discussion, which lasted several months and was only broken off at 78 the urgent entreaties of the rest of the family, displayed at the outset, but did not long preserve, the moderation and delicacy demanded by the uncommon position of the parties. The two brothers all but O'Connellized each other. They applied to each other's writings the epithet of infamous, then a pet word in the vocabulary of the French journalists, and more usually merited than such pet words generally are. How Joseph Chenier came to take sides with the Jacobins, is not perfectly clear. It seems probable that they flattered his vanity, and made him half believe that his brothers' opposition was attri- butable to envy and jealousy. For when most angry with Andre, his bitterest taunt is to remind him of the election for deputies. A very young man among Demo- crats may be pardoned for supposing that offlcie and honor are synonymous, and not reflecting that where merit is no longer the test of advancement, the correla- tive mentioned by Sallust is unavoidable. * If, however, the leading Jacobins supposed, that by getting up this personal issue they had succeeded in di- verting or weakening Andre Chenier's attacks upon them, they were very much mistaken. In the vdnter of 1792, an event occurred, which, by eminently exposing them to his ridicule, specially marked him out for their ven- geance. Two years before, a Swiss regiment had been condemned to the galleys for mutiny. Their offences were gross and unequivocal: they had refused to swear to the Constitution, plundered the regimental chest, and fired upon the National Guard. But General Bouill^, against whom they then revolted, had now proved a traitor to the popular cause. In a fit of childish spite against him, the Swiss were pardoned; on motion of Collot d'Herbois, the amnesty was changed into a triumph; a fete was given to the liberated culprits, and Petion, as mayor of Paris, presided at it. The intense absurdity of the affair threw into the shade its injustice and danger; and Chenier was not the man to let any of this absurdity be lost. He satirized and ridiculed the Jacobins in prose and verse. He sketched a plan for the new^ ovation: — * "Verura ex his magistratus et imperia, postremo omnis cura rerum piiblicarum minime mihi hac tempestate cupiunda videntur quoniam neque virtnti honos datiir, neque illi quibus per fraudem is fuit, utique tuti aut eo magis honesti sunt " — Sallust, Bell. Jug., Cap. 3. 74 "The Romans used to engrave on brass the names of those ge- nerals to whom they granted a triumph, and their titles to so great an honor. I suppose the city of Paris will follow this example, and the happy witnesses of the triumphal entry will read inscribed on the car of victory: " 'For having revolted with arms in their hands , and replied to the reading of the National Assembly's decree which recalled them to their duty, 'that they persisted in their revolt:' " 'For having been declared guilly of high treason by a decree of the National Assembly, Aug. 16, 1790; '"For having plundered the regimental chest; "'For having spoken these memorable words: We are not French- men; we are Swiss; we must have money; "'For having fired upon the National Guards of Metz and other places, who marched to Nancy in accordance with the decrees of the National Assembly.'" And he proceeds, with unanswerable irony: — "General Bouille deceived all France and its representatives. None but these Swiss soldiers penetrated his bad designs. They saw that he would take the first opportunity to become a perjured traitor, Accordingly they took up arms against him, and made sure of the regimental chest, for fear this money, falling into his less patriotic hands, should serve the purposes of the counter-revolutionists. "Since General Bouille has shown himself a cowardly and trea- cherous enemy of his country, it is clear that those who fired on him, and on the French citizens marching under his orders by virtue of a decree of the National Assembly, cannot but be excellent patriots. "In every criminal case there can be but one culpable party. For example, when a murdered man is proved to have been a rogue, it is evident that his murderer must be an honest man." The only reply Collot d'Herbois and his myrmidons could make, was to charge Ch^nier with being hired by the Court, and to threaten him with assassination — two excellent radical arguments. Ch^nier had already drawn a portrait of the Jacobin Club, too faithful not to provoke their fiercest indigna- tion. This sketch was published in the supplement to the Journal de Paris, February 26, 1792, just a month before the letter from which we have been quoting: — "There exists in the midst of Paris a numerous association, hol- ding frequent meetings , open to all who are , or pretend to be, patriots, always governed by leaders visible or invisible, who are continually changing and mutually destroying one another, but who have always the same object— the supreme power; and the same in- 75 tention— to get that power "by whatever means. This society, formed at a moment when liberal principles, though sure to triumph, were not yet completely established, necessarily attracted a great number of citizens who were filled with alarm and warmly attached to the good cause. Many of these had more zeal than knowledge. With them glided in many hypocrites; so did many people who were in debt, without industry, poor through their own indolence, and seeing something to hope for in any change. Many wise and just men who know that in a well regulated State all the citizens do not attend to public affairs, while all ought to attend to their private affairs, have since retired from it; whence it follows that this association must be chiefly composed of some skilful players, who arrange the cards and profit by them, of some subordinate intriguers with whom an habitual eagerness for mischief takes the place of talent, and a large number of idlers, honest, but ignorant and short-sighted, inca- pable of any bad intention themselves, but very capable of forwarding the bad intentions of others without knowing it. "This society has generated an infinity of others ; towns, boroughs, and villages are full of them. They are almost all under the orders of the parent society, with which they keep up a most active corre- spondence. It is a body in Paris and the head of a larger body extending over France. In the same way did the Church of Rome plant the failJi, and govern the world by its congregations of monks. "This system was imagined and executed two years ago by men of great popularity, who saw very well that it was means of increasing their power and preserving their popularity, but did not see how perilous an instrument it was. So long as they ruled these societies, all the errors there committed met their warmest approbation : but since they have been blown up by this mine of their own kindling, they detest the excesses which are no longer to their profit, and, talking more truth without possessing more wisdom, combine with honest men in cursing their old master-piece. "The audience before which these societies deliberate, constitutes, their strength; and when one considers that men of business do not neglect their affairs to listen at the debates of a club , and that men of intelligence prefer the silence of the closet, or the peaceable con- versation, to the tumult and clamors of these noisy crowds, it is easy to see what must be the ordinary composition of the audience, and further, what sort of language is the best recommendation to them. One simple fallacy is all-sufficient: the constitution being founded on that eternal truth, the sovereignty of the people, it is only necessary to persuade the listeners at the club that they are the people. "Lecturers and journal - mongers have generally adopted this definition. Some hundred vagabonds collected in a garden or at a play, or some gangs of robbers and shop-lifters, are impudently de- 76 nominated the people; and never did the most wanton despot receive from the most eager courtier adoration so vile and digusting, as the base flattery with which two or three thousand usurpers of the na- tional sovereignty are every day intoxicated — thanks to the writers and speakers of these societies ! "As the semblance of patriotism is the only profitable virtue, some men who have been stigmatized by their disgraceful lives run to the club to get a reputation for patriotism, by the violence of their discourses, founding on their riotous declamations and the passions of the multitude, oblivion of the past and hope for the future, and redeeming themselves from disgrace by impudence. At the clubs are daily proclaimed, sentiments and even principles which threaten the fortunes and the property of all. Under the names of forestalling and monopoly, industry and commerce are represented as crimes. Every rich man passes for a public enemy. Neither honor nor reputation is spared; odious suspicions and unbridled slander are called liberty of opinion. He who demands proof of an accusation, is a suspected man, an enemy of the people. At the clubs, every absurdity is admired, if it be only murderous — every falsehood cherished, if it be only atrocious. ****** Sometimes, indeed, guilty parties are assailed, but they are assailed with a violence, a ferocity, and an unfairness that make them appear innocent." About the same time, (its exact date and the medium of its publication are uncertain,) Chenier wrote The Altars of Fear J a sort of last appeal to the lovers of good order. Its title alludes to the practice of the ancients, who made fear a divinity, and erected altars to him. "To be sure, we have not yet imitated them to the letter, but, as in all ages profundly religious men have observed that the heart is the true altar where the Deity chooses to be honored, and that internal adoration is a thousand times more valuable than all the pomp of a magnificent worship intrusted to a small number of persons, and confined to certain places by express consecration, we may say that fear had never more truly altars erected to it, than now in Paris 5 that this whole city is its temple; that all respectable people have become its pontiff's , offering to it the daily sacrifice of their opinions and their conscience." The mob commit excesses; personal privacy and personal liberty are invaded; the respectable people say nothing against it or about it, ,/or fear of being called ari- stocrats," "The simple sound of this word aristocrat stupefies the public man , and attacks the very principle of motion in him. He wishes the success of the good, with all his heart; he is making zealous n exertions that way, and would sacrifice all his fortune to it: in the midst of his action, let him hear those four fatal syllables pronounced against him, and he trembles, he groows pale, the sword of the law falls from his grasp. Now it is clear enough , that Cicero will never be anything better than an aristocrat, to take Clodius or Catiline's word for it: if, then Cicero is afraid, what will become of us?" It must be pleaded, however, in excuse for these re- spectable people who said nothing for fear being called aristocrals, that they had pretty urgent motives for silence. To be unpopular at that day, was to have your head cut off: the terms were convertible. There are many among us, to whom such reproaches are infinitely more applicable, men who will not lift up their voices against some popular abuse or injustice or prejudice, for fear of being called federalist or aristocrat; although, thank God! to call a man federalist or aristocrat neither knocks him on the head nor even takes a cent out of his pocket. And when we hear a man complaining of the tyranny of the majority and popular intimidation because his indepen- dent conduct has caused his fellow -townsmen to refuse him their voices at an election, or made some honest editor afraid to publish his communications, we would just refer him to Chenier, who was putting his neck under the axe every time he took pen in hand. The momentous tenth of August came, and that no- torious popular potentate whom our saucy friends over the water have facetiously denominated „the Yankee Jus- tinian," had the supreme jurisdiction in Paris. The Journal de Paris was put down vi et armis, and its conductors and contributors precipitately scattered. Chenier was in imminent danger ; many thought that he must have fallen a victim to the popular fury, and Wieland, the German poet, wrote to inquire if he were yet allive. But he was not dead yet, nor even silent; only his writings were now anonymous or pseudonymous. Owing to this fact, nearly all that he published in the autumn and winter of 1792 — 3 has been lost. It is certain, however, that he was the author of the letter in which Louis after his condemnation vainly appealed to the French people. After the king's death his friends persuaded him to quit Paris for Versailles, where he remained a whole year. By that time most of his personal enemies had disap- peared, some torn to pieces by wolves, and some by 78 their fellow Jacobins. But Collot d'Herbois still lived, and his power nearly equalled Robespierre's. On the 6th of January, 1794, Ch^nier was arrested. The immediate and ostensible cause of his arrest was a visit to a suspected lady at Passy. The proceeding was utterly illegal, even according to such scanty remains of law as the Terrorists had preserved for themselves, for Ch^nier was not under the local jurisdiction of the man who seized him, and had a safe conduct and certi- ficate of good citizenship from the authorities of his quartier. Indeed the gaoler of the Luxemburg prison refused to receive him, but the functionary at St. Lazare was less scrupulous. As Joseph Chenier had been an influential Jacobin and a member of the Convention, there were not wan- ting persons afterwards to assert that he had neglected to save his brother's life when it was in his power to do so; nay, some even charged him with having contri- buted to his condemnation. This imputation his friends have indignantly repelled. They maintain that, on the contrary, it was chiefly through his influence that Andr6 had remained unmolested for the sixteen months preceding. They affirm, moreover, that Joseph had been for some time virtually disconnected with the Jacobins, having grown wiser as they grew more frantic; that he was then a suspected if not a denounced man, and would himself have shared the fate of Andr^, had the rule of Robespierre lasted a fortnight longer. The two pleas are not perfectly consistent, and we think that generally the editors and biographers of the brothers have erred in trying to prove too much, and in giving to the accu- sation a greater importance than it deserved. * For our own part, we do not believe one syllable of it. The Ch^niers had that strong family attachment which all families ought to have, and it is absurd to suppose that if Joseph regarded the wishes of his relatives, when the question was only about breaking off a paper war with his brother, he would have disregarded them when that * Especially do we think M. Arnault to blame, for seriously con- futing, in a narration of two pages, a scandalous story of Madame de Genlis, about Mademoiselle Dumesnil's reception of Joseph Ch6nier ; as if a French actress would trouble herself abouth truth , when there was a chance of saying a mof, or making a scene. 79 brother's life was at stake. The advice he gave his father, who wished him to agitate openly for his brothers, "Rather try to let them be forgotten," was the very best that could have been given, as the event too truly showed. Had nothing been said about Andre, he might have remained unnoticed for two days longer^ which would have been enough to save his life, and actually did save the life of Sauveur; but the memorial which his father addressed to that body called with a mournful irony the Comittee of Public Safety, was his death-warrant.* And now comes a characteristic specimen of radical inaccuracy. Another of the Cheniers, Sauveur, formerly an officer in the army of the north, had been arrested and imprisoned at Beauvais. In such haste was the in- dictment against Andre drawn up, that it confounded him with Sauveur; attributed to one brother the acts and writings of both, and designated the poet -editor as ex -adujutant- general and chief of brigade, under Du- mouriez ! One of Andre's eulogists suggests that he made no allusion to this palpable flaw, in hopes that this con- fusion of personal identity might be the means of saying his brother. If so, his silence was successful. There were, indeed, many reasons why Andre Che- nier should have made no further opposition to the pro- ceedings against him, than was necessary to expose their injustice and illegality in the eyes of future generations. To one whose patriotic hopes had been so cruelly disap- pointed, life was of little value. When a man of refined education, liberal principles, hopes of liberal institutions, and freedom from party fanaticism, sees all constitutional landmarks swept away, and the ochlocracy triumphant, his despondency is utter and hopeless. He has "lost the dream of doing and the other dream of done," and knows not how to help himself or others. In one case only * And yet. after all, must we not say that, in a higher sense, Joseph Chenier was morally guilty of his brother's death ? He had encouraged the Jacobins in their earlier attempts: he had defended or apologized for their excesses; he had given them his pen, his voice, and his influence. In so far, then, as he had contributed to their triumph must he be deemed answerable for the consequences of that triumph. Alas ! it is not too well remembered even at the present day, that they who help to open the flood-gates^ are responsible for the inundation. 80 can he be sustained. If his mind has been deeply im- bued with the true philosophy — the philosophy of Christianity — he may remember that "God fulfils him- self in many ways," and faith will illumine for him what, to the eye of reason alone, is thick darkness. d^aQoei (.lOi d^aQoei rixvov, o Tad^ EcpoQo. xccl nQaTvvei. But w^e very much fear Chenier had not this con- solation. His views, lofty and noble as they were, were still bounded by this world and the limits of human ability. And at that time it seemed as if no human abi- lity could do anything for the French. The people from whom the gallows was a more acceptable gift than the right hand of friendship,* had triumphed, and he had long before made up his mind which alternative to choose. Chenier was guillotined July 25th, 1794. His works were not collected till 1819, and complete editions of them did not appear till 1840. RECENT ENGLISH HISTORIANS OF ANCIENT GREECE.** American Review, Feb. 1848. THE study of Greek History is a very different affair now from what it w^as when Plutarch was accepted for a standard authority, and "Cecrops, who invented marriage," f was deemed as historical a personage as Alexander of Macedon. Our readers may be presumed * "S'ils triomphent, ce sont gens par qui il vaut mieux etre pendu que regarde comme ami." — Avis aux Fran^ais sur leurs veritables Ennemis. ** A History of Greece, by the Right Rev. CONNOP THIRL- WALL. London: Longman & Co. 1835, 1844. A History of Greece, by GEO. GROTE, Esq. London : John Murray. 1846-7. f Atheneeua XIII, 555. 81 to be familiar with, or at least to have some general idea of the way in which Niebuhr and Arnold (not to mention the more fanciful speculations of Michelet) have taken to pieces and reconstructed the early Roman nar- rative; and the Greek legends are now subjected to a somewhat similar process by both English and Germans. It certainly does seem strange at first, that an Englishman or German in this nineteenth century should pretend to know more about those remote ages, than the people who lived so much nearer to them — the Roman who flourished at the beginning of our era, and the Greek who wrote hundreds of years before it : but the apparent paradox vanishes when we consider the historical sense and habits of philosophical criticism acquired by the moderns. Etymological and philological studies alone have done much. When it has been clearly shown that Livy mistranslated Greek words, and confused old and new meanings of Latin words, and that ApoUonius Rho- dius misunderstood and misapplied Homeric expressions, we have less hesitation in questioning the accuracy of avowedly poetical narrative of the one and the more specious history of the other; and the detection of such illusory etymologies as those w^hich gave rise to the traditions connected with the Apaturian festival at Athens, and the street Argiletum in Rome, encourages us to apply the same rule of interpretation to other etymologically founded stories. It is not our intention to take any notice of Gold- smith and Gillies, and others of whom we have a dim recollection from our boyhood. But as Mitford, although pretty well laid on the shelf in his own country, still enjoys on this side the Atlantic the reputation and po- sition of a standard historian it would hardly be proper in an article on this subject to omit all mention of him. That his qualifications for the task he undertook sur- passed those of his predecessors, and that his work was a great improvement on theirs, is freely admitted. But, to waive the consideration of other faults, there is one inherent defect in the book. It is the history of a people generally republican and partly democratic, written ex- pressly to "show up" democracy. Nay, more, it was written with the evident purpose of drawing a modern conservative British moral from the history of ancient (> Vol. I. 82 Greek republics. Now a man who sets out with a strong political bias in favor of the institutions of any country, is not likely to make a faithful historian ; but much more unlikely is he who starts with a predetermination to see everything in the worst possible light, the facts of history being unfortunately for the most part bad enough in themselves, without any gratuitous blackening. Such a course is sufficiently delusive when only contemporaries are under investigation : it is still worse when we under- take to judge of the customs and actions of the men of one age by the standards of another; such inferences, however encouraged by the necessary licenses of the poet and the dramatist, make sad work with ethical and political speculations. We all see the absurdity of the thing when a young lady in a Magazine story, makes a modern lover of Pericles, or some other Greek worthy, and provides him with a heroine of the modern pattern. We are less quick to perceive the fallacy when a mo- dern Platonist turns the Athenian philosopher into a High-Church divine. Still less prompt are we to disen- tangle ourselves when the political theorist argues from Rome to England, or from Athens to America, either with or without some such intermediate step as Venice, since so many of the important fundamental terms, Aris- tocracy, Democracy, &c., remain the same. But the error is none the less, because it is the less transparent. Whately has said that "wisdom consists in the ready and accurate perception of analogies;"* but surely a ready and accurate discrimination of differences deserves some place in the definition. "Human nature is the same in all ages," we are told; and this text suggests appro- priate comments against unnatural schemes, as when it is proposed to construct the bricks of the political edifice without straw, or to compose perfection by an aggregate of imperfections. But we must always make allowance, and great allowance, for the effect of habit and experience. If the republican Greeks had no idea of a king, but as a man who "subverts the customs of the country, violates women, and puts men to death without trial," f their idea was in precise conformity with their experience of * Rhetoric, pp. 104, 106. t Herodotus, iii. 80, quoted by Mr. Qrote. 83 the TVQavvot'j nor can we blame them for not having ad- mitted that conception of constitutional government which it took centuries of subsequent experiment to realize. Flattering to English ideas of government and con- formable to old tory dogmas, possessing, too, the posi- tive merits it did, Mitford's Greece might well occupy the position it so long enjoyed. But it does great credit to the good sense and judgment of the British public, that when a more liberal as well as more learned suc- cessor appeared — indeed, before he fairly had appeared — they were ready to receive and adopt him. It is curious to remark how in this respect monarchial Eng- land has taken the start of republican America. With us Mitford still speaks as one having authority, while over the water he is utterly dethroned by Thirlwall, and only to be found in the libraries of secluded parsons and antique country gentlemen. We should, however, be doing great injustice to the Bishop of St. David's were we to represent the vin- dication of the Greek democracies from Mitford's assault either as the sole object of the work or the main ground of its success, though it is incidentally connected with both. Since Mitford's time the study of Greek history had made rapid advances. The labors of C. O. Mliller and other eminent Germans had thrown new light upon it. A Greek history was required which should at least embody the results of their researches, even if it added nothing to them. The spirit of the times demanded not merely a more genial political thinker, but a deeper and more finished scholar, than Mr. Mitford. Thirlwall's history, then, is conceived in a liberal spirit, and displays an erudition which renders it a most valuable book for students. Still it is not in all respects satisfactory , nor is it exactly the kind of book to become universally popular. The author speaks in his preface of two classes of readers,* for the former of whom, undoubtedly by far the larger, the work is principally designed; but the execution of the work is such as to * "One consisting of persons who wish to acquire something more than a superficial acquaintance with Greek history, but who have neither leisure nor means to study it for themselves in its ori- ginal sources; the other of such as have access to the ancient au- thors, but often feel the need of a guide and an interpreter." 6* 84 render it far more acceptable to the smaller class. As a book of reference, and what is technically called cram^ it is unsurpassed. But the style, though clear and argu- mentative, is the very reverse of brilliant or graphic; and the general tone of the book is to a mere reader, what we cannot give a better idea of than by calling it Hallam's Middle- Ages-ish. Moreover, the reverend historian has, with an amiable but sometimes embarrassing modesty, been more solicitous to collate and condense the opinions of others than to arrive at decisons of his own, so that in many places the book is chiefly valuable as a synopsis of different views, and in some its very copiousness of information is bewildering. While, therefore, ThirlwalPs Greece found an immediate place in the library of every student, it was felt that there was still room for another History of Greece, which should be attractive as well as critical, and give results as well as materials; and the announcement that Mr. George Grote was about to en- deavor to supply this want excited a lively interest. Mr. Grote is well known to the commercial world as a partner in one of the great London banking houses, and not unknown in the political. His principles are what is generally called philosophical radical^ that is to say, encouraging the freest range of speculation and discussion, but not countenancing haste or violence in action.* When in Parliament, where he twice represented the city of London, he was chiefly distinguished for proposing and advocating Vote by Ballot. But this me- thod of exercising the franchise, natural and proper as it appears to us, is highly repugnant to English usages and prejudices, Mr. Grote found little support from his own party, and the great clerical wit, usually foremost in the ranks of the reformers, signally contributed to laugh down the proposed reform. More recently Mr. Grote has studied and personally inspected the affairs of Switzerland, and has very lately published in the Spec- tator a series of letters containing a triumphant vindication of President Ochsenbein and the Diet. Amid all his * And it may be added, much more practical and common sense than one would be led to infer from Sidney Smith's somewhat su- percilious remark, that "if the world were a chess-board, he would be an important politician," 85 various pursuits he never lost sight of his great literary work, projected at a very early period of his life (some say before he left the university). With every allowance for frequent interruptions,* it is probably rather an under- statement of the case to say, that the eight intended volumes (we have a suspicion that they will run over by one or two) will represent twenty years' hard work. And should any one be disposed to think this an over- estimate, we would request him, before pronouncing a positive opinion, to make himself master of one book of Herodotus or Thucydides, first making sure that he un- derstands the author's meaning, and then collating and digesting the authorities on all historical and archaeolo- gical points involved or alluded to. The time thus occu- pied will give him some measure of that which must have been expended on Mr. Grote's History, into which (supposing the remaining volumes to equal the promise of the four already published) it is not too much to say that the reading of a life will have been worked, so various are the sources from which Mr. Grote draws his authorities and illustrations. And all this learning is introduced most naturally and appropriately ; for the au- thor is one of those rare specimens, a scholar without any of the disagreeable peculiarities of scholars, without pedantry or dogmatism or "shop" of any kind.f Uncon- nected with academical honors or any sort of academical business as his name was, his appearance as a classical historian subjected him to a most rigorous scrutiny from all those firstclass men and medallists who thought they had taken out a patent for all classical learning in the "Schools" and the "Tripos;" and the paucity and trivia- * The preface states indeed that the author has only been able to devote ''continuous and exclusive labor" to his work for the last three or four years ; but farther on in the preface there is an implied admission that the book had made considerable progress before Thirl- wall's began to appear. f There is but one thing in the book which savors in the least of pedantry — an affectation of purism in spelling the Greek names with Greek instead of Roman letters. This is very harsh in some cases to the ear as well as the eye, the change of spelling involving a change of pronunciation in such names as Alksens and Phokylides. Nor is Mr. Grote always consistent mth himself: why should Perikles be spelt with k and Calypso not ? Even the same word varies in dif- ferent volumes ! we have Crete in the first and Krete in the fourth. »6 lity of the inaccuracies they have been able to discover bear witness to the accuracy and depth of his work. His opening is bold and novel. Instead of beginning with the geography of the country, and then passing to the early inhabitants , as Thirlwall and his predecessors generally have done, he commences with the stories about the gods — the Greek Mythology, in fact. With this he immediately connects the legends of the heroic age, all the personages of which he considers equally my- thical and fabulous with the gods and goddesses. Hector and Agamemnon are put into the same category with Zeus and Apollo, and authentic history begins only with the first Olympiad. In anticipation of surprise and censure, he thus speaks in his preface: — "The times which I thus set apart from the regions of history are discernible only through a different atmosphere — that of epic poetry and legend. To confound together these disparate matters is, in my judgment, entirely unphilosophical. I describe the earlier times by themselves, as conceived by the faith and feeling of the first Greeks, and known only through their legends — without presuming to measure how much or how little of historical matter these legends may contain. If the reader blame me for not assisting him to deter- mine this — if he ask me why I do not undraw the curtain and disclose the picture — I reply in the words of the painter Zeuxis, when the same question was addressed to him, on exhibiting his masterpiece of imitative art: 'The curtain is the picture' What we now read as poetry and legend, was once accredited history, and the only genuine history which the first Greeks could conceive or relish of the past time: the curtain conceals nothing behind, and cannot by any possibility be withdrawn. I undertake only to show it as it stands — not to efface, still less to repaint it." — Preface, pp. xii., xiii. These legends occupy about 450 pages, or two-thirds of the first volume. Mr. Grote's narrative style in re- lating them, seems to us remarkably happy — simple without being prosaic, and carrying the reader straight forward through very involved and contradictory stories. The difficulty of telling these old tales in a form acceptable and suitable to modern readers, is confessedly very great, as the singular expedient to which Arnold had recourse testifies. To us, Mr. G. seems to have hit the very thing; but "doctors differ:" a writer in the Classical Museum thinks that "his style is too homely, and that he might have risen more with his theme."* We should like to extract a legend or two, that our readers might judge for themselves^ but it is more important to examine our author's way of dealing with the nature and historical value of these mythes. We cannot take a better speci- men than the "tale of Troy divine," contrasting Grote's broad conclusion upon it with Thirlwall's Euemerizing doubts. The latter, after sketching or rather hinting at the story of Troy, in just eleven lines, proceeds thus: — f "Such is the brief outline [brief indeed!] of a story which the poems of Homer have made familiar to most readers , long before they are tempted to inquire into its historical basis; and it is con- sequently difficult to enter upon the inquiry without some preposses- sions unfavorable to an impartial judgment. Here, however, we must not be deterred from stating our view of the subject, by the certainty that it will appear to some paradoxical, while others will think that it savors of excessive credulity. According to the rules of sound criticism, very cogent arguments ought to be required to induce us to reject as a mere fiction a tradition so ancient, so universally re- ceived, so definite and so interwoven with the whole mass of the national recollections, as that of the Trojan war. Even if unfounded, it must still have had some adequate occasion and motive, and it is difficult to imagine what this could have been, unless it arose out of the Greek colonies in Asia ; and in this case its universal reception in Greece itself is not easily explained. The leaders of the earliest among these colonies which were planted in the neighborhood of Troy, claimed Agamemnon as their ancestor; but if this had suggested the story of his victories in Asia, this scene would probably have been fixed in the very region occupied by his descendants, not in an adja- cent land. On the other hand, the course taken by this first (^olian) migration falls in naturally with a previous tradition of a conquest achieved by Greeks in Asia. We therefore conceive it necessary to admit the reality of the Trojan war as a general fact; hut beyond this we scarcely venture to proceed a single step. Its cause and its issue, the manner in which it was conducted and the parties engaged in it, are all involved in an obscurity which we cannot pretend to penetrate. We find it impossible to adopt the poetical story of He- len, partly on account of its inherent improbability, and partly because we are convinced that Helen is a merely mythological person. The common account of the origin of the war has indeed been defended on the ground that it is perfectly consistent with the manners of the * W. M. Gunn, Classical Museum, vol. V., p. 132. t In this and the following extracts we have occasionally taken the liberty of italicizing a passage. 88^ age — as if a popular tale, whether true or false, could hf at variance with them. The feature in the narrative which strikes us as in the highest degree improhable, setting the character of the parties out of the question, is the intercourse implied in it between Troy and Sparta. As to the heroine, it would he sufficient to raise a strong suspicion of her fabulous nature, to observe that she is classed by Herodotus with lo, and Europa, and Medea, all of them persons who on distinct grounds, must clearly be referred to the domain of mythology. This suspicion is confirmed by all the particulars of her legend, by her birth, by her relation to the divine twins , whose worship seems to have been one of the most ancient forms of religion in Peloponnesus, and especially in Laconia, and by the divine honors paid to her at Sparta and elsewhere. But a still stronger reason for doubting the reality of the motive assigned by Homer for the Trojan war is, that the same incident occurs in another circle of fictions, and that, in the abduction of Helen, Paris only repeats an exploit also attributed to Theseus. ***** If however we reject the traditional occasion of the Trojan war, we are driven to conjecture in order to explain the real connection of the events; yet not so as to be wholly without traces to direct us. We have already observed that the Argonautic expedition was sometimes represented as connecteed with the first conflict between Greece and Troy. This was according to the legend which numbered Hercules among the Argonauts and supposed him, on the voyage, to have rendered a service to the Trojan king, Laomedon, who afterwards defrauded him of his recompense. The main fact, however, that Troy was taken and sacked by Hercules, is recognized by Homer ; and thus we see it already provoking the enmity or temp- ting the cupidity of the Greeks, in the generation before the celebra- ted war, and it may easily be conceived thatif its power and opulence revived after this blow, it might again excite the same feelings." — Thirlwall, vol. I., pp. 151-153. Here Homer's statement is received as authoritative ; yet only four pages after we find that, "However near the poet, if he is to be considered a single one, lived to the times of which he sings, it is clear that he did not suffer himself to be fettered by his knowledge of the facts. For aught we know, he may have been a contemporary of those who had fought under Achilles, but it is not the less true, that he describes his prin- cipal hero as the son of a sea-goddess. He and his hearers most probably looked upon epic song as a vehicle of history, and there- fore it required a popular tradition for its basis. * * * But it is equally manifest that the kind of history for which he invoked the aid of the Muses to strengthen his memory, was not chiefly valued as a recital of real events , that it was one in which the marvellous appeared natural, and that form of the narrative most credible which tended most to exalt the glory of his heroes." Vol. I. pp. 157-8. Now let us hear Mr. Grote. After giving at length (say forty pages) as consistent a narrative of the Trojan siege as can be compiled out of the various poets, histo- rians and logographers, he thus continues his speculations on it: — "Thus endeth the Trojan war, together with its sequel, the dis- persion of the heroes , victors as well as vanquished. The account here given of it has been unavoidably brief and imperfect; for in a work intended to follow consecutively the real history of the Greeks, no greater space can be allotted even to the most splendid gem of their legendary period. Indeed, it would be easy to fill a large volume veith the separate incidents which have been introduced into the 'Trojan cycle;' the misfortune is, that they are for the most part so contradictory, as to exclude the possibility of weaving them into one connected narrative. We are compelled to select one out of the num- ber generally, without any solid ground of preference , and then to note the variations of the rest. No one who has not studied the original documents, can imagine the extent to which this discrepancy proceeds: it covers almost every portion and fragment of the tale. But though much may have been thus omitted, of what the reader might expect to find in an account of the Trojan war, its genuine character has been studiously preserved without either exaggeration or abatement. The real Trojan war is that which was recounted by Homer and the old epic poets, and continued by all the lyric and tragical composers; for the latter, though they took great liberties with the particular incidents , yet worked more or less faithfully on the Homeric scale. * * * * And the incidents comprised in the Tro- jan cycle were familiarized, not only to the public mind, but also to the public eye, by innumerable representations both of the sculptor and the painter — those which were romantic and chivalrous, being better adapted for this purpose, and therefore more constantly em- ployed, than any other. Of such events the genuine Trojan war of the old epic was for the most part composed. Though literally be- lieved , reverentially cherished , and numbered among the gigantic phenomena of the past by the Grecian public, it is in the eyes of modern inquiry essentially a legend , and nothing more. If we are asked whether it be not a legend imbodying portions of hisiorical matter, and raised upon a basis of truth — whether there may not really have occurred at the foot of the hill of Ilium a ivar purely human and po- litical, without gods, without heroes , without Helen , without Amazons, without Ethiopians under the beautiful son of Eos, without the wooden horse, without the characteristic and expressive features of the old epical war — Hhe the mutilated trunk of Deiphobus in th • under-world — if 90 we are asked whether there was not really some such historical Trojan war as this, our answer must be, that as the possibility of it cannot be denied, so neither can the reality of it be affirmed. We possess nothing but the ancient epic itself, without any independent evidence: had it been an age of records indeed, the Homeric epic, in its exquisite and unsuspecting simplicity, would probably never have come kito existence. "Whoever, therefore, ventures to dissect Homer, Arctinus and Lesches, and to pick out certain portions as matters of fact, while he sets aside the rest as fiction, must do so in full reliance on his own powers of historical divination, without any means either of proving or ve- rifying his conclusions." — Vol. I., pp. 432-5. Is Mr. Grote then a mere destructive, who applies the besom of skepticism to the heroic age, and sweeps it remorselessly away? No; he restores the old legends in all their integrity to their proper place and function. They have no "objective reality either historical or phi- losophical;" but 'Hheir subjective value, looking at them purely as elements of Grecian thought and feeling," is very great. Tho the expansion of this principle, the remainder of the first volume is devoted. To understand the true theory of these narratives, we must first consider the intellectual position of the people among whom they sprung up. In those days imagination and sympathy supplied the place of geography and physical science. But many causes, and first of all, "the expansive force of Grecian intellect itself," caused different constructions to be put upon these products of early fancy. Mr. Grote goes through the treatment of the mythes by the earlier phi- losophers and the dramatic poets, and the attempts of the historians to make history of them; Herodotus' adoption of the more plausible Egyptian version of the story of Helen; Thucydides' exposition of the Trojan war as a great political enterprise, an exposition which "would, doubtless, have been historical truth if any independent evidence could have been found to sustain it," but which, in the absence of such evidence, must be viewed as "a mere extract and distillation from the incredibilities of the poets;" and so on down to Euemerus, that disen- chanter of the ancient romance, whose name has passed into a familiar word with scholars; and Palsephatus, whose results "exhibit the maximum which the semi- historical theory can ever present: by aid of conjecture. we get out of the impossible and arrive at matters in- trinsically plausible but totally uncertified." He then sketches the allegorical theory, and decides on the re- spective merits of the two. The discussion is summed up in four conclusions to this effect: — 1. The Greek legends are "a special product of the imagination and feelings, radically distinct from both history and philosophy," and not reducible to either. Some few of them are indeed allegorical, and some have doubtless a substratum or element of fact ; but how much is fact and how much mere "mythe" we cannot, in the absence of collateral evidence, determine. 2. The personages of the mythical world are a series of gods and men mixed together, and no such series can serve as materials for chronological calculation. 3. The legends originated in an age which had no records, no science and no criticism, but great faith, great imagination, and great avidity for new narrative; "pe- netrable by poets and prophets in the same proportion that it was indifferent to positive evidence." 4. The Greek mind having become historical, critical and philosophical, detected the inconsistencies and incon- gruities of the mythes, but was restrained from discarding them entirely by the national reverence for antiquity. So, "whilst the literal mythe still continued to float among the poets and the people, critical men interpreted, altered, decomposed and added, until they found something which satisfied their minds as a supposed real basis. They manufactured some dogmas of supposed original philo- sophy, and a long series of fancied history and chrono- logy, retaining the mythical names and generations even when they were obliged to discard or recast the mythical events. The interpreted mythe was thus promoted into a reality, while the literal mythe was degraded into a fiction." Pp. 598—601. Our extracts have been carefully selected, with a view to give the reader a good idea of Mr. Grote's me- thod of dealing with the heroic period of Greek history. And, we ask, is not his treatment of these mythical per- sonages more conservative and respectful than Euemeri- zing or allegorizing them away? According to his view, Hector, and Andromache, and CEdipus and Antigone &2 exist, as Othello, and Desdemona, and Jeannie Deans, and Lucy Ashton exist. I& not such an existence good enough for them? In the concluding chapter of this volume, Mr. Grote felicitously illustrates his positions by comparing the mythes of ancient Greece with those of modern Europe. In the former country the mythopoeic vein continued in the same course, only with abated current and influence; in the latter "its ancient bed was blocked up, and it was turned into new and divided channels" by the introduc- tion of Christianity. The old German and Scandinavian kings used to trace their pedigrees to Odin. "After the w/)rship attached to Odin had been extinguished, the genealogical line was lengthened up to Japhet or Noah; and Odin, no longer accounted worthy to stand at the top, was degraded into one of the simple human members of it. * * * * This transposition of the genealogical root is the more worthy of notice, at is illustrates the general character of these genealogies^ and shows that they sprung not from any erroneous historical data, but from the turn of the religious feeling; also that their true value is derived from their being taken entire^ as connecting the existing race of men with a divine original.^'' We have ourselves seen the pedigree of an English country gentleman (one of the "protectionists" m parlia- ment) which went, through a Saxon king, straight up to Thor and Odin. To be sure, the member of the family who showed it to us modestly admitted that the descent previous to the Heptarchy was not perfectly authenticated. We pass on to the voluminous and puerile legends of the saints, and the more poetical romances of chivalry. "What the legends of Troy, of Thebes, of the Calydonian boar, of (Edipus, Theseus, &c., were to an early Greek, the tales of Arthur, of Charlemagne, of the Niebelungen, were to an Englishman, or Frenchman, or German of the twelfth or thirteenth century. They were neither recognized fiction nor authenticated history; they were history as it is felt and welcomed by minds unaccus- tomed to investigate evidence and unconscious of the necessity of doing so. That the Chronicle of Turpin, a mere compilation of poetical legends respecting Charle- magne, was accepted as genuine history, and even pro- nounced to be such by papal authority, is well known; I 98 and the authors of the romances announce themselves, not less than those of the old Grecian epic, as being about to recount real matter of fact. It is certain that Charlemagne is a great historical name, and it is pos- sible, though not certain, that the name of Arthur may be historical also; but the Charlemagne of history and the Charlemagne of romance have little except the name in common; nor could we ever determine, except by independent evidence, (which in this case we happen to possess,) whether Charlemagne was a real or fictitious person." Thus in the famous story of Roland and Ronces- valles, which Mr. Grote might have specified -particularly, (and w^e are some what surprised he did not,) suppose we had nothing but the Turpin Chronicle to guide us, how likely should we be, by "making shots" at the probabilities of the case, to eliminate the real facts of Charlemagne's invasion of Spain, and the surprise of his rear-guard by the Pyrenean mountaineers? But we may bring down these quasi-historical tales to a period much later than even Mr. Grote has attempted. The story of the French frigate Le Vengeur^ which went down with her colors flying and her men shouting Vive la Republiquef is well known; and it has also been proved in black and white that the story is a sheer fabrication — that the ship did go down indeed, but not before she had surrendered, and that her captain and many of her crew were saved by the victorious adversary. Now, had only the French-republican version of this afi*air remained, it might well have imposed on posterity. Here then are two popular stories , in which the main issue of the narrative is directly contrary to the known fact — bearing the stron- gest testimony to the correctness of Mr. Grote's principle. For it must be remembered that he denies, not the existence of a basis of fact to some of the Greek legends, but the possibility of our determinig what that fact is. For all that we know to the contrary, Dio Chrysostom's ver- sion of the Trojan war may be the true one, and the Greeks may have been the beaten party. For all we know to the contrary, the real Thersites may have had as much resemblance to the Thersites of Homer, as the Fastolfe of history has to the Falstaff of Shakspeare. All our readers may not be aware that the English 94 historians so late as the seventeenth century began the annals of their country with a mythical personage, Bi^ute the Trojan y and carried it down to the Roman invasion through a long line of kings. "In a dispute which took place during the reign of Edward I., (A. D. 1301,) between England and Scotland, the descent of the kings of England from Brute the Trojan was solemnly embodied in a do- cument put forth to sustain the crown of England , as an argument bearing on the case then in discussion; and it passed without attack from the opposing party," Milton's opinion, cited by Mr. Grote, is curious and apposite: — * "But now of Brutus and his line , with the whole progeny of kings to the entrance of Julius Caesar, we cannot be so easily dis- charged; descents of ancestry long continued, laws and exploits not plainly seeming to be borrowed or devised, which on the common belief have wrought no small impression; defended by many, utltrly denied by few. For what, though Brutus and the whole Trojan pre- tence were yielded up, seeing they who first devised to bring us some noble ancestor, were content with Brutus the Consul, the better in- vention, though not willing to forego the name, taught them to remove it higher into a more fabulous age, and by the same remove lighting on the Trojan tales, in affectation to make the Briton of one original with the Roman, pitched there: Yet those old and inborn kings, never any to have been real persons, or done in their lives, at least, some part of what so long hath been remembered, cannot be thought without too strict incredulity. For these, and those causes above mentioned, that which hath received approbation from so many , I have chosen not to omit. Certain or uncertain, be that upon the credit of those whom I must follow; so far as keeps aloof from impossible and absurd, attested by ancient writers from books more ancient, I refuse not, as the due and proper subject of story." History of England, apud Grote, pp. 641, 642. Yet the historians of this day begin the history of England with Julius Caesar, and on strictly analogous principles our Greek historian has concluded that "Two courses, and two only, are open; either to pass over the mythes altogether, which is the way in which modern historians treat the old British fables, or else to give an account of them as mythes ; to recognize and respect their specific nature, and to abstain from confounding them with ordinary and certifiable history. There are good reasons for pursuing this second method, in reference to the * The italics here are Mr. Grote'a. m Grecian mythes; and when so considered, they constitute an important chapter in the history of the Grecian mind, and, indeed, in that of the human race generally." We have now done with the first volume, but Mr. Grote has not yet finished clearing his ground. In the beginning of his second he attacks the heroic chrono- logy of Fynes Clinton's Fasti Hellenici, w^hich he rejects in toto , on various accounts, but chiefly for a reason already alluded to, that the introduction of confessedly fabulous personages in a series utterly destroys its value as a basis for chronological computations. "In the estimate of the ancient chronologers , three succeeding persons of the same lineage — grandfather, father and son — coun- ted for a century; and this may pass in a rough way, so long as you are thoroughly satisfied that they are all real persons; but if in the succession of persons A, B, C, you strike out B as a fiction, the necessary continuity of data disappears." * He then proceeds to treat of the state of society and manners exhibited in Grecian legend, by poets who, "while professedly describing an uncertified past, invo- luntarily borrow their combinations from the surrounding present." Here, too, we observe in him a marked difi^erence from his predecessors. The monarchist historians Gillies and Mitford, were sedulous to eulogize the heroic age, at the expense of those succeeding, because it was the age of kingly government. It is hardly necessary to say that Thirlwall has not fallen into this error; but Grote has gone further, and prominently brought out various points of moral improvement in the historical age, as compared with the heroic. He particularly specifies three, the providence of the law with respect to the person and property of orphans, the treatment of fallen enemies, and the legal punishment of homicide. In alluding to the fortification of towns, he observes: — "This decided superiority of the means of defence over those of attack in rude ages, has been one of the grand promotive causes, both of the growth of civic life and of the general march of human improvement. It has enabled the progressive portions of mankind first to maintain their aquisitions against the predatory instinct of the ruder and poorer, and to surmount the difficulties of incipient orga- nization; and ultimately, when their organization has been matured, both to acquire predominance, and to uphold it until their own disci- * Grote, vol. ii. p. 64. 96 plined habits have in part passed to their enemies. This important truth is illustrated not less by the history of ancient Greece, than by that of modern Europe during the middle ages." * In regard to the state of the arts, Grote and Thirl- wall are at variance on an important question. The latter says, "That the art of writing already existed, though probably in a very rude state, before his [Homer's] age, it is scarcely possible to doubt." ** The former posi- tively asserts that "neither coined money, nor the art of writing, nor painting, nor sculpture, nor imaginative archi- tecture, belong to the Homeric and Hesiodic times." And then in a note, "The orjixaxa Xvyqa mentioned in Iliad vi. 168, if they prove anything, are rather an evidence against than for the existence of alphabetical writing at the time when the Iliad was composed." f On this famous and much disputed passage. Thirl wall acutely observes, that it "has been the subject of contro- versy, perhaps, more earnest than the case deserved. It has been disputed whether the tablet contained alphabetical characters or mere pictures. The former seems to be the simplest and easiest interpretation of the poet's words: but if admitted, it only proves, what could hardly be questioned even without this evi- dence, [?] that the poet was not so ignorant of the art as never to have heard of its existence. * * * And on the other hand, if the tablet contained only a picture or a series of imitative pictures, it would be evident that where the want of alphabetical writing was so felt, and had begun to be so supplied by drawing, the step by which the Greeks adopted the Phoenician characters must have been very soon taken, and it might be imagined that the poet was only describing a ruder state of the art which had acquired a new form in his time." f f And his last suggestion on this point is certainly ingenious and plausible: — * Vol. ii. p. 149. ** Thirlwall, p. 247. f Grote, Vol. II., p. 156. Mitford accuralely quotes Homer's words yQCCfiliiata XvyQCC^ and then goes into a long discussion about yQCXflfia meaning a picture which he might have been spared the trouble of by merely looking into his Iliad. tt Thirlwall, p. 242. 97 "According to every hypothesis the origin of the Homeric poetry is wrapt in mystery; as must be the case with the beginning of a new period when that which precedes it is very obscure. And it would certainty be no unparalteled or surprising coincidence if the pro- duction of a great work, which formed the most momentous epoch in the history of Greek literature, should have concurred with either the first introduction, or a new application of the most important of all in- ventions." * This question of writing brings us at once to the Homeric controversy. On this Thirlwall says but little: wjiat he does say, strongly favors the personality of Homer and the unity of the Homeric poems. At one thing we are much surprised: he rejects the existence of the rhapsodists as a gratuitous and improbable supposition. In support of the customary hypothesis, Mr. Grote ad- duces some conclusive instances, particularly the assertion of Xenophon, (Sympos. iii. 5,) that there were educated gentlemen in his time, at Athens, who could repeat both poems by heart; for Xenophon, we know, was a very straightforward and matter-of-fact man, not lightly to be suspected of inaccuracy or exaggeration. Throughout the whole investigation, Mr. G. has shown great discri- mination in keeping distinct various questions which have been mixed up with and run into each other — the per- sonality of the poet, the manner in which his poems were preserved, their separate or identical authorship, the time when they assumed their present form, &c. After alluding to the numerous discrepancies of statement respecting the epoch and birth-place of Homer, he is inclined to adopt as the most plausible theory, that he was the eponymous hero of the poetical fraternity of Homerids in the Ionic Island of Chios. The date of the Iliad and Odyssey, he places in the century before the first Olympiad. That the poems were preserved by the professional bards without any assistance from manu- scripts, he considers proved, by the fact that blindness was not a disqualification for the profession. (Hymn, ad ApoU. 172.) The Wolfian theory that Pisistratus first made two complete poems out of what were before fragmentary ballads, he rejects as "not only unsupported by sufficient testimony, but also opposed to other testi- * Thirlwall, p. 247. Vol. I. 98 mony, as well as to a strong force of internal probabi- lity." It "ascribes to Peisistratus a character not only materially different from what is indicated by Cicero and Pausanias, [W^olf's chief authorities,] who represented him not as having put together atoms originally distinct, but as the renovator of an ancient order subsequently lost — but also in itself unintelligible and inconsistent with Grecian habit and feeling." "To sustain the inference that Peisistratus was the first architect of the Iliad and Odyssey, it ought at least to be shown that no other long and continuous poems existed during the earlier centuries. But the contrary of this is known to be the fact. The ^thiopis of Ark- tinus, which contained 9100 verses, dates from a period more than two centuries earlier than Peisistratus; several others of the lost cyclic epics, some among them of considerable length, appear during the century succeeding Arktinus ; and it is important to notice that three or four at least of these poems passed under the name of Ho- mer. There is no greater intrinsic difficulty in supposing long epics to have begun with the Iliad and Odyssey than with the -ffithiopsis ; the ascendency of Homer and the subordinate position of Arktinus in the history of early Grecian poetry, tend to prove the former in preference to the latter." Vol. H., pp. 208-9. But the chief argument is derived from the whole tenor of the poems themselves. "There is nothing either in the Iliad or Odyssey which savors of modernism^ applying that term to the age of Peisistratus ; nothing which brings to our view the alterations brought about by two cen- turies in the Greek language, the coined money, the habits of writing and reading, the despotisms and republican governments, the close military array, the improved construction of ships, the Amphictyonic convocations, * * * &c., familiar to the latter epoch, which Onoma- critus and the other literary friends of Peisistratus could hardly have failed to introduce, had they then for the first time undertaken the task of piecing together many self-existent epics into one large aggre- gate. Everything in the two great Homeric poems, both in substance and in language, belongs to an age two or three centuries earlier than Peisistratus." Vol. II., pp. 213-14. At length we arrive at the great question -r- the unity of authorship. Mr. Grote, after lamenting the ferocious dogmatism which has too generally characteri- zed this controversy, and confessed the difficulty, with our present limited means of knowledge, of forming a satisfactory conclusion one's self, much more of convin- cing others, thus continues: — "Nevertheless no classical scholar can be easy without some opi- nion respecting the authorship of these immortal poems ; and the more defective the evidence we posses, the more essential is it that all that evidence should be marshalled in the clearest order, and its bearing upon the points in controversy distinctly understood beforehand. Both these conditions seem to have been often neglected throughout the long-continued Homeric discussion. To illustrate the first point : Since two poems are comprehended in the problem to be solved, the natural process would be, first to study the easier of the two, and then to apply the conclusions hence deduced as a means of explaining the other. Now the Odyssey, looking at its aggregate character, is incomparably more easy to explain than the Iliad. Yet most Homeric critics apply the microscope at once, and in the first instance, to the Iliad. To illustrate the second point: What evidence is sufficient to negative the supposition that the Iliad or the Odyssey is a poem — originally and intentionally one ? Not simply particular gaps and con- tradictions, though they be even gross and numerous; but the pre- ponderance of these proofs of mere unprepared coalescence over the other proofs of designed adaptation scattered throughout the whole poem. For the poet (or the co-operating poets , if more than one) may have intended to compose a harmonious whole, but may have realized their intention incompletely and left partial faults; or perhaps the contradictory lines may have crept in through a corrupt text. A survey of the whole poem is necessary to determine the question, and this necessity, too, has not always been attended to." Vol. II., pp. 219, 220. The Odyssey (to which Mr. Grote, contrary to the usual opinion, but we think on good grounds, does not assign a later date than that of the Iliad) he views as bearing throughout unequivocal proofs of unity of design. With respect to the Iliad his opinion is different, and the theory which he propounds is certainly original and ingenious. That poem presents to him the appearance of "a house built upon a plan comparatively narrow, and subsequently enlarged by successive additions." It was originally an Achilleis, comprising the first and eighth books with the books from the eleventh to the twenty-second inclusive. The last two books are a sort of appendix merely, but those from the second to the seventh, together with the tenth, "are of a wider and more comprehensive character, and convert the poem into an Iliad." The ninth book is a later interpolation, there being many passages in the eleventh and following books, which show that apo- logy and atonement had not been offered to Achilles by 7* 100 Agamemnon. This is explained at length, and also the continuity of structure observable in the books marked off as the original Achilleis, and the discrepancies intro- duced by the remaining books. Having characterized this theory as original and ingenious, we must be excused from expressing any further opinion upon it. Our own opinions about Homer have been always matter of faith rather than reason ; we are too much interested in his romance ever to read liim very critically; and as to the Teutonic Homeroclasts , we never could force ourselves to go continuously through one of them. On our slight acquaintance with them (and we refer more particularly to Wolf and Lachmann) they appear to us so prosaic and un-ideal and Poco Curanteish, that, however great their erudition, we do not admit their vocation to criti- cise poetry at all. With a man who puts the Iliad on the same footing with the Spanish ballads, we can find no common ground. This brings us to the close of the first part of Mr. Grote's work 5 about half way through his second volume, and rather more than half way through Thirlwall's first. After the return of the Heraclidae — which Thirl- wall Euemerizes into a Doric invasion and conquest, re- quiring "many years, probably many generations," for its consummation, and Grote disposes of among the mythes of the legendary age — we pass at once to the definite region of Historical Greece. Not that even here we are entirely freed from uncertainty, but the races and institutions at which we arrive are real and tangible, though in some cases — that of Lycurgus is a well- known instance — a cloud may still hang about their founders. We can always be pretty sure what laws, customs, and form of government existed in each place at a particular time, though something fabulous may still cling to the individual personages of the period. It is here, accordingly, that Mr. Grote takes occasion to bring in his sketch of Grecian geography. Something of the kind is generally considered a necessarj^ introduction to a history: we confess to having some doubts of its in- dispensability. Arnold's most valuable and interesting work on Rome contains no geographical account of Italy; and yet singularly enough, Arnold himself has elsewhere insisted on the importance and necessity of the ordinary 101 course;* nay, more, he illustrates its value by immediate reference to Italy, the natural features of which he pro- ceeds to describe in his most felicitous manner. A good map is certainly always a requisite, and with this pro- bably most readers would be satisfied. We half suspect that few persons, except conscientious reviewers like ourselves, peruse these geographical introductions. Both our authors are full and accurate in this part of their work; Grote, the more spirited and interesting of the two, as he has the greater dexterity in rendering a dry subject attractive, and illustrates his details by noting the differences as well as the resemblances of climate, natural productions, cultivation &c., in Ancient and Mo- dern Greece. And now before treating of the Peloponnesian Dorians, we have one more troublesome subject to adjust or get over in some way. Every student of Greek and Roman history has been more than once brought to a stand by the Pelasgi^ an extinct people who seem to have been used as a convenient solution for all the problems in the archaeology of the nations around the Mediterranean, much as electricity was once employed in physical phi- losophy to account for all unknown phenomena. The anxious inquirer, after laboring to shape some definite and consistent conclusion out of the various conflicting statements of ancient writers, and the still more conflict- ing inferences drawn from every one of these statements by modern scholars, generally has to end by confessing himself hopelessly puzzled. Whoever has worked through Niebuhr, and Thirlwall, and Maiden,** and Michelet — whoever has tried to form a coherent opinion of his own on the principal questions in dispute: whether the Pelas- gians spoke Greek, or something very different from Greek; whether Herodotus ought to have written Croton where he wrote Creston, or Dionysius ought to have quoted Creston where he quoted Croton; whether the Tyrsenian Pe- lasgians came from Greece to Italy or vice versa, or whether they ever were in Italy at all; whether the real name of * Lectures on Modern History, pp. 123, 124, 125, 128, 129. ** Prof. Maiden, of the London University, who began a History of Rome for the "Library of Useful knowledge" in 1830. The early numbers were remarkably promising , but under the fatality which seems to attend histories of Rome, it stopped short after the fifth. 102 the people whom we know through the Romans as Etruscans was Rasena, or whether these Rasena only exist in a wrong reading* — whoever has blundered through all this, is struck with agreeable surprise, not unmingled with something like triumphant satisfaction, to find that Mr. Grote "shoots" these troublesome Pelasgi as unceremoniously as if they were so much rubbish. This is his summary method of dispatching them: — "If any man is inclined to call the unknown ante-Hellenic period of Greece by the name of Pelasgic, it is open for him to do so ; but this is a name carrying with it no assured predicates, no way enlar- ging our insight into real history, nor enabling us to explain — what would be the real historical problem — how or from whom the Hel- lens acquired that stock of dispositions, aptitudes, arts, &c., with which they began their career. Whoever has examined the many conflicting systems respecting the Pelasgi — from the literal belief of Clavier, Larcher and Raoul Rochette, (which appears to me at least the most consistent way of proceeding,) to the interpretative and half incredulous processes applied by abler men , such as Nie- buhr, or O. Miiller, or Dr. Thirlwall, will not be displeased with my resolution to decline so insoluble a problem. No attested facts are now present to us — none were present to Herodotus and Thucydides even in their age — on which to build trustworthy affirmations re- specting the ante-Hellenic Pelasgians ; and where such is the case, we may without impropriety apply the remark of Herodotus respecting one of the theories which he had heard for explaining the inundation of the Nile by a supposed connection with the ocean — that 'the man who carries up his story into the invisible world, passes out of the range of criticism.' " Vol. ii., pp. 346, 7. Certainly this is the pleasantest and most convenient way of getting rid of these Pelasgi; but after all, is it doing full justice to them and to ourselves? It strikes us that a student who began with and depended upon Mr. Grote, would be likely to underrate the importance of the question, at least as much as some enthusiastic speculators have overrated it, and to form a most inade- quate idea of its bearings. He would find nothing about the extent of ground covered by Pelasgic traces and traditions — in Greece Proper, in Macedonia, around * Mr. Grote is unusually liberal to the Basena. He alludes to their existence without the least doubt or suspicion, at the close of the very chapter in which he has been making a clear sweep of the Pelasgi, the Greeci, and the ante-Hellenic people generally. 103 the Hellespont, in the islands of the Archipelago, in Asia Minor, in Italy — nothing about the Pelasgic names, such as Larism^* that occur in various parts of Greece — nothing about the Tyrseni, and their connection with Greece on the one hand and Etruria on the other ^-- nothing about those imperishable and extraordinary relics, the Cyclopean structures, except indeed Mr. Grote's oft- hand disposal of them by adopting the conjecture of a German Professor, that "the character of the Greek limestone determined the polygonal style of architecture." ** Now we have always considered the whole Pelasgic question more valuable in reference to Latin, than in reference to Greek history, (though the general opinion^ we are aware, tends the other way;) and we are well disposed to adopt Mr. Grote's two main propositions — that the Pelasgic language was not by any means Greek, and that it is impossible to predict with anything like accuracy what element, if any, of the Hellenic civilization and character was due to the Pelasgi ; and it is for these very reasons — because we agree with him so far — that we regret his having handled the subject with such brevity, and not given us some of the prevalent views upon it, even though he ended by rejecting them all. Considered as mere mythes, the traditions about the Pelasgi are sufficiently interesting to deserve repetition at any rate. The old story, for instance, which repre- sented them as a people specially persecuted by the wrath of the gods, has something very impressive and poetical in it. Michelet, who never lets a legend lose any of its romance in passing through his hands, has worked it up in a series of striking tableaux. The classical passage respecting the Pelasgic tongue, and the few places where it was yet spoken in the time of Herodotus, is the fifty-seventh chapter of Clio: — * That Larissa is "the city of the Lar," or prince^ and that the Tyrseni derived their name of "tower-builders" (zvQaig, Tv()Ql$, turris.) from their architectural propensities, seem to us as natural and well-founded case of ethnical etymology as any on record. ** It is hut fair to say, however, that Mr. Bunbury, an accurate and accomplished scholar, whose opinions are formed on his own observation of the country, has come to the same conclusion respecting the Cyclopean remains in Italy. Classical Museum, vol. ii., p- 147. 104 "•What language the Pelasgians spoke I am not able positively to affirm. But if one must give an opinion , arguing from * the Pe- lasgians still extant at present, those who inhabit the town of Creston beyond the Tyrseni, (who were once neighbors to the people now called Dorians, and then dwelt in the territory now called Thessalio- tis.) and those who founded Placia and Scylace on the Hellespont, (who were fellow-inhabitants with the Athenians,) and all the other towns which were Pelasgic, and changed their name — if one must give an opinion arguing from these, the Pelasgi spoke a barbarian language. If then all the Pelasgians were like these, the Athenians who were Pelasgi must have changed their language along with their transformation into an Hellenic people ; for we know that the Cresto- nians do not speak the same tongue with any of those who live around them, neither do the Placians, but they speak the same with each other. It is clear, then, that they have preserved the same characteristic form of speech iyXcoGGrig xaQaxTrjQcc) which they brought with them on emigrating into these places." This seems tolerably plain; yet in the face of it O. Muller lays down as a fundamental hypothesis that "the Pelasgi were Greeks, and spoke the Grecian lan- guage." ** We shall not enter into an examination of his reasons for so doing, preferring to quote Dr. Thirl- wall's opinion, both because it falls more immediately within our present purpose to compare him with Mr. Grote, and because this comparison furnishes an amusing instance of the directly opposite inferences which two learned men will draw from the very same passage: — "This language Herodotus describes as barbarous, and it is on this fact he grounds his general conclusion as to the ancient Pelasgian tongue. But he has not entered into any details that might have served to ascertain the manner or degree in which it differed from the Greek. Still the expressions he uses would have appeared to imply that it was essentially foreign, had he not spoken quite as strongly in another passage, where it is impossible to ascribe a simi- lar meaning to his words. In enumerating the dialects that prevailed among the Ionian Greeks, he observes that the Ionian cities in Lydia agree not at all in their tongue with those of Caria; and he applies the very same term to these dialects, which he had before used in * Mr. Grote quotes T€XjLiaiQOfiivoig for Texf-icHQO^evov, pro- bably a misprint. ** Muller's Dorians, i. 1-5, 105 speaking of the remains of the Pelasgian language,* This passage aifords a measure by which we may estimate the force of the word barbarian in the former. Nothing more can be safely inferred from it, than that the Pelasgian language which Herodotus heard on the Hellespont and elsewhere, sounded to him a strange jargon, as did the dialect of Ephesus to a Milesian, and as the Bolognese does to a Florentine." — (Thirlwall, vol. i., p. 53.) Mr. Grote, after some judicious remarks upon the improbability of one language being totally displaced by another, as Herodotus supposed to be the case with the Pelasgian in Attica, accepts with confidence the Greek historian's statement of what he heard with his own ears — the barbaric language spoken by the Pelasgi extant in his day — and observes on ThirlwalPs softening away of this statement: "To suppose that a man who, like Herodotus, had heard almost every variety of Greek in the course of his long travels, as well as Egyptian, Phoenician, Assyrian, Lydian and other languages, did not know how to distinguish bad Hellenic from non- Hellenic, is, in my judgment, inadmissible; at any rate, the supposition is not to be adopted without more cogent evidence than any which is here found." And he con- tinues the argument in a note, with his usual accuracy of discrimination: — "The words yXtoOOrig ^aqctXTijQ (distinctive mode of speech) are common to both these passages, [of Herodotus,] but their meaning in the one and the other is to be measured by reference to the sub- ject-matter of which the author is speaking, as well as to the words which accompany them — especially the word ^CiQfictQnC in the first passage. Nor can I think, with Dr. Thirlwall, that the meaning of ^aQ^CCQOQ is to be determined by reference to the other two words : the reverse is in my judgment correct. BaQf^aQog is a term definite and unequivocal, but yXcotJGr^g %CiQaXTrjQ varies according to the comparison which you happen at the moment to be making, and its meaning is here determined by its conjunction with (^cxQ^aQOg. When Herodotus was speaking of the twelve Ionic cities in Asia, he might properly point out the differences of speech among them, as * The passage referred to here by Dr. Thirlwall is in Clio, 142, where Herodotus says of the Ionic Greek cities , that "they do not all use the same tongue, but four different varieties." Miletus, Myus and Priene have one, Ephesus, Colophon, Lebedus, Teos, Clazomenee and Phocooea another, the Chians and Erythroeans a third, and the Samians a fourth. „These are their four characteristic forms of speech." 106 80 many different xaoctyrr^Qtg y'kiOOGrjc; ; the limits of difference ■were fixed by the knowledge which his hearers possessed of the persons about whom he was speaking; the lonians being all notoriously Hellens. So too an author describing Italy might say that Bolognese, Romans,Neapontans, Genoese, &c.. had different 7«paxr/^()f^yAwJ(T/yc:; it being understood that the difference was such as might subsist among persons all Italians. But there is also a xaQCCXCrjQ yXcjaarjg of Greek generally (abstraction made of its various dialects and di- versities) as constrasted with Persian, Phoenician or Latin — and of Italian generally, as contrasted with German or English. It is this comparison which Herodotus is taking when he describes the language spoken by the people of Kreston and Plakia, and which he notes by the word [•ia'^[iC(QOV as opposed to ^Ellr^vtxov: it is with refe- rence to this comparison that yaQaxTrj() yXwOGrjg in the fiftyseventh chapter is to be construed. The word ^aQ^aQog is the usual and recognized antithesis of 'EXXrjv or 'Ellr^vixog* Is is not the least remarkable part of the statement of Herodotus, that the language spoken at KrSston and at Plakia was the same , though the places were so far apart from each other. This identity of itself shows that he meant to speak of a substantive language, not of a strange jargon. I think it, therefore, certain, that Herodotus pronounces the Pelasgians of his day to speak a substantive language different from Greek ; but whether differing from it in a greater or less degree, (e. g. in the degree of Latin or of Phoenician,) we have no means of deciding." — Grote, vol. ii. Note on pp. 352, 353. The barbaric or non- Hellenic character of the Pe- lasgian language has then the best grounds for being admitted as a fact. But it is curious to observe, that while this fact breaks up many of the supposed affinities between the Pelasgi and the historical Greeks, it seems to strengthen their connection with another people of authentic history — the Etrusci. One of the standard objections to the Pelasgic origin of the Etrusci is, that if their language were Pelasgian w^e ought to be able to trace in the Etruscan inscriptions extant some decided similitude to Greek, and no such resemblance can be discovered. * But the supposition that Pelasgic and Greek * Maiden, p. 76. Niebuhr, vol. i., p. III. Of the Etruscih language, scarcely anything is known with cer- tainty. ^ The words which we find quoted by Festus , Varro and other Roman authorities, are (even supposing those authorities unexceptio- nable) independent nouns, throwing no light on the structure of the tongue; and from the inscriptions nothing has been gathered except I 107 (i. e. Hellenic) were different languages, removes this difficulty at once. The speculation is an interesting one, but to pursue it here, would involve us in too long a digression, especially as we have yet to notice Mr. Grote's other and most important conclusion respecting the Pe- lasgi, in which we also coincide with him, viz., that it is impossible to determine which (if any) of the elements of Hellenic civilization and character are referable to them. The Hellenic national characteristics — those distin- guishing institutions and habits which prevailed among the Greeks generally in spite of local differences — are well summed up by Mr. Grote: community of sacrifices and religious festivals ; traditional community of blood ; a sturdy spirit of individual independence, strongly con- trasting with the Asiatic feeling of unlimited obedience to one man ; the non - existence of polygamy and child- traffic 5 a religious horror of castration, and generally of all mutilation of the person, alive or dead; on the other hand, exposure of the person in gymnastic contests, &c., which the Eastern nations regarded as most unseemly. * If we were asked what was the most striking trait of Hellenic character — that which explains and includes the greatest number of their national peculiarities — we should say that it was their respect for the human body, for the mere physical person. The human form was something sacred to them. Hence they regarded the Eastern punishments of cutting off the hands and feet, putting out the eyes, and the practice (for it was not even exclusively a punishment) of castration, not merely as barbarities, but as positive impieties. Hence, too, the immense importance they attached to the burial of the that aifil ril or avil ril means vixit annos, or annos vixil^ for antiqua- rians have not been able to satisfy themselves which is which. Do- naldson's attempts to explain the inscriptions {Varronianus^ ch. 5) are more ingenious than satisfactory. Take, as rather a favorable specimen of them, nV, a year, connected with QSCO^ to flow, from the regular flowing of time! * Herodotus, Clio, 10, (the story of Gyges and Candaules ) "For with the Lydians, and we may say with all the other barbarian na- tions, it is a great disgrace even for a man to be seen naked." An analogous difference in European and Asiatic ideas of propriety is observable at the present day. The tight dress of the Frank is an abomination to the Moslem: it has the same effect to him that the appearance of woman in man's clothes has to us. 108 dead, and the whole treatment of the corpse after death. With this was naturally connected the cultivation of physical excellence, and the study of physical beauty: so far from the form being concealed as something to be ashamed of, it was rather to be exhibited and con- templated. We see the highest development of this feeling in the anthropomorphic character of their religion , and its expression in their marvellous works of art; but the germ of the sentiment is traceable before art existed: it runs through the whole Homeric psychology. W^ith Homer the body is the man; the souls are mere shades that flit about. The life of the poorest laborer on earth is pre- ferable to a sovereignty in the realms below. We detect this in the very first lines of the Iliad. Achilles' wrath has sent many brave souls of heroes to Hades, and made themselves a prey to dogs. Here a modern writer would directly reverse the personality. Now how far can this, or any other trait of Grecian character and civilization, be deduced from the Pelasgi? Maiden thinks that the physical element was Hellenic, and the intellectual Pelasgic. * And certainly, according to tradition, the Athenians were of almost pure Pelasgic descent. But then it is also traditionary that some of the rudest and least intellectual Greek tribes, such as the Arcadians were, to use Maiden's own words, "pure Pelasgians rendered Hellenic only by gradual assimilation to their neighbors." So that here we are at a dead lock. The only thing really known about the civilization of the Pelasgi is, that they were people of an architectural turn, who built massive fortifications; beyond this we have no right to affirm anything positively. That part of the Greek institutions where there is most hope of our being able to detect and separate the Pelasgian element, is their theology. Thus there seems good reason to suppose that Apollo was the original chief divinity of the Hellenes, and that Zeus (Jupiter) whose head- quarters at Dodona are -unanimously allowed to be Pe- lasgic, was adopted by them from the Pelasgi. But this distinction, even if thoroughly established throughout, would lead to nothing certain beyond itself. We are not sorry to quit this perplexing theme, and * History of Rome, p. 70. 109 hasten on to the next resting place — the foundation of the Spartan commonwealth, and the institutions of Ly- curgus; although Mr. Grote previously dispatches the early history of Argos, and in this respect his arrange- ment is to be preferred to Dr. Thirlwall's, as it is pretty evident that Argos was at first the leading power in the Peloponnesus, and that the ascendency of Sparta was an event of later date. At this point, the proper com- mencement of our politico-historical inquiries, it is curious to note the different views and methods of proceeding adopted by our two historians. Both are disposed to be critical and skeptical, as our readers have already had abundant opportunity of perceiving; but their doubts take a different turn. Grote receives the institutions as having a definite reality and establishment at a very early period, but is incredulous about the law -giver, his opinion of whom coincides with Muller's, that "we have absolutely no account of him as an individual person." Thirl wall admits the personality of Lycurgus, and considers the chronological discrepancies in the various accounts of him inconsiderable, while he believes that every important part of the institutions had existed previous to his time, and that his work was one of readjustment, not of creation. Mr. Grote's view has this recommendation, if no other, that it is conformable to the method of dealing with the early Roman history adopted by Niebuhr and Arnold. With the able historian and panegyrist of the Dorians, C. O. Muller, our authors agree and disagree alternately. Grote, as we said above, follows him in regard to Ly- curgus, but is directly opposed to him (and consequently to Thirlwall, whose opinion is substantially the same as Muller's) as to the non-peculiarity of the Spartan insti- tutions. Muller, whose work displays throughout the strongest pro - oligarchical , pro -Dorian and anti- Ionian bias, represents the laws of Sparta as the true Doric institutions, and Sparta as the full Doric type. The only authority he deigns to give for this is a passage in Pin- dar, which we cannot dismiss better than in Mr. Grote's words, that "it is scarcely of any value."* ThirlwalFs modified position, that many of the individual Spartan institutions may be traced in other Doric states, is no * Muller's Dorians, iii., 1, 8. Grote, ii. 456. 110 wise inconsistent with the assertion that there were also elements of the Lycurgan constitution peculiar to itself. We may suppose that Lycurgus detected those qualities in the Dorian character, which rendered it particularly well adapted to receive certain institutions; while, as Mr. Grote well observes, it was the very singularity of these institutions that made them work so impressively on the Grecian mind. Thus both sides are partially right: MuUer in the theory that the Dorians generally had a capacity for a military-oligarchical system of government ; Grote in the fact that Sparta was the only Doric state in which this idea was fully developed. The people whose institutions most nearly resembled those of Sparta were the Cretans. On this resemblance it may be inter- esting to compare two distinguished authorities, Aristotle and Polybius. The former observes: — "The social arrangements of the Cretans are analogous to those of the Laconians; for the latter have their ground cultivated by He- lots, and the former by Perioeci, and both have public tables ; indeed, the Laconians used to call these tables, not phiditia as now, but an- dria, as the Cretans do, whence it is evident that this custom came from Crete. The political arrangements are also analogous , for the Ephori correspond exactly to the officers called Cosmi in Crete, ex- cept that the Ephori are five in number, and the Cosmi ten; and the Laconian Senate is equivalent to the Cretan Council. The office of king formerly existed in Crete: afterwards it was abolished, and the Cosmi have the chief command in war. All have a right to vote at the popular assembly, but this assembly has no power to do anything except ratify the decrees of the Council and Cosmi. The public messes are better managed by the Cretans than by the Laconians, for in Lacedsemon each individual contributes his appointed portion, and if he fail to do this, the law excludes him from participating in the privileges of citizenship; but in Crete, the produce of the earth, the cattle, the public revenues, and the tributes paid by the Perioeci, are all appropriated, one half for religious expenses and other public ser- vices, the other for the public tables, so that all, men, women, and children, are supported from a common fund. * . . . But the institution of the Cosmi is even worse than that of the Ephori; for the main evil of the Ephoralty, namely, that the election is a mere matter of chance, is also true of the Cosmi, but the compensating expedient * A tolerable approximation to Fourierism, which did not prevent the Cretans from being terribly quarrelsome and disorderly among themselves, as we learn from this very same chapter of Aristotle a little further on. Ill does not exist in the latter. In La- cedfiemon, as the office is open to all, the people, having a share in the supreme authority, desire the maintenance of the constitution ; but the Cretans choose their Cosmi, not from the whole people, but from certain families, and the Council from those who have served as Cosmi." * Polybius wonders "how the most distinguished prose writers of antiquity could have said that the Cretan government was similar to, nay, identical with the La- cedaemonian," and proceeds to mention three very impor- tant points of diiference: — "The peculiarities of the Lacedaemonian constitution are. first, the regulations respecting the acquisition of land, of which no one has more than another, but all the citizens must have an equal share of the territory belonging to the state; secondly, their estimation of money, the pursuit of which was from the first dishonorable among them, and consequently, rivalry in wealth has been entirely extirpated from the community; thirdly, that the Lacedaemonian kings preserve an hereditary succession, and the senators hold office for life, and these two manage all state affairs. But with the Cretans everything is the very opposite of this, for their laws suifer every man to acquire as much land as he can, and money is prized by them to such a de- gree, that the acquisition of it is considered not only necessary but most meritorious. And generally, the tendency to mean traffic and avarice is so prevalent in the country , that the Cretans alone of all men see nothing base in money-making. Moreover, their offices are annual, and their government arranged on democratic principles." ** ** Polybius, vi. 45-6. The historian's astonishment that a people should see nothing disgraceful in the acquisition of money, is in ac- cordance with the spirit of antiquity. Mr. Grote, in the appendix to his chapter on the Solonian Constitution, (iii. 215,) after tracing the gradual change of moral feeling in this respect, adds, that to do so is highly instructive, "the more so as that general basis of sentiment of which the antipathy against lending money on interest is only a particular case, still prevails largely in society, and directs the current of moral approbation and disapprobation. With many, the principle of reciprocity in human dealings appears, when conceived in theory, odious and contemptible, and goes by some bad name, such as egoism, selfishness , calculation , political economy , &c. ; the only sentiment which they will admit in theory is, that the man who has, ought to be ready at all times to give away what he has to him who has not, while the tatter is encouraged to expect and require such gratuitous donation" Exactly the social economy of the Sue and Dickens school. It is worthy of observation also, that some of the most enlightened nations of the present day have not yet gotrid of those barbarous absur dities, the Usury Laws. 112^ Of the three peculiarities here specified, the existence of the first is, as we shall soon see, exceedingly proble- matical ; the consequence of the second was directly the reverse of what Polybius represents, for the Spartans came to be remarkably venal and avaricious ; * the third, if correctly stated as regards the Cretans, certainly constitutes an important difference. It must be borne in mind, that Aristotle is comparing analogous institutions, and the state which he considers analogous to Crete and Lacedsemon, is Carthage^ which certainly had nothing Doric or Spartan in its national character or social institutions, though some of its political institutions re- sembled the Spartan — the diarchy, for instance, though even here the resemblance was by no means complete, as the suffetes, so far from succeeding hereditarily, were not even chosen for life. On a similar system of partial comparison, we might class the British government with those of Spain and Prussia, in respect of its principle of hereditary succession to the chief magistracy, and wdth our own in respect of its representative system, free press, freedom of travel without passports, &c. So, too, we might call the Norwegian government a monarchy or a democracy, looking at it from different points of view. The Spartan government itself was arranged by the Greek political writers, sometimes in one class of governments, sometimes in another; nay, the aristocratical or democratic force of particular elements in it is variously represented: thus in the passage of Aristotle above quoted, the Ephoralty is represented as a demo- cratic institution, while in Plato's Laws, (iv. 112,) one of the speakers says that this institution of the Ephori is "marvellously despotic," {d^avfiaoTov tug TVQavvixov.) Indeed, these Ephori are very troublesome people to deal with. That from being a subordinate magistracy of some sort, they managed to engross the chief power * "Lycurgus does not try to make the poor rich, nor the rich poor; but he imposes upon both the same subjugating drill — the same habits of life, gentleman-like idleness and unlettered strength — the same fare, clothing, labors, privations, endurance, punishments and subordination. It is a lesson instructive, at least, however unsatis- factory to political students, that with all this equality of dealing, he ends in creating a community in whom the love of money stands powerfully and specially developed." Grote, vol. ii. p. 548. 113 in the state, is well known, but the details respecting them are very vague and contradictory. On this point, neither of our historians are as full as we could wish. Thirlwall says scarcely anything; and we are surprised that Mr. Grote has made not the least allusion to the theory advocated by Muller and others, that the Ephors were originally a civil court, who gradually usurped criminal jurisdiction, and through criminal jurisdiction, political power. "It was the regular course of events in the Grecian states, that the civil courts enlarged their influence, while the power of the criminal courts was continually on the decline. As in Athens, the Helisea rose, as compared with the Areopagus, so in Sparta, the power of the Ephors increased in comparison with that of the Gerusia." * This view is rendered extremely probable by a comparison of Aristotle's, (which Muller must have had in his mind, though, he does not directly cite it,) where he says distinctly, that the magistracy of the hundred and four at Carthage closely resembled the Ephori, except that the mode of election was different. ** Now we know that the hundred and four was a civil court, and the great difference in the numbers of the two bodies is only proportioned to the difference in the population of the two states, f Thirlw all seems to incline to Muller's opinion, for he states that the Ephors "appear from the first to have exercised a jurisdiction and super- intendence over the Spartans in their civil concerns." We must be careful, however, not to involve in our adoption of this position the reception of another which Muller connects with it, namely, that the Ephors were the "agents and plenipotentiaries of the popular assembly," answering to demagogues and exercising a democratic tyranny. His motive for wishing to make this out is clear enough. That the rule of the Ephori came to be tyrannical and mischievous , all authorities are agreed ; and, of course, it is a great point for him if he can put all this evil on the head of his bete noire ^ democracy. But there is really no reason to suppose that the popular assembly, in which there was no discussion, and not often * Muller's Dorians, iii. 7, 4. ** Politics, ii. 11. 7 Heeion'a African Nations j cbap. 3. Vol. I. 114 a division, ever had any independent weight, much less predominance, in the government; and the indisputable fact, that when Agis III. and Cleomenes III. wished to reform the government on the most democratic basis, the principal resistance offered to them was by the Ephori, is utterly irreconcilable with Muller's supposition. If it were perfectly certain that these officers were chosen upon the most democratic principles from among the people, as he states, it would certainly give plausibility to his argument, but even this is by no means clear. How they were elected is very uncertain. Not by lot, for Aristotle's testimony is positive to the effect that no officers were appointed by lot in Sparta, yet Plato speaks of the Ephoralty as closely approximating to an office appointed by lot, {eyyvg Trig xlrjQcoT^g duvcc/iiewg.) Else- where Aristotle speaks of the manner of election as "particularly childish."* Our own suspicion is, that there was some dodge about the matter, some specious contrivance, which pretended to give the choice to the people, but really lodged it with the oligarchy. A con- trivance of this kind would be favored by the secrecy of the Spartan government, which was notoriously close and silent in all its transactions — as much so as that of Venice or Russia. And this incidental mention of Venice reminds us of a not inapposite illustration of our meaning, a plan most elaborately fair in appearance, but practically amounting to no security against the evils which it was supposed to prevent — we mean the method of electing the doge; the working of which is thus described by Lord Brougham: — "In 1249 a new and very complicated manner of exercising the elective power was devised, which continued to be practiced as long as the republic lasted; that is, till the year 1798. First of all, thirty of the Council were drawn by lot, and these again were reduced by lot to nine, who selected, by a majority of seven, at least, of their number, forty of the Council, and those were by lot reduced to twelve. These twelve elected twenty-five of the Council, which were reduced by lot to nine, and the nine selected forty-five, of whom eleven drawn by lot selected forty-one of the Council to be electors of the doge. A majority of twenty-five of these electors required to join in choo- sing the doge. The prevailing view in this combination of choice and chance must have been twofold — to prevent the combination of par- * AriBtot. Polit., ii. 6, 16, iv. 7, 5. Plato, Leg., iii. p. 692. 115 tisans, and thus neutralize or weaken party influence, and to prevent the knowledge of the parties who should elect, and thus frustrate or obstruct the exercise of bribery or other undue influence. The first of these objects could not be at all secured by the contrivance, the second could only be most imperfectly attained. 1. In order to try its effect upon party, we must suppose two or more factions to divide the great Council; suppose, too, an aristocratic, which for shortness we shall call the Whigs , and a monarchical , the Tories , and first, suppose them unequal in the proportion of two to one. The chances are, that the first lot gives twenty Whigs to ten Tories, and the second, six Whigs to three Tories. As seven must then concur to choose the forty, it is certain that the minority may make terms; but nothing can be so improbable, as that they should obtain, by holding out, any proportion of the forty which could affect usefully for their purpose the next or fourth operation, the lot reducing the forty to twelve; for unless they get so many of the forty as to give them a fair chance of having seven out of the twelve, they do nothing, a bare majority of the twelve being enough to choose the twenty-five by the fifth operation. The twenty-five then will be all Whigs, and so will of course the nine to which they are reduced by lot. These by the seventh operation will choose eleven Whigs, whom the lot reducing to eight, these eight will choose forty-one, all Whigs, twenty-five of whom will therefore by the tenth and last operation choose a Whig doge. In fact, the whole result is certain, notwithstanding the complication after the two first lots : and the complication then becomes useless. * * * * 2. It may be admitted that the lot threw some impediment in the way of corruption and intimidation, preventing those undue influences from being used to- wards the greater number of the Council. When, however, the thirty were once drawn and then reduced to nine, it is not easy to see how those nine should be exempt from the arts of the candidates. Even if they were to vote secretly, the bargain might be made by the can- didate or his party that the bribe should only be paid if earned, that is, upon the final election taking place. If we suppose seven of the nine to be thus bought, it is clear that they could secure the event by choosing as many of the forty as made it certain a majority of the twelve should be friendly, and then the election was certain, al- ways supposing, as we have done, that there were a sufficient num- ber of sure votes in the Council itself." — Political Philosophy, vol. ii., pp. 269, 599. Such a system certainly seems to us TiaLSaQiiodrjg klctv, but it was once lauded as the highest refinement of political wisdom. And that some such trickery, some specious and delusive plan which looked like an open election, but in reality was not, governed the election of Ephori, we more than half suspect. S* lie Another hypothetical ultra- democratic institution of Sparta, Mr. Grote totally disbelieves in, though it is generally spoken of as one of the fundamental enact- ments of Lycurgus — the alleged redivision, namely, and equal distribution of landed property. His arguments on this point, which are exceedingly clear and forcible, are briefly these: That all historical evidences show decided inequality of property among the Spartans; that the historical and political writers who treated of the Spartan constitution previous to Aristotle, viz., Hellanicus, Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon and Plato, say nothing of this equal distribution ; and that Aristotle, in discussing the scheme of equality of possessions, expressly mentions Phaleas of Chalcedon as the author of it. He concludes that the idea must have originated in the reveries of Agis and Cleomenes and their reforming friends. It is certainly unfortunate for the "land-reformers" and "vote- yourself-a-farm" people, that the precedents in ancient history to which they sometimes appeal, should turn out, on examination, to be no precedents at all. Thus the famous Licinian law at Rome, so long supposed to limit the amount of real estate which an individual might own, has been proved to refer not to private property at all, but to the occupation of public land — ager, without any qualifying epithet, standing for ager publicus, and possidere being the technical term for to occupy. * We have an idea (partly suggested by the term TroliTixrj %toQa in the passage of Polybius which we have had occasion to quote) that there may have been a similar misapprehension in relation to Sparta; that there may have been a distri- bution of public land made among the poorer citizens. But as this is a mere conjecture founded only on analogy and a chance expression in one author, and not supported by any positive authority, we should never have ventured to express it, had we not found an almost identical opinion propounded by Dr. Thirlwall. He says: — "If we suppose the inequality of property among the Spartans to have arisen chiefly from acta of usurpation, by which leading men had seized lands of the conquered Acheeans, which belonged of right * Such, at least, is now the opinion of scholars throughout Eng- land, and all over Germany, except to use Niebuhr's own expression „in some obscure and isolated corners of Austria." 117 to the state, their resumption might afford the means at once of cor- recting an evil which disturbed the internal tranquillity of Sparta, and of redressing a wrong which provoked discontent among her subjects. The kings, we are informed, (Xenoph. de Lac. Rep. c. 15,) had domains in the districts of several provincial towns; similar ac- quisitions may have been made by many private Spartans before the time of Lycurgus ; and his partition may have consisted chiefly in the restoration and distribution of such lands." (Vol. i., p., 305.) Mr. Grote, however, rejects this supposition as "alto- gether gratuitous." Whatever opinion our readers may think it worth their while to adopt on the many disputed points con- nected with the Spartan government, a few of which we have been tempted briefly to examine, they will probably be disposed to coincide in Mr. Grote's designation of it, as "a close, unscrupulous and well-obeyed oligarchy." With this oligarchy the Athenian constitution, republican as constituted by Solon, purely democratic as re-const- ituted by Clisthenes, who "took the commons into part- nership," stands in marked contrast. In neither of our historians do we find the fashionable comparison of the merits of these two celebrated governments ; but Mr. Grote . evidently has something of the kind in view, and from an intimation he gives us of his intention to defend the most notorious Athenian demagogues, Cleon and Hyperbolus, he may be expected to take the extreme Athenian side. The great argument in favor of the Spartan constitution is its stability, a test which would make the Chinese polity the best on earth. Stability may be the accident of a liberal government like the English, or a despotic government like the Russian; it is not absolutely and necessarily desirable of itself. If a government is de- cidedly bad, its stability is only an additional evil: the best thing that we can wish for such a government, is that it should be unstable. Heaven forbid that we should do anything to underrate or palliate that fickle and hasty legislation, which has too often been the curse of popular governments, and led many a man to adopt in bitterness of spirit, the sentiment which Thucydides puts into the mouth of one of his characters, that "a city with worse laws, if immovable, is preferable to one with good laws that be not binding;" but it were folly to run into the other extreme, and make a blind conservatism atone for 118 all sins of omission or commission. The barbarous cruelty of the Spartans to their serfs, their savage illiberality to strangers as exhibited in the Xenelasia, their systematic ignorance and discouragement of all art, and literature, and eloquence, of all talent except military, are too well known to need more than a passing allusion. The best thing to be said of them — and it certainly is very much to their credit — is that the Spartan women were ad- mitted into something like their legitimate sphere, and not treated as mere pieces of household furniture, ac- cording to the practice of most nations of that time. And yet, after all, this liberty could only improve the physique of the race , without aiding them morally * or intellectually, since the women were no better off for education than the men, all the Lacedaemonians being illiterate on principle. Illiterate on principle — how much lies in these few words ! If the Athenians had been like the Spartans, how much should we have had of Greek philosophy, or history, or poetry? Should we even have had Homer preserved for us? Nay, further, what would have been the effect on the Roman mind, which was conquered by conquered Athens? What upon the modern nations, who in their turn received the impulse from Rome? The inquiry may be extended indefinitely. Spartan fortitude has indeed passed into a proverb; but the influence of Athens on the human intellect is bounded only by the limits of civilization. The preservation of the regal office was peculiar to Sparta. In the other Greek states the regular course was from monarchy to oligarchy, and through oligarchy, with occasional interludes of usurpation by a despot, to democracy. We have here a wide field for political speculation and remark. Thirlwall has done little more than translate and explain Aristotle, but he has done this admirably. * In admitting the superior virtue of the LacedsBmonian women both our historians have rather hastily followed Muller. "We think that they are a little too charitable, and that Mr. St. John, in his Man- ners and Customs of Ancient Greece, has come nearer the mark. "We may distrust the gossip of Athenseus, but Plato and Xenophon are pretty good authorities, and the latter especially a most unwilling witness against the Spartans. 119 For the best picture of such a democracy in its social and every -day workings, we must have recourse to Plato : — "When, methinks, a democratic state, thirsting for liberty, has bad servants to supply it, and becomes intoxicated with a too deep and unmixed draught : then , unless its rulers are very yielding and afford it much license, it charges them vrith being wicked aristocrats, and punishes them." "You are right, said he, for that is what they do." "And those who obey the rulers," I continued, "it insults, as voluntary slaves and men of no account ; and it praises and honors the rulers for being like subjects, and subjects for being like rulers. Must they not go to the extremity of freedom in such a state?" "Of course." "And this inherent anarchy," I went on, "extends itself to private houses, and finally descends even to animals." "I do not perfectly understand you," he observed. "For instance," said I, "the father will grow like a boy and be afraid of his sons, and the son like a father, and have neither reverence nor fear for his parents, to show how free he is; and the resident alien is as good as a native citizen, and the native citizien no better than a resident alien, nay, than an absolute foreigner." "I am afraid it is so," said he. "Yes, it is so," said I, "and some other little things like this happen: the teacher is afraid of his scholars, and flatters them , and the scholars despise their teacher; and generally the youth imitate old men, and rival them in words and actions, while the old men, letting themsel- ves down to a level with the youth, become very witty and obliging, in imitation of the young, so as not to appear unpleasant or tyran- nical." He assented. "And the last stage, my good sir, of this free- dom of the many, as it prevails in such a state, is when servants are on a complete equality with their masters ; and I had nearly forgotten to mention the point to which they carry the political equality of the sexes and the free participation of woman in public affairs. * * * * And as regards the animals subject to man, no one would believe without seeing it how much freer they are there than elsewhere; for it is literally according to the proverb, 'Love me, love my dog,' and the very horses and asses are wont to roam about in all the majesty of freedom, running over every one they meet in the streets who does not get out of their way ; and all other creatures have a correspon- ding surfeit of liberty. * * * * And you can comprehend the result of all these things together: the popular mind is made tender and irritable, so that if one endeavors to put the least amount of restraint upon it, it frets and will not bear it ; and ultimately, you know, they take no care of law or precedent, that no one may be their master any way." — Republic, 562-3. That much of this pungent ly satirical description was directly suggested to Plato by the existing state of 120 things in Athens, we can hardly help supposing; and such sketches help us considerably toward the solution of that perplexing problem, why so many of the most eminent Athenians, especially the leading Socratics, openly preferred the constitution of Sparta, odious as that con- stitution seems to us. It is but human nature to exag- gerate the inconveniences which we ourselves suffer. Had Plato, as a Spartan citizen, personally experienced the disadvantages of Spartan rule, the tables might have been turned: and we might have had from his pen a picture equally able, and still more repulsive, of an illiterate and oppressive oligarchy. We are not afraid of having Xenophon's case quoted against us. A gentle- man of reputation, leaving his country for political reasons, is not likely to form an impartial judgment on the insti- tutions of the people among whom he finds an asylum; the less so because they, feeling flattered by his preference, pet him in return, and are anxious to make everything appear to the best advantage before him. But we are anticipating a subject on which we hope to say more on some future occasion, when Mr. Grote comes to speak of it. Returning from the digression into which Thirl- walPs remarks on the Greek government led us, we will dip into Grote's chapter on the same subject, at the point where he is examining the anti-monarchial feeling of ancient Greece: — "It is important to show that the monarchical institutions and monarchical tendencies prevalent throughout mediaeval and modern Europe have heen both generated and perpetuated by causes peculiar to those societies, whilst in the Hellenic societies, such causes had no place ; in order that we may approach Hellenic phenomena in the proper spirit, and with an impartial estimate of the feeling universal among Greeks towards the idea of a king. The primitive sentiment entertained towards the heroic king died out, passing first into in- difference, next — after experience of the despots — into determined antipathy. To an historian like Mr. Mitford, full of English ideas respecting government , this anti - monarchical feeling appears of the nature of insanity, and the Grecian communities like madmen without a keeper ; while the greatest of all benefactors is the heredi- tary king who conquers them from without; the second best is the home despot, who seizes the Acropolis and puts his fellow-citizens under coercion. There cannot be a more certain way of misinterprp- ting and distorting Grecian phenomena than to read them in this 121 spirit, which reverses the maxims, both of prudence and morality, current in the ancient world. The hatred of kings as is stood among the Greeks (whatever may be thought about a similar feeling now) was a pre-eminent virtue, flowing directly from the noblest and wisest part of their nature : it was a consequence of their deep conviction of the necessity of universal legal restraint ; it was a direct expres- sion of that regulated sociality, which required the control of indivi- dual passion from every one without exception, and most of all, from him to whom power was confided. The conception which the Greeks formed of an irresponsible one, or of a king who could do no wrong, may be expressed in the pregnant words of Herodotus: 'He subverts the customs of the country; he violates women; he puts men to death without trial.' No other conception of the probable tendencies of kingship was justified either by a general knowledge of human nature, or by political experience as it stood from Solon downw^ard : no other feeling than abhorrence could be entertained for the character so con- ceived: no other than a man of unprincipled ambition would ever seek to invest himself with it. Our larger political experience has taught us to modify this opinion, by showing, that under the condi- tions of monarchy in the best governments of modern Europe , the enormities described by Herodotus do not take place , and that it is possible by means of representative constitutions, acting under a cer- tain force of manners, customs and historical recollection, to obviate many of the mischiefs likely to flow from proclaiming the duty of peremptory obdience to an hereditary and irresponsible king, who cannot be changed without extra-constitutional force. But such larger observation was not open to Aristotle, the wisest as well as the most cautious of ancient theorists; nor if it had been open, could he have applied with assurance its lessons to the governments of the single cities of Greece. The theory of a constitutional king, especially as it exists in England, would have appeared to him impracticable : to establish a king who will reign without governing, in whose name all government is carried on, yet whose personal will is in practice of little or no effect ; exempt from all responsibility without making use of the exemption; receiving from every one unmeasured demon- strations of homage, which are never trantilated into act except within the bounds of a known law ; surrounded with all the paraphernalia of power, yet acting as a passive instrument in the hands of ministers marked out for his choice by indications which he is not at liberty to resist. This remarkable combination of the fiction of superhuman grandeur and license with the reality of an invisible straight waist- coat, is what an Englishman has in his mind when he speaks of a constitutional king : the events of our history have brought it to pass in England, amidst an aristocracy the most powerful that the world has yet seen, but we have still to learn whether it can be made to 122 exist elsewhere, or whether the occurrence of a single king at once able, aggressive, and resolute, may not suffice to break it up." — Vol. iii., pp. 15, seq. That last sentence suggests some interesting specu- lations. There certainly are many supposable cases in which the real power and influence of an English monarch might have been, or may be, brought to a violent trial. If anything had happened to Queen Victoria while she was Princess Victoria, Ernest of Hanover would certainly have undertaken to govern England on ultra -tory prin- ciples; but as that personage is not so "able" as "ag- gressive," he would probably have been put down without much difficulty. Or suppose that the present king-consort had united with his personal advantages, intellectual endowments of a high order, and an ambitious spirit — that he had made himself his wife's master, instead of her dependant — that he had in her name taken hold of political affairs — played off the Protectionists and Free-traders against each other — or given a head and a nucleus to some doubtful interest, "Young England," for instance — might not the personal influence of the crown have made itself sensibly felt in British politics? Might not the antagonist forces have stopped the machine altogether, and rendered a reconstruction of the frame of government indispensable? There is nothing very ex- travagant in the supposition, that at some period the sovereign of Great Britain may be a man of great ability and energy, and — so much do "circumstances alter cases" — it is possible that the presence of these qualities in an English executive may be as productive of awkward consequences as the absence of them sometimes is in our own. Having thus far spoken of Mr. Grote's work in the highest terms, particularly for its lively and attractive style, we are now compelled to express our disappoint- ment at the jejune and summary way in which he has narrated some of the most interesting episodes in jrrecian history — the stories relating to the early princes, and especially those told by Herodotus. The substantial authenticity of these narratives he admits, and accordingly mentions their more important details, but with such rapidity that all the romance of the tale vanishes. One instance of this has struck us remarkably — the story 123 of Periander's qarrel with his son, which, in Mr. Grote's abridgment^ reads like a scrap of an old newspaper. The original legend is so touching and poetical, that we are tempted to translate it verbatim, though well aware that no words of ours can convey a proper impression of the Ionic historian's beautiful language: — "After that Periander had slain his own wife, Melissa, upon that mishap there befel him this other: he had two sons from Melissa, one seventeen, one eighteen years old; these, their mother's father, Procles, that was sovereign of Epidaunis, sent for to himself and treated lovingly, as was but natural, since they were his own daugh- ter's sons; but when he sent them away, he said, on speeding them, *Do ye know, my sons, who it was that slew your mother?' This word the elder of them made of no account, but the younger, Lyco- phron by name, was so grieved at the hearing it, that when he came to Corinth he neither saluted his father, (for that he was the slayer of his mother,) nor joined in converse with him, nor answered word to his questioning, until that Periander, possessed with wrath, drove him fonh from the palace. And having driven him forth, he inquired of the elder what their grandfather had told them, whereunto the boy replied that he had received them lovingly, but the word that Proclet had said , on dismissing them , he remembered not , for he had not taken it to heart. Then Periander said it might not be but that he had given them some secret counsel, and he pressed him with quest- ions; so the other remembered it, and told the speech. Then Pe- riander, preceiving this, and willing to yield nothing, sent a messen- ger to those with whom the son whom he had driven out was dwelling, and forbade them to entertain him ; therefore, when he was expelled from that house and went to another, he was driven from that also, for Periander threatened his hosts and bade them shut him out. Yet he went to another house of his friends, and they received him, as being the son of Periander, though they were in fear. At last , Pe- riander made proclamation that whosoever should admit him into his house, or speak to him, should pay a fine to Apollo, and the amount of the fine was stated; by reason of which proclamation, no one would speak to him nor receive him under his roof — nay, he him- self deigned not to attempt what was forbidden, but endured living in the public colonnades. But on the fourth day, Periander beholding him bowed down with squalidness and hunger, was moved to pity, and relaxing from his wrath, approached and accosted him. 'My son, which is preferable for thee, to fare as thou now dost, or to inherit the sovereignty and the good things which I now enjoy, by being friendly to thy father? Thou, who, being my son and the king oi prosperous Corinth, hast chosen a wanderer's life in perversity, 124 indulging anger against him towards whom it least befitted thee; for if there hath happened any calamity for which thou holdest me in suspicion, it hath happened to me also , and I bear the greater share thereof, forasmuch as I myself did all. But do thou, now that thou hast learned how much better it is to be envied than to be pitied, and what it is to quarrel with thy parents and betters, depart hence, home.' With these words did Periander come upon him , but he answered his father nothing more than to say that he had incur- red a fine to the god by entering into conversation with him. Then Periander, finding how unmanageable and invincible his son's disorder was, fitted out a ship for Corcyra, which island he also ruled over, and sent him out of his sight. And afterward Periander made a cam- paign against his father-inlaw, Procles , as the chief cause of his present difficulty, and took Epidaurus and Procles himself alive. But when, in the lapse of years, Periander had passed his prime, and was conscious of being no longer able to oversee and administer the government, he sent to Corcyra and invited Lycophron to the sove- reignty , (for he saw nothing in his elder son, who seemed to him witless;) but Lycophron deigned not even to give an answer to him that brought the message. Then Periander, for he cleaved to the youth, sent to him a second, his sister, his own daughter, thinking that he would be most likely to yield to her; she came and addres- sed him: 'Wouldst thou, my brother, that the sovereignty should fall to others, and thy father's house be scattered, rather than go thyself and enjoy them? Depart home ; cease being thine own tormenter. Pride is a mischievous thing; try not to cure evil with evil. Many prefer feasibility to justice ; and many seeking their mother's interests have thrown away their father's. The sovereignty is a slippery pos- session ; many are desirous of it ; he is already an old man and past his prime ; give not thine own property to others.' Thus said she to him the most seductive things, as instructed by her father, but he said in answer that he would no wise come to Corinth while he knew that his father was alive. When she had reported this , Periander sent for the third time a herald, that he meant himself to come to Corcyra, and he bade his son return to Corinth, to receive the so- vereignty from him. As the youth agreed to these conditions, Peri- ander prepared to sail to Corcyra , and his son to Corinth ; but the Corcyrseans, on learning the change, slew the young man, that Peri- ander might not come into their country." Clio, chap. 50-54. Our bare and literal version will give some idea of what the story might be made, in the hands of an ele- gant writer. Of course it would not be possible or de- sirable that all the tales of Herodotus should be thus repeated at full length, but we cannot help thinking that 125 a few of them, narrated in suitable language, would add great interest to a history of this kind, and do much to further what ought to be one of the historian's chief objects — encouraging his readers to pursue their study further^ and have recourse, when it is in their power, to the original authorities which he consults. And now other nations come upon the stage , and particularly the people of the Great King, whose previous conquests and military reputation served so much to heighten the renown of the gallant little bands that victoriously resisted them. This glorious struggle has continually been the theme of the poet, the orator, and the patriot, and not without good reason, for it is a triumph unmatched in the pages of any history, except our own. In almost all the cases of regular battles gained against great odds, (we put surprises and ambus- cades out of the question,) there have been some coun- terbalancing physical advantages on the side of the mino- rity, some superior equipment, the result of superior civilization — armor, horses, firearms, or something of the sort unknown to the other party, and rendering the victory less wonderful. But in this instance, the accoutre- ments and military science and experience of the Persians seem to have been no way behind those of the Greeks; nay, in some departments of warfare, such as archery, it is probable that the Persians were the more skillful. The Greeks gave the fairest proof that they were, in Highland phraseology, "the prettier men." In describing these world-renowned battles, both Thirlwall and Grote have acquitted themselves well, but neither remarkably. Their accounts suffer on comparison with those magnifi- cent pictures of Arnold, which give to Hannibal's cam- paigns all the interest of a new story. But to say that they fall short of Arnold is no great censure, nor can we feel disposed to blame them much, when we remember how often a "picturesque" historian is tempted to sacrifice accuracy to effect. With the battle of Marathon terminates Mr. Grote's fourth volume, and here our article must terminate also. We wait with impatience for his observations on later Greek politics and philosophy y the more so because the increased interest and liveliness in the corresponding parts of Dr. Thirlwall's book, induce a hope that Mr. G. willj in a similar manner, continue to rise with his subject. We have accomplished our main purpose, which was to supply, to the best of our small ability, a singular omission on the part of American reviewers. Here are two works which will be, for many years at least, the standard Histories of Greece in the English language; one of them has been completed four years, the other is now about half published; and we are not aware that the least notice has been taken of them by any American perio- dical. To Mr. Grote's history we are almost positive that there has not been the slightest allusion. We have therefore made bold, in default of abler scholars, to take the matter in hand, deeply regretting that so interesting and important a subject has not attracted the attention of some one better qualified to do it justice. TABLE .ESTHETICS. Knickerbocker, March 1848. I AM going to write on a most important subject, one which concerns all classes and conditions of men every day of their lives, and has a direct influence on very weighty public and private affairs; which is inti- mately associated with ideas of joy and comfort and strength; three most pleasant things. It is the art, science and mystery of those acts which the Transcen- dentalists call 'appropriating to one's self a portion of the outer world ;' in plain English, bre'akfasting and dining with their incidents and accessories ; what for want of a better term, I call table-cBSthetics. Now I am well aware at the outset, that many very worthy persons, either from defective education and want of opportunity to know better, or from inconsiderate conformity with those about them, (a common American fault,) or from want of accurate discrimination, confound- ing things which have some resemblance (another very common fault of our beloved countrymen) will consider 127 my purpose in this essay frivolous at best, if not abso- lutely mischievous. So, as it is always well to clear the ground for a fair start, our preliminary step will be to hear what they have to say, and then endeavor to enlighten them a little. 'The art of eating and drinking !' cries one. 'Animal propensities! sensual! making a beast of one's self! Digging his grave with his teeth!' and much more in the same strain. Hold hard, my friend, and do n't talk rubbish. Do you mean to insinuate that table-sestheticism and gluttony are convertible terms? If so, you might just as well say that every man who goes to see the Venus de Medicis is a profligate. The very reverse is true in most cases. It is notorious that the most barbarous nations, those among whom table-sesthetics , as well as all other arts, have made the least progress, are the most voracious feeders. The man who eats knowingly, generally eats at least one-fourth less than the average of those who eat at random. He seldom exceeds two meals a day and one of those not a hearty one. For my own part I would wager that if the readers who are tempted to turn up a frugal and virtuous nose at the title of this paper were put upon my daily diet by way of regimen, the majority would cry out for a change, and confess themselves half-starved in less than a fortnight. And on the score of health, worthy Cato, let me tell you that you are sadly mistaken. It is not the man who, after the toil and bustle of the day are over, leisurely refreshes himself with a dainty and judicious repast, irrigated with a moderate supply of the generous latex Lyceus^ and then reposes over his book or in pleasant conversation to digest it; it is not he who is bilious and dyspeptic. No, it is the man who at the unnatural and barbarous hour of one P. M., pitches into himself a variety of miscellaneous provender indiscriminately for fifteen minutes, and in fifteen more is at his business again. As to the intellectual side of the question, there are doubtless extraordinary occasions when a man has to get through a certain amount of head-work in a limited time, and is obliged to live like a hermit in order to keep his brain clear. Most persons have had some such experiences. I remember a period of three weeks during which I would 128 willingly have dispensed with eating altogether, and did only take just enough to support the system. But this corresponds to the training of the pedestrian or the jockey, by which he is enabled to undergo a preternatural amount of bodily exertion; and the one is no more the normal state and habitual system of diet, than the other is of exercise. All the genial and natural products of a man's intellect, the happiest spontaneous effusions of his fancy and imagination, proceed from a well -nourished frame. Satur est quum dicit Horatiiis, Evce! As to the expense too, the argument in many cases makes all the other way. Economy, not a niggardly parsimony, but a sensible and prudent economy, enters into the calculations of the aesthetic. Good taste abhors excessive profusion, and good edibles are naturally less prone to be wasted than bad ones. * A clever French cook will make up nearly the difference in his wages by saving the fuel which would have been unprofitably expended by an Irish ignoramus, or ignorama^ as I once heard a learned Boston lady call it. It is well known by those versed in military affairs, that a French regiment will subsist comfortably on rations which would drive an English regiment to mutiny, not because the French do not require as much nourishment as the English, whatever their novelists and dramatists may represent to the contrary, but because their superior skill in cookery enables them to make a given amount of animal matter go further. Let it be allowed, however, that aesthetic habitudes do involve more outlay of capital than a rude and hap-hazard way of supporting nature. It remains to be asked whether the advantages procured by them do not justify the additional expense. And this will be better considered in connection with the third objection which may be supposed, viz., that the pursuit is a frivolous one and not worthy the time and trouble which it re- quires. Now if man be a social animal (as we have the highest authority for asserting that he is) and if table- sestheticism promotes sociability, then in truth is it no * In the hall of a New-England college where I pretended to eat some twelve years ago , the expense of what was was wasted would have kept a decent table. The students used to squander their supplies in very spite, they were so bad. 129 unimportant matter. A good dinner is the parent of good feeling, peace with one's-self and with the world, bene- volence and liberality. Wherefore the charitable societies of England do wisely give dinners, knowing that the purse is more open after a sumptuous banquet. On the other hand, what mortification, discomfort and misan- thropy result from a bad dinner ! What an awful infliction it is to be asked to partake in suffering one! And to say that any man with the requisite means can provide the needful by merely giving orders to his cook, confectioner and wine-merchant, is absurd; for in the first place, it requires aesthetic discernment to choose the cook, the confectioner and the wine-merchant. Moreover, we have observed that one part of the science is to manage your means and make the most of your resources, so that one instructed can give an agreeable banquet at the expense which would procure but a sorry set-out in the hands of the uninitiated. The truth is that table -sestheticism is a branch of the fine arts, a subordinate one indeed, but occupying its distinct and appropriate place; and you will generally find that the man who has a good taste in poetry, painting and music, will also have a good taste in all things pertaining to the management of the table. There are some people who think all the fine arts wicked, and incentives to bad passions; and others who, having no perception of the beautiful, think them expensive follies, and take credit to themselves for their insensibility, like Mr. Chief-Engineer Jervis, who makes a merit of defacing and disfiguring the most beautiful river in the world. And there are men whose palates are naturally blunt, and to whom it makes not the slightest difference what they taste or imbibe, just as there are others again who would as lief talk to an ugly woman as to a handsome one; but you, reader mine, are not of that sort, I trust, nor happily are the majority of mankind, even in this utilitarian age. Still even these people may be led to see the excellency of table-sestheticism, if they will look at the power it confers on a master of it in society. What gives a man prestige and personal popularity, w^hat softens criticism and wins partisans like being an irreproachable Amphitryon? No observant man can doubt that the Boston literati owe a great part of their reputation and influence to the fact 9 Vol. I. 130 of their understanding table - aesthetics and habitually giving correct little banquets to each other and to casual visiters. I don't think any one who ever dined with SHORTBODY could set himself down seriously to inquire whether the metaphors in DIABOLINE will hold water, and whether Trochaic Tetrameter Acatalectic is a na- tural and suitable metre in English or not. \A^hat weapon so powerful in the hands of a diplomatist as a comme- il-faut entertainment? Hence the Russians, whose diplo- matic superiority is well known, give their ministers unlimited supplies that they may 'hang out' (pardon the vulgarity of the expression, as Jeames says) without limit. What keeps a political association together like good eating and drinking? There was a striking instance of this some years ago in the English parliament, where thirty radical members voted together in a body so long as two of their number (Molesworth and Leader) supplied the bond of union in the shape of dinners. When the dinners stopped the unanimity stopped also. Were I ever to become a politician {urj ysvoiTo) I should, as the very first step import a first-rate artiste from Paris. A friend who, like Ulysses, had seen the cities and ascer- tained the dispositions of many men, made a remark the other day in connection with this point, which struck me as proceeding from a philosophic mind. 'Why,' said he, 'do the good people of Boston fret about the way things go on in W ashington, and complain of the national politics? W^hat 's the use of slanging the President and passing resolutions? There is a far more natural and efficacious remedy open to them. Let them send down to the capital (by subscription or otherwise) one of their most aesthetic men ; let him build an elegant house, give elegant parties, and induct the w^estern and south-western members into the refinements of civilization and espe- cially of cookery. My life for it, they would do more in that way than by all the speeches that ever were made in Faneuil-Hall , even though the god-like Daniel were one of the speakers. And the god-like would say so himself, for he understands the value of table-aesthetics.' Such was the substance of my friend's remarks, and I commend them to the attention of those whom they most concern, as well worthy to be pondered upon. There are some things connected with table matters, 131 such as carving,* making salad, telling good wine from bad, without the knowledge of which a gentleman's edu- cation cannot be said to be complete, and the subject generally I consider an essential part of education ; very much more so than dancing, which some people consider the sine qua non, for every one does not dance, and it is possible to live very happily without dancing, whereas every one eats and drinks, and few people can live well w^ithout eating well; infinitely more so than that stump oratory, the acquisition of w^hich seems to be the great object of half our young men, and which only renders them nuisances in conversation, and makes true oratory at a discount from the number of parodies upon it. The above reflections, and many more of a like sort, were recently suggested to me with peculiar force by the perusal of a table classic, BRILLAT-SAVARIN'S Physiologie du Gont Although in the twenty -odd years which have elapsed since its publication many improve- ments have been made in the art of which it treats, it has still a right to be considered one of the standard works on table -aesthetics. Whether it has ever been translated into English or not I will not undertake to say; but if there is a translation in our vernacular, I have never met with it; and at any rate, the book is not very well known among Anglo-Saxons. BRILLAT- SAVAKIN was an advocate, and afterward a judge of the Cour de Cassation. Proscribed in the Revolution, he took refuge first in Switzerland and then in America. In our good city of Gotham he passed two years, supporting himself as a musician and a teacher, and gaining popu- larity, as he says himself, by taking care not to appear cleverer (n'ttvoir plus d'esprit^J than the Americans. Con- descending Gaul! It is gratifying to find that such self- sacrificing modesty met with its reward. Better days * I MENTION carving particularly, being every day painfully reminded of the defects of my early education in this point. It is a natural consequence of the system practised at most of our colleges of cramming the students into an uncomfortable hall, and feeding them on the coarsest fare, that they should contract a pernicious and not easily eradicated habit of scarifying and mangling dishes without care or decency. On this theme alone a treatise might be written. Bad fare naturally and inevitably induces a disrespect for the table and a neglect of its proprieties. 9* 132 dawned at home ; he was restored to his old post of judge, and for the last twenty-five years of his life lived on the fat of the land. His great work, 'The Physiology of Taste, or Transcendental Gastronomy,' of which I shall try to give the benevolent reader some general idea, was first published in 1825, just before his decease. By way of prolegomena to the book we have twenty funda- mental axioms^ some of the most important of which I proceed to transcribe, with such comments as naturally present themselves. '2. Animals feed^ man eats; it takes a clever man to know to eat.' Accordingly, we hear the most unsesthetic and un- refined persons calling their dinners, etc., food. The word is awfully prevalent in Connecticut. The tutors at Yale used to talk about food till they made me sick. And that nuisance of modern English society, the 'fast man,' who is always very much of a Goth in his eating as well as his dress, never says that he is going to a dinner or a supper at so-and-so's, but to a 'feed' at so-and-so's ; and certainly the expression is appropriate enough for such donkeys. '3. The destiny of nations depends on the manner in which they are nourished.' This is illustrated in the body of the work itself, where the author says: 'In the state of society at which we have now arrived it is difficult to imagine a people living exclusively on bread and vegetables. Such a nation, did it exist, would infallibly be subjugated by carnivo- rous invaders, as the Hindoos have been successively the prey of whoever has chosen to attack them.' The inferiority in warlike prowess of the abstemious Spaniards and Italians to the more substantially nourished French, Germans and English, is notorious. And the Mexicans — poor mortals! — who live on frijoles and tortillas^ are ridden over rough-shod by our beef and venison-fed soldiery. Apart from mere physical capacity, we can trace many of the mental characteristics of different nations to their different meats, beverages and condiments. The influence of beer and tobacco on the German mind — the stolid acquiescence in the present and dogged conservatism induced by the former, the mistiness of speculation fostered by the latter, are self-evident. The 1 133 national light wines and indispensable coffee point to several elements of the French character; and it has often seemed to me that the windy loquacity and speech- making propensities of a certain class of our countrymen are distinctly referable to their large consumption of cold water. '10. Those who get indigestions [why could we not say, who indigest themselves? — a felicitous expression, that s'indigerent^ or get drunk, do not know how to eat or drink.' Cf. sis, (as the classical editors say,) our remarks ante on the error of confounding table - sestheticism with gluttony. '14. A dessert without cheese is like a belle who has lost an eye.' Various nations employ cheese in very various ways. The Italian takes it in soup, and with the national minestra of macaroni or vermicelli it is a great improvement; but with any other kind of soup, detestable. The Frenchman serves it at the other end of his dinner, among the fruit and the bon-bons. The Englishman eats it — often ac- companied by salad — between the meats and the pastry; and with a very large number of Englishman it supplies the place of pastry or dessert altogether; cheese being to John Bull what pie is to Brother Jonathan. With us 'crackers and cheese' are the ordinary tavern and steam- boat lunch, and you may also see the travelling public devouring much cheese at tea^ along with smoked beef, cake and preserves — aw^ul catachresis of eatables! I saw with my own eyes a man do this w^ho was then in the legislature, and has since gone abroad on a diplomatic mission. I hope he will learn better in Europe. On our dinner -tables cheese is seldom seen, the national taste being decidedly in favor of closing with a variety of sweets ; and as a general rule, our custom seems pre- ferable; yet there are some occasions when cheese makes the most appropriate termination; for instance, when you drink hock. I said, when; for on more accounts than one, hock is not to be drunk every day. At such a time you cannot do better than follow the example of my venerated aesthetic friend 'JOHN WATERS,' and let your roti be succeeded by nothing but some delicate Neufchatel v^ith exquisite little dry biscuits and the finest 134 butter ; for sweets destroy German wine, and any sweets except fresh fruit and those indispensable sponge biscuits familiarly denominated finger -cakes, are detrimental to your perception of Bordeaux and Burgundy. '17. The indispensable quality of the Cook is punctuality: it should also be that of the quest/ I have written this in small-capitals. Every guest and every host should have it by heart. Of the two a deviation from punctuality is worse on the hosfs part, as being less remediable. If a man doesn't come at the time appointed, you have always the resource of sitting down without him ; but what escape is there for the un- fortunates who are kept three-quarters of an hour in the drawing-room hungry and listless, making painful en- deavors to amuse each other, and looking anxiously round every time the door is opened to see if dinner is an- noimced ? The English used to have an absurd custom of understanding the time of dinner as two hours later than that named in the invitation; e. g.^ if you were as- ked as six, the company assembled at half-past seven and sat down at eight. They are now wiser, and rarely wait more than fifteen minutes beyond the specified time.* which indeed is a very liberal allowance ; five for diffe- rence of watches, five for accidents, such as detention in the road, etc., and five out of pure grace. The Parisians are generally punctual to the minute. With us there is no fixed rule; some hosts are punctual, and some not. The consequence is extreme confusion, for a corres- ponding uncertainty is produced on the part of the guests ; and the results are frequently very awkward. For instance, an invited one assists with extreme punc- tuality at two or three entertainments in the beginning of a season, and has to wait three-quarters of an hour at each. He becomes tired of the fun, and on the next invitation, should he have any business on hand, says to himself: 'There 's no use of hurrying,' and accordingly arrives perhaps half an hour after the period specified ; but this time he has to do with a punctual host, and finds to his confusion that the soup and fish are already * Of course there are some exceptions to this rule, as there are to most rules. Thus, if a commoner expected a peer to dine with him, honest JOHN'S inherent flunkeyism would probably make him wait considerably beyond the fifteen minutes. 135 despatched, or what is worse, that the dinner is waiting for him , and the guests staring at him , as at a guilty creature, when he enters. At Washington the old Eng- lish unpunctuality is the rule; at least it was a very few years ago. You were asked to breakfast at ten, and on arriving found no one up to receive you. It once befell me to be invited to dinner at the '•White-House.' The card of invitation named an early hour — half-past five, I think. For forty minutes I enjoyed an uninterrupted opportunity of examining the furniture and calculating whether the appropriations made for it were extravagant or not. At ten minutes after six a member of the Pre- sident's family made his appearance; in half an hour more the company began to assemble, and at a quarter past seven we sat down to table. Now this was of no consequence in the case of a nobody like myself, but the very same might have happened, and I have no doubt has happened more than once , to some foreigner of distinction. All delays on either side are bad. Waiting for a guest spoils the dinner; waiting for a dinner may half-starve the guests. It makes an important difference in a man's morning arrangements whether he is to dine at five or at seven , as in the latter case some slight mid-day refreshment is necessary. Note also the next axiom. 17. To wait too long for a late guest is a want of respect for those who are present.' The lion of the party has a sort of prescriptive right to be waited for, but it is very bad manners in him to avail himself of the vrimlege. Whenever the S-enl 'OXviLmia dwuar ^eyovrsQ shall place me in a dinnergiving position, I don't intend to wait for any one, lion or not. '18. He who receives his friends without giving any personal attention to the repast which is prepared for them, does not deserve to have friends.' '19. The mistress of the house should always make sure that the coffee is perfect; and the master, that the liqueurs are of the best quality.' Alas ! with us it would often puzzle master and mistress both to make sure of the coffee. It is astonishing that out of so many civilized countries all consuming the beverage to a greater or less extent, there are only two in which you ordinarily and habitually get good coffee ; 1S6 France, to wit, and Belgium. The French seem to have a peculiar genius for the preparation of this article. Our author's receipt is: 'Pour boiling water upon coffee pla- ced in a silver or china vase perforated with very small holes. Take this first decoction, warm it up to boiling point, strain it again, and you have as clear and good coffee as can be made.' I used to dispense with the per- forated vessel, and consequently with the first straining; instead of which I followed the ordinary plan of mixing an egg with the ground coffee. My instructors in the art were an Englishman and an American, who in this way made as good coffee as I ever drank in Paris; but I never could come up to their mark, except on a few lucky days, though I made coffee for myself nearly a year; which confirms me in the belief that the art is born with one. But while thus frankly owning my de- ficiencies, I believe myself capable of giving some not altogether useless hints on the subject. The first great and general fault in English and American coffee-making is, not putting in enough coffee. At hotels universally, and at private houses generally, there is one -half or two- thirds too much water. The next great and common error is over-roasting the berry, which imparts a bitter and nauseous flavor. By carefully avoiding these dangers, you may make very palatable coffee without its being quite clear, though of course complete claridity is essential to its perfection. The coffee should be roasted and ground just before it is used. This is one great secret of the superiority of the Parisian article. If it be too much trouble to prepare the coffee every day, the best way of keeping it is after it is made. You may bottle up enough for a week, (taking care to cork it tight,) and warm it over as you want it. This sounds strange, but I have tried the experiment with entire success. The remark upon liqueurs is worthy of attention. Not long ago I was at a dinner w^here the host had imprudently left the care of this matter to the butler; and the consequence was, that instead of Maraschino and Cura^oa, we were presented with — anisette and cherry- bounce! Not that cherry-bounce is by any means a despicable vanity, under certain circumstances, but it is not exactly what you would select for a chasse-cafe. The English are very ignorant of the use and theory 137 of coffee and liqueurs. You will see an Englishman take two large cups of coffee, flooded w^ith milk, and should a chasse be introduced — which is not generally the case — he will make no scruple of tossing off two or even three glasses. Just before leaving the fast- anchored isle, I concentrated my aesthetic resources into three dinners : conceive my dismay , when after the second I perceived one of the guests — a young Eton-bred Cantab, but quite old enough to have knowm better — seizing my last bottle of Maraschino and drinking it as if it were tableclaret! Fortunately I had presence of mind enough to divert his attention by throwing some champagne in his way. The earlier part of M. Brillat-Savarin's first volume treats chiefly of matters physiological and anatomical, which in a treatise not professedly scientific may as well be passed over. The third of his chapters, or 'medita- tions,' as he calls them, comes directly to gastronomy, which is defined as 'the scientific knowledge of all that relates to man in the matter of nourishment : its subject- matter is all that can be eaten: its end the preservation of the species by the best possible sustenance.' He then shows the connection of gastronomy with other sciences, natural history, physics, chemistry, political economy, etc.. and particularly its influence in promoting the intercourse of diflPerent nations. A feast knowingly set out is like an epitome of the world, where each quarter has its representatives. Gastronomic knowledge is of great utility to all classes, but especially to those in easy circumstances, and who are forced by their position to give frequent entertainments. To take the lowest view of the case, it saves them from being pilfered at will by their depen- dants. In illustration of this he introduces, as his way is, an appropriate anecdote. 'The Prince de Soubise meant to give a fete one day. It was to close with a supper, the bill-of-fare of which he demanded to see. The maitre-d'hotel appeared at his bed-side with a beautiful bill, headed by a vignette, and the first article which the prince cast eyes on w^as 'Fifhj hams.' 'Eh? what, Bertrand!' he exclaimed, 'are you mad? or do you mean to treat my whole regiment? 'No, my lord; there will only appear one on the table, but the remainder is no less necessary, for my espagnole, 138 my blonds, my (farnitures , my — ^ 'Bertrand, you are cheating me, and this item shall not be allowed!' 'Ah! my lord!' said the artiste^ keeping his temper with diffi- culty, 'you do n't know our resources! Only say the word, and these fifty hams, which trouble you so, shall all go into a glass vial no larger than my thumb.' What answer could be made to so positive an assertion? The Prince smiled and submitted; the item was allowed.' Next come some remarks on the appetite, and the danger of disobeying its calls. To illustrate this, there is a most awful story, which I cannot detail in cold blood. That any man, however high a public functionary he might be, should leave his company foiir hours and a half in the agonies of hunger and expectation while he w^as at a cabinet council, seems a pitch of depravity incredible even in a Frenchman ; and that the company should have waited out the infliction without pillaging his house, or setting fire to it, or even adopting the extremely lenient course of walking oif and dining else- where, seems an equally prseter-Gallic observance of those convenances which form the French moral code. Afterward w^e have some anecdotes of great appetites, derived from the author's personal observation; among others one of a cure, who used to consume in his mid- day meal a capon and a leg of mutton, not to mention the trifling accessories of soup, salad and cheese. It must be remembered, however, that the French gigots are decidedly diminutive, and not to be named in com- parison with the legs which English clowns eat for wagers. The next 'meditation' is on the respective nourishment and other diff'erent efl'ects of different kinds of aliment. One remark is curious. That an icthyophagous popula- tion is blessed with abundance of infants is generally known ; but it is not so generally known that the female infants preponderate in the proportion of nearly ten to one. Savarin's inference is that a fish diet is debilitating. That it produces leanness there is little doubt. 'Jockeys, in wasting, are never allowed pudding when fish is to be had,' says an English authority; a Quarterly Reviewer, if I am not mistaken. We have now arrived at particular dishes; first, of course, soup, about which we have somewhat to say by-and-by. Then the bouilli, that ghost of meat, which 139 French economy has made a national dish. Our author sees that it is a great mistake, and observes with pleasure that it has been banished from the best-conducted tables, and replaced by fish. This was in 1825. At present there is little danger of encountering bouUli at a Pari- sian dinner. The national introduction of fish being just before the roast instead of just after the soup, a complete French dinner now involves tiDO courses of fish at these two different periods. To us Anglo-Saxons, fish after soup seems a natural sequence; but it is difficult to give any a priori reason for it, and it may be only the force of habit. On another point we have less hesitation in condemning the French : their acceptance of cold fish ; which in any shape is an abomination.* Indeed, con- sidering the French gastronomic skill, it is singular that they admit into their catalogue of edibles three of the most insipid viands: bouilli , cold fish, and veal. Tlie last may be tolerated on account of the badness of their beef. Good beef is only to be obtained in the very first caf^s of Paris. Even at private houses in the metropolis it is generally detestably tough. As to their mutton, it is worse than ours; which is saying a great deal. Indeed, the sheep is only to be found in its perfection in the British isles ; while, in spite of all that is said about 'the roast-beef of Old England,' you will get on an average of hotels and private houses, better beef in our Middle States than in Queen Victoria's dominions. But I am running miles ahead of my subject. The observations on game I do not intend to remark upon or quote from, being fully persuaded that we are the only people in the world who know how to cook game. The English keep it too long and the French do it too much; added to which, the French game is not so good as ours, to begin with. Our blacks especially have a natural talent for the preparation of this delicious nutriment. And being deeply sensible of our many sesthetical deficiencies, I take an honest pride in being able to insist on this superiority, which I have too often seen, heard and tasted the verification of, to be in any doubt about it. Never did I meet foreigner so prejudiced as to resist the argument of a canvass-back. * Of course there is no reference here to anchovy in Mayonnaise, which is a condiment^ not a basis. 140 Our author alludes to the practice of beginning a dinner with oysters as an ancient custom, which had become disused in his time. It has since been revived, and deserves all encouragement, as the very best way of preparing for your repast, however delicate a soup you may have in prospect; onhj don't eat two dozen., or even one dozen. Three oysters of the size we have them, or six like the European ones, give the proper whet. To this rule of course there are individual exceptions. One of BRILLAT-SAVARIN'S friends used to eat thirty- two-dozen, ('say three hundred and eighty four,') and then was just ready for dinner. The speculations on the truffle are amusing. Savarin suspects that the reputation of this famous edible is owing partly to its rarity and partly to what he learnedly denominates its genesiar, powers. But give whatever weight you may to the fact of its being an exotic and an erotic, it must be confessed to impart an exquisite flavor to those dishes into the composition of which it enters, though nothing very wonderful in itself. With all due deference to the great authorities, and the general opinion the other way, I do not think that the dried and bottled truffles are f)ery inferior to those freshly dug. I have eaten the latter at Rome, where they are as common as potatoes, and could not not detect any great difference. Talking of truffles reminds one of mushrooms, which are to us almost as great a rarity as truffles. Herein we are much to blame for not properly cultivating our na- tional resources. A very short residence in England or France will convince any one of the importance of this fungus in cookery, and — it may be unfashionable, reader, but I never attempt to disguise my opinions — the cook who has plenty of good mushrooms at command need not, me judice^ much regret the absence of truffles. Of coffee I have discoursed already. Chocolate finds great favor with our author, who perhaps, amid his well- merited eulogiums. slurs over rather too much the fact that with some people it promotes biliousness. The Spanish preventive against this is to follow the chocolate with a glass of water. On this account the beverage is not so well adapted to our summers ; but in winter there is no better breakfast than a copious cup of chocolate with a roll or some dry toast. It is very nourishing. 141 and very light at the same time. Whether a man is going to exercise his head or his legs, whether he means to read, write or walk, or particularly if he is going to travel, there is nothing like the chocolate. Passing over some more 'meditations' upon 'sugar,' Hhe theory of frying' and other matters, (for one is obliged to omit something,) we come to the important subject of thirsty which naturally leads to the means of appeasing it. Now, having said some things already which may appear rather impudent, I am going to say one which certainly will appear so. I believe M. Brillat-Savarin to have been rather a take-in in the matter of drinks. I do this, not because he holds forth on the virtues of eau sucree, as a beverage 'refreshing, wholesome, agreable, and sometimes salutary as a remedy;' for the French passion for that most insipid of beverages which turns the stomach of an Anglo-Saxon, is an inexplicable idio- syncrasy, which must be put into the same category with their delight in veal. No, my reasons are first that he says comparatively little one the whole subject; and second, that he promulgates this as one of his funda- mental axioms. 'It is a heresy to pretend that one must not change wines: the tongue becomes saturated, and after the third glass the best wine excites only an obtuse sensation.' As if one could not drink four consecutive glasses of Latour without w^anting to cross it with some other wine ! The very reverse of BRILL AT-SAVARIN'S as- sertion holds good. It is the mixing of liquors, and crossing them back and forward, that satiates and con- fuses the palate, and moreover it is the surest and quickest way of getting drunk; an important consideration. Stick to one wine during each course. The only icine of inter- vals, if I may be allowed the expression, is champagne. The most sagacious remarks I ever met with on the use of champagne are to be found in Walker's Original. Walker was an eccentric character, but he had some very correct ideas on the subject of dinner-givings. By the way, did you ever know a W^alker who was not an original in some way or other? I never did. The eccen- tricities of the celebrated HOOKHAM, (familiarly called HOOKY, and related to the distinguished Chinese philo- sopher HOW^ QUA,) are too well known to need mor^ 14^ than an allusion. And this reminds me of a story (I don't know where I shall get to with all these digressions) relative to the said HOOKHAM WALKER. It was once my good fortune to dine with six jolly Englishmen, among whom was Romano.* Over the mahogany, an exciting discussion came off between the Rum'un and another of the company suspected of being a Mason. The conver- sation became animated, and at last my friend was tempted to terminate a period by the emphatic and sweeping as- sertion that ^Masonry was all Walker!' Now our eighth man was a quiet middle-aged par- son, not altogether at home in his position, for the rest of us thought and talked rather too fast (in the natural as well as the slang sense of the term) for him, and he did not always perfectly understand the subject on the tapis. Just after Romano had uttered his oracular condemnation, there was a momentary pause, when our clerical friend, bending forward, observed in a slightly hesitating tone, ^I understand you then to say that this author, W^ALKER, whom you quote, considers Masonry to be a delusion ?' 'Just so,' responded the Rum'un, sustaining his gra- vity by a mighty effort, while the remainder of us stuffed our napkins into our respective mouths in very imper- fectly suppresed laughter. W^ell, W^alker says of champagne, that to go round with it only once or twice (as is often the case in Eng- lish and French dinners and sometimes even in American dinners,) is tantalizing and mere aggravation. It should go round once during each course, that is to say, three, four, or five times according to the length of the dinner, making its appearance with the fishy and not (a very com- mon fault) in the middle of the dinner. ** And thus ju- diciously employed, it has a marvellous effect in enlivening and spiriting up a party. With us generally the fault is the other way, and our Amphitryons 'lay on' the be- verage too freely, which is also, though not equally, a mistake, for the best champagne when drunk pure, cloys * For a full account of this gentleman, see the American Review^ vol. v., p 631. ** We suppose that the goblets are of a proper capacity. Some of the old-fashioned tapering glasses scarcely hold a thimble full. 14^ upon the palate sooner than any other wine. Dry is less cloying than sweet, and accordingly all savans prefer it. With champagne diluted with iced water in the propor- tion of one-half or two-thirds as a summer beverage, the case is different. It is the most cooling and refreshing of drinks, and there is no satiety or head-ache in an ocean of it. Therefore, reader mine, when you give a dinner in hot weather put a bottle of champagne (or at least a pint bottle) and a saucer of ice by every gentle- man. * Never mind the looks : it removes all fear of deficient supply, and saves John and Thomas a vast deal of trouble in running round with the wine. On the intellectual eifect of champagne drunk con- tinuously, BRILLAT-SAVARIN remarks, that 'this wine which is exciting in its first results (ab initio) is stupifying in its after results (m recessu.) This conclusion he founds partly on theory, arguing from the presence of carbonic acid gas, and partly on his observation of particular cases. For which reason as well as for that above-mentioned, it should never be continued into the desert. In the preparation of cold drinks we Americans ex- cel. I had the honor of first introducing sherry cobbler, if not into England, at least to ^ Young England' in the universities, and the beverage created a perfect furore. In hot compounds, the English have the advantage of us. Egg-sherry is better than egg-nogg, and bishop and cardinal {alias mulled port and mulled claret) are per- fect in their way. The French have adopted punch with great zest. Our author speaks of it in the highest terms, always with the accompaniment of — what do you think ? — toast^ literally buttered toast ^ another English importa- tion which the Parisians were then beginning to relish. Talking of punch, let me give you a hint; the best cold punch is kirsch — no liquor but kirsch. You can get it to perfection at Delmonico's. In that punch there is no to-morroWj a most important consideration. * It is taken for granted that every man has his carafe of water. How ridiculous that at large dinners bread and water, the two first necessaries of life, should often be the hardest things to getl Your servants should be instructed to put tivo pieces of bread into each napkin , and carafes of water to each guest are indispensable to a well-regulated dinner of any size. 144 If John Waters sees tliis he will never forgive me for insinuating that there is any punch in the world but his; but the truth must be told at all risks, in a matter of such importance. Under the head of gastronomic tests , some bills of fare are presented to us which will not be without in- terest to the aesthetic reader. Here they are: 'I. Moderate circumstances; say, five thousand francs income: '1. A fillet of veal piquee and cooked in its own gravy, '2. A turkey stuffed with chestnuts. '3. Fat pigeons properly larded. '4. A dish of sour-crout and sausages. [?] '5. (Eufs a la neige, II. Easy circumstances; say fifteen thousand francs income ; '1. A fillet of beef pique, and cooked in its own gravy. '2. A fore-quarter of roebuck with cucumber sauce. '3. A leg of mutton h. la proven^ale. '4. A truffled turkey. '5. New peas. 'III. Wealth; say thirty thousand francs income or more: '1. A dish of poultry, seven pounds weight, stuffed with peri- gord truffles till it becomes a globe. '2. An enormous pate de foie gras. '3. A great carp k la chambord. '4. Quails truffled and basted with marrow, upon toast with basil. '5. A pike pique, and farci, with cray-fish sauce. '6. A pheasant, kept just long enough, piqu6 on toast. '7. A hundred sticks of the largest asparagus with gravy sauce. '8. Two dozens ortolans a la proven<;ale. '9. A pyramid of meringues a la vanille, and a la rose.' These bills of fare suggest at once several reflections. The first which naturally presents itself to the financial mind of an American is the difference between Gallic and Anglo-Saxon ideas of wealth. Would any man in England or America, with six thousand dollars or twelve hundred pounds a year, think of giving such dinners as that last? I shouldn't like to try it, even as a bache- lor. The next is the absence of all mention of soup. Can it be possible that all the delightful varieties of this article have been invented within twenty-two years? It nmbt be so, for it would be absurd to suppose that if they had existed, a professor of the art like M. Brillat- Savarin, would have said nothing about them. The bisque d'ecrivisse^ for instance, which makes the taster of it for 145 the first time experience a new and unimagined sensation, is one of the last things that an aesthetic writer would pass over. But the matter is put beyond doubt by a preceding chapter, wherein he speaks of potage as a single and simple article, and no more thinks of dividing and classifying potages^ than one would now of discoursing on different kinds of bread; though even on that subject a not uninstructive chapter might be written , without going into as much detail as Athenseus has done.* The English are not au fait at the theory of soup. Not but that some of their soups, such as hare and turtle, are very delicious; but they are soups to make a dinner off, not to begin a dinner with. After consuming a co- pious plateful of either, you should not attempt to par- take of any thing except a little game. To be sure the English don't follow the rule, but after two supplies of rich and satisfying turtle, will go on through three or four courses; but the English are certainly gross diners. Bearing in mind this peculiarity of their potages, it is often a good plan when among them to eschew soup en- tirely; for it is possible to make a very good dinner without soup, (though I have a friend who when he reads this won't believe it.) Such a one is even now present to my imagination. I enjoyed it with a comrade at Wind- sor, just three years ago. It consisted of only three dishes, mutton cutlets with tomato sauce, chicken curry and apple fritters. The cutlets came up on plate, piping hot, the fritters ditto, the curry was dexterously prepared, the ale (so grateful after curry) of the best: to make our banquet perfect we only wanted good wine, but that is not to be had at an English hotel 'for love or money.' It is astonishing how badly off the English are for wine, considering the great quantity they drink and the high price they pay for it. They literally do not know what Madeira is. I lived among them six years, and in that time knew one corporation and two individuals who had the article as it should be. They boast of their sherry; but how often does an American find what he * Since the above was written , I have ascertained on more minute inquiry that the Trois freres Provencaucr, then boasted twelve varieties of soup. I has now — how many? probably seventy at least. Such is the progress of science. Vol. I. iO 146 would call a good glass of sherry in England ? Observe, I am not speaking of hotels merely, but of private families. They principally pride themselves upon their port, which is really no wine at all, but an artificial preparation, which ought only to be used in mixtures, such as bishop and negus, and then with discretion. But it is time to go back to our author and his cartes. * It will also be observed that in the third bill the epithets prefixed to the dishes signify a profusion of good cheer. Indeed, that there shall be no mistake on the subject, he subjoins an observation: 'For a gastronomic test to produce its effect with certainty, it must be comparatively in large quantity. Experience, founded on knowledge of the human heart, teaches us that the most delicate rarity loses its influence when not in exuberant proportion; for the first impres- sion which it makes upon the guests is naturally checked by the fear that they may be shabbily helped, or in certain cases be obliged to refuse out of politeness.' Now it seems to me that in this, as well as in every thing, there is a limit. Profusion will no doubt often produce a startling effect, but it is generally at the expense of good taste. I for one do not like to be set down with seven more to a dinner for twenty. Moreover, small dishes, except at a very large party, (which is always a mistake,) look more aesthetic and manageable than large ones. It is very easy for any man with ordi- nary judgment to hit the proper medium; (of course we are speaking of dinners and regular meals; at stand-up collations, ball-suppers, and the like, there must be a great deal of waste, and a great allowance for waste; but the fault is on the right side, and one may be well forgiven for running into it who has witnessed the meanness with which game is often distributed at very pretentious dinners. Titmarsh's sketch of three people, with one quail among them, is hardly a caricature of what often occurs. Speaking of game, Walker has a truly original idea about its introduction. He says, that by being brought on late in the dinner after the guests' * He does not speak of them as hills of fare , but as series of gastronomic tests- so that we must suppose them to include only the striking and principal dishes; which will account for the omission of entrees, dessert, etc. I 147 appetites are nearly sated, it loses its rank as a delicacy and becomes only equal to an ordinary dish in the begin- ning of the dinner; therefore he advises that the game should make its appearance first; and if there is not game enough for an entire dinner,* joints afterward. The sug- gestion is a bold one. Meat after game would strike most people as a startling vaTSQov TEQOTSQOVy and beside, as it is not right to be too hungry when attacking a dainty it appears more reasonable to stay the first edge of appetite on something more substantial; that is, sup- posing the diner to be sharp-set at the beginning, which he ought to be. The best plan is now and then to give a game-dinner exclusively j introducing your venison immediately after the soup, then your small birds of various species, and a great display of ducks to conclude. Dinners of this kind, all in one vein, are very efi'ectual for a change. The fish dinners of Greenwich and Black- wall have a great reputation; very unduly, in my opinion. Water -zouchy is most unsatisfactory stuff; you donH know whether it is fish or soup, hot or cold; whether you are to eat it with a spoon or a fork. Of eels they understand so little as actually to serve them plain fried, without any kind of sauce ; and the much vaunted white- bait is not superior to , indeed hardly equal to smelt. Of the eight or ten dishes usually comprised in the first course, the only one worth remembering is the salmon- cutlets, which are really excellent ; and the best part of the whole affair is the cooling and agreeable 'cup,' com- posed, I conjecture, chiefly of sherry and cider, pleasantly flavored with various herbs, and iced to the point. By way of contrast to a comparison with our French rnenu^, let us look at one of ^yalker's for a bachelor party of eight : '1. Turtle-soup and punch. '2. White-bait, brown-bread and butter, and champagne. '3. Grouse and claret. '4 Apple-fritters and jelly ; claret continued. '5. Ices and fruit ; claret continued indefinitely.' * Walker was evidently from his writings a moderate and judi- cious eater. Thus he speaks of having dined one Christmas on i woodcock and a slice of plum-pudding; a menu which almost frigh- tened the •Qu.'\rterly Review' into fits. 10* I 148 The 'Quarterly Review' objected to the turtle, not without reason. The sweet punch which the English always drink with turtlesoup is terribly out of place; and so is, between you and me, reader, the Roman-punch introduced at our dinners before the game; at least if you intend to eat any game after it. It may do for the women, who are not always able to appreciate venison and canvassbacks. To come back to BRILLAT-SAVARIN'S observa- tion, which has set us wandering so far. The last clause of it brings to mind a very correct hint, which the con- siderate reader will not despise because it is quoted (from memory) out of a book of etiquette; for however snobbish it may be generally to refer to such manuals, it does occasionally happen that they are written by gentlemen, and you may sometimes find in them judicious and appropriate observations. 'There is no error more common among half-bred people than that of refusing to take the last piece upon a dish, 'out of manners,' as it is called. This is a direct insult to your host, as it insinuates that he is not able to furnish a fresh supply when the first is exhausted. It is better even to go out of the way for the sake of taking the last piece.' To which it may be added, that if the host is such a curmudgeon as not to have made sufficient provision, his meanness ought to be exposed in the most unmistakable way. Itemy if a very small pie or pudding, or any dish which is expected to 'go all round,' be put before you to help, don't worry yourself with trying how many infinitesimal divisions you can make of it, but distribute it in reasonable portions so long as it will hold out, and let the rest go without. It is the host's fault, not yours. I once saw this experiment tried with complete success. Half the guests were pieless that day, but the master of the house always took care in future to have his tarts of a proper size. Some men, according to our author, are gourmands by nature, others by position. Of the latter in France he enumerates four classes: financiers, doctors, literary men, and divots, or what we should call 'Professors of Religion.' Such a catalogue would hardly answer for our meridian, or even just across the channel. It appears 149 that the different orders of French nuns are distinguished for different kinds of confectionary. English parsons are not altogether without the reputation of understanding the things which pertain to good eating and drinking. The Fellows of Cambridge are right hearty livers, clever in the dishes they have, and most liberal and Catholic in their acceptance of new ones. I well remember how, after the fatigues of one examination, worn out and half delirious, (not having slept and scarcely having eaten for five days and nights,) I went to the rooms of a fellow-classic to take a quiet cup of tea and read poetry to him. This double process had pretty well soothed me down, and I was on the point of departing at nine P. M., or thereabout, when Horace called me back. Won't you stay and read some more TENNYSON, Benson, and have something to drink? I have some capital cognac that w^as sent me by an old parson in the country.' At these last words I re-seated myself in well- founded confidence. Better cognac never came out of France. The morning was considerably advanced when I fell asleep in his arm-chair, gloriously oblivious of my recent annoyances. We have already adverted to the influence of gastro- nomy and table-aesthetics upon the destiny of nations. M. BRILEAT-SAVARIN returns to this head, and illu- strates it by a striking example from the history of his own country. After 1815, the conquered and humbled French were obliged to pay more than fifteen hundred millions of francs in three years. Men naturally feared that this enormous drain on the finances w^ould ruin the country; but the very reverse proved true. During those three years, more money came into France than went out of it The secret of this lay in the excellence of the Parisian cookery, which attracted thousands of strangers and kept them there. One individual instance of temporary loss and ultimate profit is positively gigantic. When the in- vading army passed through Champagne, they helped themselves to six hundred thousand bottles of M. Moet's wine. In the ten years succeeding, the additional orders which he received from the north of Europe more than repaid him for this enormous pillage. We now come to a most important topic 5 not that 150 M. SAVARIN^S remarks upon it are very copious or striking, for he was writing for a people who had some knowledge and consideration in the matter; but an infi- nitely important topic for us Americans, who in relation to it show more 'crass' ignorance, as Lord Brougham calls it, or wilful and sinful carelessness, than any people professing to be civilized. An American seems to think he is losing time by taking his dinner at a decent pace and preserving a decent composure and tranquillity after it. Accordingly, one man rushes to his counting-house before the last morsel is fairly down; another chooses that time of day of all others to take a walk — such a walk, too! — as if his dinner was before instead of in him, and he were walking for it; a third chooses the half-hour preceding his departure on a journey for the important meal, and after shovelling in his last piece of pie , runs off to catch the boat ; a fourth jumps into a skeleton buggy and tears over the Third- Avenue , his fast-trotter pulling his arms half off. If you are asked to make up a riding-party, ten to one the time specified is 'after dinner.' Suppose you are in the country, at a friend's house. How many of my readers can realize the truth of a picture like this? You sit down to table at the early hour of three; not too early, however, for you have risen with whatever American bird corresponds to the sky-lark, and breakfasted with the chickens. Well, at four, instead of enjoying a leisurely cup of coffee and a cigar — if so inclined — on the piazza, and admiring the scenery in luxurious and dreamy repose, some fid- getty character proposes to 'see the grounds,' and forth- with you are dragged off two or three miles, up hill and down, part of the way under a broiling sun, and by way of finish, are put into a very imperfectly-cleaned and still more imperfectly-bailed boat, and set to work at rowing — of all exercises the most laborious to a man not perfectly accustomed to it — for an hour or more; or, as I said before, you are called on to mount and ride. (N. B. — A ride does not mean a drive, which latter diversion, if you have a Christian horse, and not one trained on 'b'hoy' principles, is a very legitimate and wholesome occupation after dinner in warm weather.) Now until our countrymen and countrywomen reform these things ; until the great truth can be inculcated upon i 151 them that after a copious meal, abstinence from any thing approaching to severe bodily or mental exercise is indispen- sable for at least one hour; until then, I say, all the tee-totallers and Grahamites that ever prated will not save them from bile and dyspepsia. Not but that bad liquor, pickles, hot buttered cakes, salt meats, and other things either atrocious in themselves or mischievous in their excess, do undoubtedly cause a great deal of harm; but the prime evil of all is, that whatever they eat they do not take time to digest it. The English are as gross and nearly as undiscrimi- nating feeders as we ; but they understand perfectly this matter of digestion. The hardest reading student at the university, the most plodding barrister at the inns of court, the shrewdest and most diligent merchant, all eschew on principle hard work of any sort for the hour or two succeeding their prandiation ; and this praiseworthy custom may divide with their regular and systematic exercise the merit of that magnificent health and strength which characterize all the upper and middle classes of England. These remarks upon the post-prandial period natu- rally bring up another great question, to which, reader mine, I do entreat your attention. We used to practice the good old English custom of 'seeing mahogany;' that is, in twenty minutes or half an hour after dessert is placed one the table, the ladies retire and the gentlemen remain at table for about an hour longer. But it is with sincere grief and mortification that I am compelled to observe and confess that within a few years this ancient usage has been invaded and nearly displaced by the continental custom, according to which both ladies and gentlemen rise very soon after the dessert has appeared ; before in fact the more deliberate part of the guests have done justice to it or begun to appreciate the Bor- deaux. Now I maintain that for the real purpose and object of a dinner-party — which is not to make a great display of plate and china, and bully your guests under the pretence of hospitality, nor to 'kill ofT people who have invited you before in conformity with the usages of a hearties and hollow etiquette, but to bring people tooether that they may enjoy themselves; and accordingly BRILLAT-SAVARIN nobly and philosophically declares. 152 that 'to invite any one to dinner is to take charge of his happiness for the time that he remains under your roof — for the real purpose and object of a dinner-party, I say, the English usage is on all accounts preferable. It is not always possible nor desirable that all your guests should be intimate associates to begin with; one great use of a dinner is to make pleasant and clever people acquainted with each other, and give them the opportunity of be- coming friends if they mutually suit. Now this oppor- tunity is much better promoted by the English plan, be- cause, FIRST, there are certain subjects on which gentlemen are most disposed to talk out, and draw^ one another out, and converse easily and naturally, which are mere bores to the ladies. Such are, first, politics; secondly, some particular branches of science and litera- ture which are generally out of a lady's line; third, dif- ferent kinds of business and commercial aifairs. In like manner, the w^omen have their peculiar topics ; for instance, nice points of dress and millinery, about w^hich few gentlemen take much interest or have much knowledge. So that nothing throws your company together and makes them talk out and lets them within each other, so to speak, like separating the sexes for a time and letting each converse on its own topics. SECONDLY. A man is naturally inclined imme- diately after dining to some little abandon of attitude and manner. He likes to lean back in his chair or to turn it half round to his neighbor's, or perhaps, if he has well dined, to let out a button or two of his waistcoat. Nor do I believe that some corresponding latitude is altogether unpleasing to the fair sex, and that they object to reclining in their favteuils for a while and gossiping at leisure among themselves without the trouble of having to try to look interested at fine gentlemen speeches. Then there are men who like to smoke after dinner; and though not an habitual smoker myself, I know enough of the effects of the cigar to sympathize with those who find it an exceeding comfort about that time. There are some also who like their half-bottle of Bordeaux after dinner, and others (like myself) who like to sip their glass or two very leisurely. Now by letting a man do these things (which he can do only when the English plan is adopted) you make him feel at home at once: 153 he grows genial and natural, and disposed to talk other things beside mere drawing-room common-place, and lets you see something of what manner of man he is. Thus you may find out more about a person, his specialites^ strong and weak points, good qualities, hobbies, etc., by dining once with him, English fashion, than fifty times French fashion, in which latter case, indeed, unless you sit near him you may never come to know him at all. Nevertheless, in spite of these potent and unan- swerable reasons to the contrary, the non - mahogany system is fast gaining ground among us, being urged and supported by two classes, the Gallomanic fashionables who will follow the French blindly in every thing (though even the French are not so abrupt as their imitators here, and do not rush away from the table in ten minutes after the fruit and ices are put on) and the stingy fine people who are shy of their wine. I dined once with a character of the latter sort, and it was amusing (or rather it would have been to any but a sufferer) to watch how carefully he abstained from taking any notice of the decanters before him (of course through mere absence) and how spirited his conversation became with those immediately on each side of him. Having a pre- sentiment that there was but a quarter of an hour before us, I vainly strove to catch his eye with looks that almost magnetized the decanters themselves and brought them dowTi of their ovm accord. It was only throwing away so much ocular indignation and entreaty. At length when he had nicely calculated his time, he started the wine with a great flourish and it had just gone once round when Mesdames rose, the host started with his lady, and we as is in duty bound did the same. Now if a man only drinks one glass of wine at his dessert he likes not to have to do it in a hurry. But the truth is that most diners-out like more, if they will act in truth, and not play hypocrites to themselves and one another. And without any fear of falling into the former English habits of vinous excess (which honest John has now happily amended) a guest may w^ell and comfortably, during the hour of social relaxation, when the chairs of the w^ell-dined banqueters are drawn close together, im- bibe his half-bottle of red wine, preceded and followed by a glass of Madeira or Sherry. (This is a very good 154 rule, a glass of white wine as a foundation for the claret, and another as a preparation for the coffee: it was one of BRUMMELL'S.) There is surely nothing indelicate, or ungallant or discourteous in a man's drinking more than a woman, any more than there is in his eating more, which every one takes as a matter of course. Indeed the latter fact necessarily leads to the former. And now, should the reader be afflicted with the too prevalent epidemic of Anglophobia, he may begin to chafe, so it will be well to appease him with some of our Frenchman's maxims for a dinner, which however I shall take the liberty of accompanying, as in a former instance, with such commentaries as they suggest. BRILLAT- SAVARIN introduces them w^ith the appropriate obser- vation that 'however delicate the meats and however sumptuous the accessories, there is no enjoyment at table, should the wine be bad, the guests collected indiscrimi- nately, and the meal consumed with precipitation.' 'The number of guests should not exceed twelve , so that the conversation may be general.' Connu et agree. I will not positively affirm that it is impossible to conduct a large dinner on aesthetic prin- ciples, as I have never dined with very great people, and am not prepared to say w^hat the union of colossal fortune and highly cultivated taste may not accomplish; but I am sure it must be very difficult. One reason immediately suggests itself. At a very large table there must be a considerable interval between each course, and supposing that the guests are so felicitously grouped as to be able to amuse themselves during these intervals, with or without the assistance of music, (and this is not probable where the guests are numerous,) the whole period of the dinner must ultimately be protracted to a tedious length. For a bachelor dinner, eight is an ex- cellent number. By the way, when the head of a family gives a bachelor party, he should either pitch his tent at a restaurateur's for the occasion, or contrive that Madame shall dine with her relations. One woman among seven men is awfully out of place, and sure to be bored herself without adding any thing to their pleasure. 'The guests should be so selected that their pursuits shall be various, while their tastes are analogous, and 155 with such points of contact that you will not be obliged to have recourse to the odious formality of introductions/ A magnificent expression of profound wisdom. 'The guests should be so selected that their pursuits shall be various while their tastes are analogous;' that is to say, they must be gentlemen and liberally-educated men in the highest sense of those terms; and then, however diverging their lines of business or pleasure, they will be sure to find points of contact. 'The odious formality of introductions' is a strong phrase, but not too strong for the occasion. We have carried this absurdity to its height. I don't know wheter the elaborate presentation and solemn hand-shaking that one has to undergo every where is more annoying or ridiculous. How much better they manage these things in England ! There you meet a stranger at dinner; over the wine you hear him talk and perhaps talk to him; you learn his name indirectly and he yours ; you take a survey of the man, physically, intellectually, and socially; and afterward it is at your option to know him or not when you next meet. Which ever you do he has no right to be offended. 'The dining-room should be brilliantly lighted, the table-furniture of remarkable propriety, and the tempera- ture between sixty and seventy degrees.' The first hint needs no comment. The second may for a moment 'give us pause.' There are many things connected with the equipment of the table, involving more or less expense. It is not every one who is the fortunate possessor of costly plate and sumptuous china. The most accessible luxury, and that which gives most pleasure in proportion, is elegant cut glass. The delicate form of a decanter and still more of a glass, adds a new zest to the generous liquor contained in it, and makes the aesthetic drinker linger goblet in hand. But the plate and china are very glorious things for those that have them. Only it is a fatal mistake (happily more common in Europe than here) to suppose that any display of these can atone for any deficiency in that which is upon them. On the contrary, the more exqui- site your china and plate the more necessity that your cook should be irreproachable. Any thing bad, or shabby, or scanty in the dinner, is only aggravated by the gor- geousness of the service, which is then felt to be but a 156 bitter mockery. The temperature of the room will depend not merely not on the quantity of fuel employed, but also on the number of guests in proportion to its size. I mention this apparently self-evident fact, because many people who give dinners do most certainly lose sight of it. Not unconnected with this is another fault which deserves the most serious animadversion; that of putting more people at a table than providence and the cabinet- maker intended should sit at it. * Doctor X., the master of — College, Cambridge, was a sad sinner in this respect. I used to think that his parties were given on the principle of solving some problem in physics like this: Given a table of a certain size; required the number of individuals that can be brouyht around it in a sedentary posture. It was once my felicity to give him a gentle hint. Being in the position of a trussed goose at his board, in some crippled movement, I contrived to knock over a tumbler. Whereupon he looked thunder-cloudish, and the uncivilized Cantabs there assembled began to laugh by way of restoring the stranger (it was the third month of my residence in England) to his ease. With a composed countenance I turned to the great X — , and assured him that 'accidents would happen in the best regulated families,' a pregnant proverb involving the inference that a fortiori were they likely to happen when people were packed together in that fashion. ^The men should be intellectual without pretension, and the women amiable without coquetry.' Methinks I hear the reader say, 'It is very easy to give such rules as these, but to be able to comply with them is another thing.' Perfectly right : it is difficult to follow this direction, and I am glad you appreciate the dificulty. Half the battle is to select your company. It is a work of thought for a bachelor party: when you ask couples the task becomes one of great nicety, and when you mean to invite the men and w^omen separately, all your cleverness and all Madame's will be brought into play. To combine a party of young ladies and unmarried gentlemen, and * WHEREAS arm-chairs are very pleassant on other accountsj they are particularly useful on this, that they prevent the possibility of over-crowding your table. 157 make the dinner go oif well, is the highest triumph of social genius. On this most important jubject a few suggestions may not be altogether out of place. 1. James Smith's rule for a literary bachelor party is, eight guests: six talkers; two listeners. Scholium. The most valuable guest is he who can be a talker or a listener, according to the company he is in. This requires a man to be brilliant, sensible and modest, a rare and happy union of qualities. 2. Beware of bringing too many lions together: they are not apt to roar in perfect concert. This is a very natural error when you are feasting a stranger or foreigner. Anxious to show off to him the celebrities of your place and your acquaintance with them, you are tempted to ask all the men of note your room and table will hold, forgetting the first rule, that to give talkers their fair chance, there must be listeners. 3. Avoid all bas bleus. 4. Avoid all men who, as was said of Coleridge, 'have a talent for monologue.' Any one who will mo- nopolize the conversation, however great his talents and acquirements may be, is oppressive at a dinner. The places for such people are soirees und conversaziones^ where they can lecture to circles of admirers. 5. One fool positive^ that is to say an individual who persists in making stupid remarks, whether talked to or not, is enough to spoil a whole party. 6. Some of the very pleasantest parties are those made up of persons who have at some period of their lives been intimate; but who, by their daily pursuits or other circumstances are prevented from meeting very often. This is the remark of a shrewd English friend: it has a relation with BRILLAT-SAVARIN'S precept, that Hhe pursuits of the guests should be various and their tastes analogous.' 'The dishes should be most carefully selected and not too numerous, and the wines the very best,' each of his kind.' The other precepts I omit, because some of them, such as those relative to the coffee and the liqueurs, have been already anticipated, and others relative to tempo- rary fashions, such as tea, toast and punch, which were 15S then (in 1825) recently-introduced English novelties. But the last one deserves attention. 'No one should go before eleven, but every one should be in bed by twelve.' This corresponds to the Englisman's rule w^ho hung over the chimney-piece of his dining-room : ^Come at seven^ go at eleven.'' But one day an erratic friend, who wished to pro- long the festivities, inserted a monosyllable which mate- rially changed the nature of the precept, for it then read: 'Come at seven, go IT at eleoeti.'' And they did 'go it' accordingly. This closing precept takes it for granted that the guests have no other engagement that night. But from a dinner to an evening party or ball is a natural and customary progress, and therefore the natural arrange- ment seems to be that your carriage should come to take you from one just in time to take you to the other. And this reminds of another argument in favor of the English habit of remaining at table. I occupies an hour or two agreeably, which by the pseudo-Gallic innovation is utterly thrown away. What earthly use is there in breaking up your dinner-party at eight or half-past eight when no one goes to a ball before ten? Or if there is no ball to go to, it is even worse. You reach home before nine: it is too early to go to bed, and your evening is just broken up. If I had quoted all SAVARIN'S maxims, you would have seen that his post-prandial arrangements are not so directly antagonistic to those of the English. The sederunt is transferred from the dining-room to the drawing room; there is whist for the gentlemen instead of politics, and punch instead of claret; but one of the great ends, repose and ease in the house where you have just dined , is attained by analogous , though different means. Our next halting place in the physiology shall be the meditations on corpulence. The reader must not be too startled at hearing that one cause of obesity is — eating and drinking too much. The quality of the aliment how- ever, has as much to do with the matter as the quantity. Bread is exceedingly fattening; those therefore who are inclined to be corpulent should eat but little, and that little of rye. They should also avoid eggs , potatoes. 159 rice , pastry and other farinaceous substances. (I am afraid this last sentence reads somewhat like the grocer's sign, — Soap^ candles, blacking and other vegetables for sale here. Don't put down the confusion to BRILLAT- SAVARIN'S discredit; it is all my fault. I am trying to condense the substance of his remarks as much as possible, for this grave treatise which set out to be eight pages , has run on to a length that frightens me; and hence you see dum brevis esse laboro, etc.) They must also have a horror of beer. So much for negatives; for positive remedies, they must eat radishes and celery and drink seltzer-water and light French wines. The next precept seems somewhat inconsistent with this, for they are commanded to eschew vinegar, and the command is enforced by a touching history of a beautiful girl, who by drinking a glass of vinegar every morning in the foolish hope of thereby reducing her figure, brought herself to a premature grave at the age of eighteen. Finally, it will be well if they can rise early and take much exercise on foot and on horseback , but these recommendations, the author adds, are difficult to follow^, and he therefore does not depend much upon them. The chapter in which he enlarges on the difficulties of carrying out these most simple prescriptions is amusingly and at the same time painfully indicative of the Celtic character as contrasted with the Anglo-Saxon. What to an Englishman or Englishwoman is second, nay, first nature, is an out-of the way and impracticable remedy to a French ditto. Those unfortunates who suffer from the opposite defect, will of course adopt a contrary regimen, take eggs at breakfast, rice, potatoes and pastry at dinner, and plenty of bread at all times. They will drink beer, (which it is not considered vulgar to do in London and Paris , and which it is supremely absurd to consider unlady-like here, although there are dummies among us who if told that a young lady 'drank beer' would look at her as a sort of Lola Montez,) and pay proper at- tention to sponge-biscuits, macaroons and similar varieties of confectionary. The author expatiates with miich feeling on the regime incrassant^ commencing thus: 'Every lean woman wishes to grow plumper; we have noted the desire in a thousand instances; it is then to render a final homage to the all-powerful sex, that 160 we shall endeavor to replace by real forms those fictitious charms of silk and cotton which one sees so profusely exposed in the shops, to the great scandal of all rigid moralists who pass by in a tremor and turn away their faces from these chimeras as sedulonsly as, nay, more so than if the reality were before them.' Elsewhere in more homely and practical language he says , that 'it is as easy to fatten a woman as a chicken.' Here is a delicious bit of aesthetic enthusiasm: 'Shun all acids, except salad which rejoices the heart.'' Salad as a great many Americans and almost all Englishmen make it, does any thing but rejoice the heart. Will it be believed that in a cookery-book published in this city and sold by several of the principal booksellers, there occurs a receipt for dressing salad which leads off' thus. 'Take three spoonfuls of oil and as many of vinegar,'' A mingled feeling of indignation and pity stops my pen. Whoever wrote down that receipt in cold blood ought to be sent forever to where we are about to accompany M. BRILLAT-SAVARIN. Namely, Lent. Not however with the intention of fasting ; the more so as our author expressly condemns fasting as a very bad practice , wherein I take it for granted that my readers are good Protestants enough to agree with him. No, we will only touch on this meditation because it gives a sketch of the manner in which the Parisians at the middle of last century arranged their meals when they were not in Lent. 'We used to breakfast before nine on bread and cheese , fruits and sometimes cold meat. [Not in the order in which they are here enumerated it is to be hoped.] Between twelve and one we dined on the habitual soup and soupbeef, with better or worse accompaniments as our means and other circumstances allowed. At four there w^as a lunch, a light meal for the particular benefit of children and of those who piqued themselves on following the usages of antiquity. But there were supperish lunches which began at five and lasted indefinitely. 161 'About eight came the supper; roast, side-dishes, sweets, salad and dessert.' That is what we should call a late dinner mi?ius the soup and fish. Nature seems to dictate that the principal meal should be taken when the fatigue of the day is over; whether it be called dinner or supper is a mere fashion of the times. From speculating on the usages of different ages, the transition is easy to a history of the art. Our author says a great deal about the cookery of the Greeks and Romans, and it would be easy for me to say as much more, and overwhelm you with an ocean of erudition, gossip, and jokes, more or less bad, out of that inex- haustible Athenseus. But nothing is farther from my intention, because, in the first place, our knowledge of the classical cuisine is very imperfect when we come to details, and secondly, what we do know in a general way does not impress one very favorably. With the deepest veneration for the poetry of the ancients, I have a very moderate opinion of their table-aesthetics. The thick impissated wines, the clumsy fashion of lying down at meals, which no modern but Fanny Kemble has ever been able to practice, the Romans' preference for pork — the Athenians were more aesthetic, and founded their suppers on fish and game — all these and various other peculiarities of theirs, are to us incomprehensible, if not barbarous. One or two things I will just allude to, as they show amusing resemblances in ancient and modern matters. The Greeks had regular bills of fare; so the prince of gossips tells us in his second book. 'When the host had reclined,' he says, 'there was presented a little writing, {yQaf-if-LaTidLOv tl,) containing a sketch of the preparations, so that he might know what delicacies the cook was going to serve.' * And in one of the later books of this indefatigable gourmand there is a list of receipts for making cake, several of which on examina- tion I have found to be, with the substitution of sugar for honey, very good receipts for those good old KNICK- ERBOCKER preparations, krullers, dough-nuts and oely- koeks. Happening once to mention this to a Cantab friend, he remarked that one of the London University Vol. I. Deipnosophistffi II., 33 (50). 11 162 professors (let us say 'George Long 5' for a story is only half a story unless there are some names in it;) had tried to put into practice these very receipts, and made an awful mess of them. Somewhat taken aback by this, I a length bethought me of inquiring whether Long had ever in his life before made cakes of any kind. To which the response w^as in the negative. Thirty-eight pages of manuscript, and we are only just at the beginning of the second part of the Physio- logy ! What a pity we cannot linger on that second part! It would have been a rich treat, for here the author drops precept and argument entirely, and indulges him- self in illustration and anecdote. I should have liked above all things to relate to you his preservation of a huge turbot's 'entirety' after it had puzzled the bon mcants of Villecrene as much as one of its species did Domitian's senate of old; and his Day with the Bernardines, which reminds us of the song about — 'The monks of old, What jolly good souls they were!' and shows that some of the brotherhood at least have not deteriorated in this respect; and the consternation of innkeeper when required to lodge and entertain a large arrival of English, 'for not more than six francs;' and a dozen other good stories ; but it could hardly be done short of this whole number of the KNICKERBOCKER. Let me just give you one anecdote ; not because it is by any means the best, but because it is the shortest. The author having been slightly 'done' by an apothecary, is on the point of calling the worthy dispenser of drugs to account, when he is suddenly deterred by remembering the bad success of his friend General BOUVIER in an encounter with one of the fraternity. This general sent for M. BRILLAT-SAVARIN to sustain him in the in- terview with his apothecary, who had overcharged him ; and to the further intimidation of this redoubtable per- sonage he had arrayed himself in full uniform, orders and all. He was just explaining this to our author. 'When even as he spoke the door opened, and we beheld a man of about fifty-five years enter , carefully dressed. He was of lofty stature and sedate step. His whole appearance would have presented a uniform aspect of severity, had not his eyes and mouth together betokened something sardonic in their connection.' 168 [What a novel SAVARIN might have written if he had tried! Did you ever see a character better introdu- ced? It is a perfect opening of a mysterious chapter.] 'He approached the fire-place, refusing to take a seat, and the following dialogue ensued, which I have faithfully retained in my memory : 'THE GENERAL. 'Sir, this is a regula^r apothecary's bill that you have sent me, and — 'THE MAN IN BLACK. 'Sir, I am not an apothecary. 'THE GENERAL. 'And what are you then. Sir? 'THE MAN IN BLACK. 'Sir, I practice pharmacy. 'THE GENERAL. 'Very well, Mr. Practiser of Pharmacy, your boy ought to have told you — 'THE MAN IN BLACK. 'Sir, I have no boy. 'THE GENERAL. 'Who was that young man then? 'THE MAN IN BLACK. 'Sir, he is a pupil. 'THE GENERAL. 'Well, Sir. I wished to tell you that your drugs — 'THE MAN IN BLACK. 'Sir, I do not sell drugs. 'THE GENERAL. 'And what do you sell then, Sir? 'THE MAN IN BLACK. 'Sir, I sell medicines,' 'There the discussion finished. The general, ashamed of having comitted so many solecisms and of being so little advanced in the knowledge of the pharmaceutic tongue, was thrown into confusion, forgot what he had to say, and paid all that was demanded.' And now, reader, a word in your ear before we part. Do you prefer that Celtic or Anglo-Saxon prin- ciples to prevail in the world ? If you have any tendency to the Puritan faith, if you undertake to be a strict moralist and a religious man, you can hardly help desiring 11* 164 that the latter should triumph. Very well; if you give up the science of table-sesthetics, which has so important an influence on mankind, to the Celts, you leave in their hands a tremendous weapon and means of obtaining power. Ask a Frenchman the reason of his country's ascendency ; and if a conceited man like Michelet, he will tell you that it is because France has lavished more blood and treasure and labor in the cause -of humanity than all the other nations in the world together, which is — very much after the manner of Michelet; or if you ask a more modest man, like our physiologist, he will say that it is because the French are so obliging in their inter- course with strangers as always to let themselves down to the level of their capacity; of the truth of which those who have travelled abroad can judge for themselves. But the true secret is, depend upon it, the progress which the French have made in the arts of dress and cookery, wherein, notwithstanding occasional absurdities, they on the whole very much surpass the rest of the world. By the former they gain the women; by the latter, both sexes. Will you yield them without an effort the whole of this advantage, or try to put yourself as nearly on an equal footing as you can? 'What's the reason the devil should have all the good tunes?' said some great divine; Calvin, was it, or Wesley? 'What's the reason the French should have all the good dinners?' eays CARL BENSON. The following letter explains itself in connection with the above. '20, Rue Barbet-de-Jouy, Paris, February 22, 1854. 'DEAR KNICK. : 'Les absens ont toujours tort.' 'THE proverb mey be truer in French than in some other lan- guages, but it is tolerably pertinent in all. Frequently of late has it recurred to me , owing to the non-appearance of the KNICKER- BOCKER in these parts; and when, at last, the January number turned up, it appeared that you had been forgetting old friends in more ways than one. For there, in black and white, was to be found this confession : 'It is a curious circumstance, of which until now we were ignorant, that SAVARIN was a political exile in America,' etc. ^Until now we were ignorant 1' O KNICK., it 's too bad of you! Have you forgotten that article I wrote you in 1848 about BRILLAT- SAVARIN, wherein was pointed out, with becoming emphasis, the 165 extreme modesty of the distinguished exile, whereby, as he says, he made himself so popular among us, namely, pretending not to be cleverer than the Americans, (n'avoir plus d'esprit qu'eux 7') 'Perhaps hou have forgotten it ; and perhaps you may say to me, or some of your readers for you: 'Here is KNICK. receiving barrels of MSS. every week from all parts of the civilized world ; publishing thirty articles a month, to say nothing of the unpublished and unpub- lishable ones ; do you think he recollects what you or any one else wrote him six years ago?' To which I must answer as Lord LON- DONDERRY did to the British Ambassador at Constantinople. Lord LONDONDERRY (his name is Vane LONDONDERRY, a name phusei, and not thesei, as the Greeks used to say) being at Constantinople, wanted to see all the lions there, and among other things to be presented to the SULTAN ; and asked the British Ambassador accordingly : "My dear Lord LONDONDERRY,' said the Ambassador, 'the operation is both difficult and dangerous, besides being unusual; it is customary to make presents to the SULTAN, but not presentations: as a general rule, I don't introduce any body.' "My dear Lord,' (whatever-his-name-was,) said LONDONDERRY, 'I am not any body, and am not subject to general rules.' 'So I say fearlessly that I am not subject to general rules , and still less was the subject of that article. For were we not both interested therein, with the interest that comes from knowledge and appreciation? Were not the observations of BRILLAT - S A VARIN really phonanta synetoisin in our case? Was not almost the very last thing I did in America to partake of your hospitality, in company, I recollect, with that illustrious man, the editor of the Bunkum Flag- Staff, when we discussed various ways of cooking oysters, and oysters cooked in various ways ? 'Well, / remember the article, at any rate , if you don't ; and all the origin and getting-up of it; how I was reading BRILLAT-SAVARIN in the library of HENRY BREVOORT, (sit ei terra levisf) and casually observed to him that it would be a good theme for a magazine paper; how he happened to meet you next day, and made the same obser- vation; and how the day after came to me a little note from your 'sanctum,' 'DEAR B— : When will that article of yours on BRILLAT-SAVARIN be ready?' which sudden taking me up on a barely expressed opinion without any intention involved, did not, nevertheless, surprise me in the least ; for we were used to that sort of thing. Didn't DUYCKINCK — peace to the manes of the Literary World! how much of ours and our friends lies buried with it ! that's always the way j 'I never had a dear ga- 166 zelle,' etc., but it was sure not to pay expenses and stop publication, as DICK SWIVELLER might say — didn't DUYCKINCK use to stop me in the street and order an article on MENANDER, for instance, without waiting to ascertain whether I had ever read the classic in question ? Then he would add, by way irresistible clincher, 'You know you're the only man that can do it,' a sort of panegyrical ellipsis for 'yoii know you're the only man that will do it without a con-side-ra-tion.' So being used to that sort of thing, we went to work with a will, and were a full week polishing up the article to the best of our small ability. And when it came out in the full glory of KNICK.'s best type , all our aesthetic friends did us the honor to — say they would look at it ; and the fame of it spread so far in a certain circle that old BACCHUS, who had never been known to go to any great expense for literature, actually offered to — read the magazine if I would send him a copy ; whereupon I incontinently told him that he might go to the — club, and read it there. 'But after all, it is as well that periodical literature should be forgotten from season to season ; it gives the same things a chance of being said more than once. Not that I have any intention of so doing, or of inflicting any rifacimento of that article on you ; but the mention of BRILLAT-SAVARIN naturally suggests some reflections on his speciality to one dwelling in the scene of his most brilliant labors; where, indeed, you are continually reminded of him by the sight or other experience of a cake that bears his name — just as CHATEAUBRIAND, another great celebrity in his way, is immorta- lized in a particular description of beef-steak, one of twice the usual thickness. 'It is very easy to sneer at the art of table-aesthetics , and not difficult to sermonize against it, which does not in the least prevent its being a valuable product and adjunct of civilization. Having on the already-referred-to former occasion fully set forth the economical advantages derived from a knowledge of the art, I shall now pass over that head sicco pede. As to the physical, it is obvious that well-cooked dishes are more digestible and nourishing than imperfectly cooked ones, not to speak of the fearful stimulus given to intempe- rance in liquor and immoderate use of tobacco by unwholesome and unsatisfactory dinners. The temperance of the French is almost proverbial. Still greater are the social benefits resulting from our art. For how much ill-temper , hatred , envy , malice , and all un- charitableness are the cooks of the Great Republic accountable! I am sure that the good folks who like to vent their spite upon us absentees would be in better humor if they had better dinners. "What has increased the profusion and waste of our entertainments till fashionable society has degenerated into a mere round of showy restaurant dinners and suppers? what more than the impossibility of giving quiet little 167 dinners and suppers from one's own kitchen ? How many Gothamites would dare ask a friend to take pot-luck with them at an hour's notice, and how many friends would dare to accept such an invitation? Here it is nothing uncommon, which is enough to account for society being more sociable. "What,' says some indignant moralist, 'do you mean to hold up French society as a pattern to us virtuous republicans?' 'By no means , my friend , not as a general rule ; only in this particular. But if any man seriously thinks that the immorality of the French is owing to their knovnng how to cook good dinners, and eat them when cooked , why then , in the words of THUCYDIDES, 'I felicitate him on his simplicity, but do not commend his cleverness.' You might with as much reason attribute it to their temperance. A Certain amount of physiological case might be made out for that pa- radox. A more plausible objection may be started. I may be reminded that the English, who are the greatest people in the world, excepting, of course, the Americans, and the finest and healthiest-looking people in the world, not excepting even the Americans, are far behind several European nations in all arts pertaining to cookery. The objection looks formidable. But let us 'discriminate the difference,' as a logical friend of mine used to say before entering into any discussion. Let us look at the question from all its points of view. The English are gross and careless feeders just as they are capacious and indiscri- minate drinkers. Their moist climate and the great quantity of open- air exercise they take, enable them to consume, without injury, a great amount of heavy viands and strong potables. But the diet that an Englishman can thrive on in his own country, would be ruinous to an American , or even to an Englishman in America. The liquids which the former can imbibe like water would set the latter on fire; the solids which nourish the one would indigest (to coin a Gallicism) the other. It is very doubtful if our climate allows as much exercise as that of England, and quite certain that it does not encourage as much. Our people, therefore, require a better system of cookery than the English. All the refinements of the table, it is said, are mere creatures of an artificial state of society. "Very true; so are all re- finements and improvements in dress , in domestic architecture, in all the comforts of material civilization as distinguished from intellectual cultivation. Is that a reason for despi^ng them? A celebrated no- velist has drawn an amusing picture of ADAM and EVE's perplexity and discomfort when transported to a well-spread modern dinner-table ; but would they not be equally perplexed at any tailor's or dress- maker's, or, for that matter, inside of any modern house? If the example of our first parents is a precedent for going back to a fruit and cold-water diet, it will equally justify us in adopting their very 168 primitive toilette, or in 'camping out' instead of sleeping on comfortable beds under a weather-tight roof. 'No doubt there is a certain amount of fashion and custom in table-8B8thetics , as there is in almost every thing , from crime to mathematics ; and these fashions and customs , change from time to time. In DEAN SWIFT'S day (as we learn from his Polite Conver- sation) the English used to eat soup in the middle of the dinner which moves THACKERAY'S wonder exceedingly. 'What sort of society could it have been?' he asks with natural astonishment. And yet fish, which, according to THACKERAY'S countrymen and ours, comes the very next to soup, has not yet had its place perfectly defined on continental tables. The French used to eat it after the entrees and just before the roast , although most of them have now adopted the Anglo-Saxon order. But perhaps THACKERAY would be somewhat surprised if he were told that in a part of his own county, at the present day, soup is eaten after meat, namely, at the Pensioner's table of Trinity College , Cambridge , where probably THACKERAY ate it so himself in his undergraduate days. The reason assigned to me for this practice was, that the meat being put upon the table at the beginning of dinner would grow cold if not eaten first, while the soup, being an extra, might be ordered hot from the kitchen at any stage of the repast. It is not every custom that can give so good a reason for itself. 'But THACKERAY was right in his question. It is strictly philosophical to begin a dinner with soup, as it obviates the necessity for drinking, which many, perhaps most persons, feel at the commence- ment of a meal. The preliminary whet of oysters, like the chasse after the coffee, must be considered an over-refinement of luxury only suited to great occasions, and not to the dinner of every-day life. 'And similarly, I believe that most of the rules of a scientific and aesthetic dinner may be explained and defended as bona in se, and not arising from any caprice of fashion. Thus, to take a funda- mental principle — the division into courses — eating one thing at a time instead of every thing in a heap — does it not commend itself to the educated man's finer feelings instinctively? There is much barbarism anent this matter in our country; not merely in the frontier regions of it, either. One of my first experiences in New- England, when a lad of sixteen, was dining out, and having seven kinds of meat and vegetables clapped upon my plate at once. Pro- bably my hosts thought it rather a proof of their civilization. I recollect once talking to the 'gentleman' who interpreted for some travelling Indian chiefs. He said that these sons of the forest had many habits different from those of civilized people ; for instance, they only took one kind of food on their plate at once when dining. Poor man! he little guessed that his barbarous charges resembled, 169 in this respect, the most refined inhabitants of the French captial, who would have put him down for any thing but a civilized man if they had seen him eat. 'For my part, I thoroughly believe that the dinner-cooking and dinner-giving arts have arrived at a state much nearer the perfection of reason and common-sense than many other arts of modern society ; much nearer than that of dress, for instance. What, I wonder, will some future and wiser generation think of our ladies' low-necked ball-dresses , whether as regards decency , comfort , or symmetry ? What of the street-sweeping skirts ? What will it think of that acme of inaptitudes , the common domestic masculine hat ? You may hear men wishing to live to or through some great epoch; till the next French Revolution but three; or till MACAULAY has finished his history , or till the conversion of the South-Sea Islanders. I should like to live to see the conversion of the civilized world — from the absurdity of the present civilized hat. 'Some of the varieties in the table-sesthetics of different countries may be easily accounted for by the different capacities and tempera- ments of nations. Thus, the genial Anglo-Saxon custom of post-prandial sederunts would be perilous to the Gaul, who is so light-headed as to be unequal to combining the usual consumption of wine on such occasions with the equilibrium necessary for the drawing-room after- ward. So, too, in the distribution of wines during dinner. Anglo-Saxons begin with champagne after the soup, or at latest after the fish, reserving the claret for the close of the banquet; in France it is not uncommon to drink the best Bordeaux in the earlier stages of the dinner, and only open a bottle of champagne just before the dessert- Each custom is in accordance with the character of the people that follows it. The Anglo-Saxon, grave and phlegmatic, is excited to a proper spirit and liveliness by the early introduction of the champagne, which would make the Frenchman too gay before the close of the dinner; he goes on upon his own natural spirits and the quieter red wines, till, when tired of talking and eating, a glass or two of the sparkling beverage winds him up and sets him going again. 'One thing I never could account for — the German habit of eating sweet puddings before the roast. Most dietetic barbarisms can be explained. When the Down-Easter or Backwoods-man heaps from six to sixteen different viands on his plate at once, it exemplifies his promiscuous acquisitiveness and indiscriminating haste. But the German mind is orderly and logical ; how could it have admitted the solecism of the misplaced puddings ? 'Although self debarred at the outset from dwelling on the eco- nomic side of the subject, I cannot help remarking how much of the animal and vegetable world is wasted in various countries through culinary ignorance. The English use buckwheat only to feed pheasants 170 being utterly unaware what excellent pan-cakes it affords. Some European nations are equally ignorant of the pumpkin's utility for human sustenance. "We Americans make a very inferior pie of it, tasting something like wet ginger-bread — a dish the offspring of necessity in the infancy of New-England when the unfortunate inha- bitants had nothing else to make pies of, and which, with their usual cycnanserifying propensity — that is to say, their habit of making swans out of geese — they have imposed upon the Union at large, as something not only eatable , but palatable. The French have put the vegetable to its right use: they make a most delicious soup of it. 'I fancy, too, that many ripe figs must be wasted in our Southern States. Now the Southern French have a way of preserving theirs. Dismiss from your mind, I beg of you, all ideas of the Eastern, drum-packed, flat-pressed, mite-nourishing commodity. No, these figs (they are large green ones, like the best Italian) are round and swelling, slightly candied on the outside, yet not so as to disguise entirely their native emerald hue ; all fresh and luscious inside with all their original juices — a delight of children, and not to be despised by parents. The sellers of comestibles call them golden figs (figues d'orj and they well merit the appellation. 'Perhaps some of your unsophisticated country readers may imagine that I am going to enlarge on the value of the frog as an article of food, for it is one of our popular delusions (derived from the English, who have long since outgrown it) that this amphibious animal is a usual and favorite Parisian plat. I fancy you would be as likely to see a vol-au-vent de grenouille at a French restaurant as a colt-steak or rattlesnake fricassee at one of our hotels. Yet truth compels me to say that I once heard a Frenchman (he was an officer and a gentleman, and belonged to the aristocratic faubourg St. Germain) boast of having eaten a dish which throws all possible frogs into the shade ; to wit, a fox f He said it tasted like game, only more so! I suspect, however^ that he was joking. We had been talking of unusual meats, and I mentioned having eaten peacock and swan. He probably thought I was quizzing him, and wanted to cap my story. 'And now this indefinite letter has rambled on far enough. Vale Vive que KNICK., which means, may you live a thousand years, and always have a good cook. 'CARL BENSON.' 171 A TALE ABOUT THE PRINCESS. American Review, July 1848. CARL BENSON'S LIBRARY. Present: CARL AND FRED PETERS. PETERS. And so Carl, while I have been in the thickest of the stirring times abroad, and seen one mo- narchy topple after another, you have been quietly reading at home. And that gray-covered book is poetry of course. * BENSON. It is TENNYSON'S PRINCESS. PETERS. Oh, Tennyson! Yes, I remember you always had a great admiration for him — not but what he is justly entitled to a good standing among the sec- ondary poets. BENSON. Perhaps you would be surprised to hear Tennyson spoken of as a greater poet than Byron. PETERS. Ay, that should I. BENSON. And yet such is at present the opinion of a very large number of the best educated men in England. PETERS. Indeed! I knew that of late years Words- worth had become the fashionable poet of his literary countrymen, but did not suspect that they had now set up a new idol in his place. BENSON. The process in natural enough. Men grow sated with passion and excitement; they rush for relief to quiet meditation. The popular taste passes from poetry which defies theory and morality to poetry which is all theory and morality. In time the proper medium between and union of the two begins to be seen and appreciated. The literary w^orld has its oscillations of this sort as well as the political. PETERS. This then you are disposed to consider Tennyson's great merit, that he is a uniter and harmonizer of the two opposite schools, the Byronic and the Words- worthian ? * Fred talks Yorkshire, but writes as pure English as any of us, so that it is only doing him justice to translate his remarks into the ordinary dialect. 172 BENSON. I am, though well aware it is not the ground that most of his admirers would take. They would make him (so far as they would allow him to have any master) a follower of Wordsworth. But the passionate element is certainly very predominant in him at times, sufficiently so to have annoyed some over-proper people here. And I do consider this fusion or eclecticism, or whatever you choose to call it, as one mark of a great poet, because it gives a truer representation of man than is afforded by either of the schools which it combines. The slave of passion, on however grand a scale he may be depicted, is a low development of our nature. The meditative philosopher is a high, but an incomplete de- velopment. You would not choose as your type of go- vernment an unbridled democracy or an immovable con- servatism, but one in which the two parties had room and scope to struggle. So in the man, you wish to see the play of his feelings and the supervision of his judgment, his better reason prevailing in the end amid the conflict of his passions, but only "saving him as by fire." And where in modern poetry will you find a greater example of this than in Locksley Hall? PETERS. What is the reason then that some people complain of Tennyson's writing namby-pamby, and emas- culating poetry? BENSON. Simply because some people are dum- mies. I can understand a charge of this kind as applied to Mrs. Hemans, or Keats, or Wordsworth, (not meaning that I should agree with the man who makes the charge, but I can see why he makes it ;) but as applied to Ten- nyson it seems to me neither more nor less than absurd. There is pathos and sentiment in him : there are passages which may make those cry who are cryingly disposed. In the name of Apollo and the nine Muses, is that to be set down to his discredit? Read Locksley Hall, I say again, and read Morte d' Arthur^ and then tell me that the man who wrote them has emasculated poetry. Bulwer and Mrs. Norton, whichever it was of them that perpe- trated the New Timon, might write their heads off before they could achieve two poems that will live alongside of those. Ought a man never to feel pensive? Is it a crime to be sometimes moved by the pathetic? I well remember that I used to lie on a green bank of summer 173 mornings and read Theocritus till I was full of pity for Daphnis and the unfortunate man who "had a cruel companion;" but I never found that it unfitted me for taking a horse across country or digging up hard words out of a big lexicon at the proper time. PETERS. Yes, I remember Romano and you lying on that very bank you are thinking of, between the Trinity bridge and the Trinity library, and him making his confession thus: "I acknowledge the influence of the scene. At this moment any one might do me." BENSON. There was a man of the world who was not ashamed to be sentimental, and why should a poet be ? PETERS. Thus far you have praised Tennyson's taste and judgment rather than his genius and originality, it seems to me. WTiat peculiar and individual merits do you find in his poetry? BENSON. In the first place, wonderful harmony of verse; in the second — PETERS. Wait a moment, and let us dispose of the first place before going further. It really surprises me to hear you make such a point of Tennyson's harmony, for he is frequently blamed on this very head. There are some violent, old-fashioned elisions, to which he is over-prone — BENSON. Such as "i' the" for "in thee." PETERS. Exactly; and though not professing to have read his poems critically, I would engage to point you out a number of lines in them which contain weak or superfluous syllables. BENSON. It must be confessed that occasional blemishes of the sort may be detected in him, yet it is scarce possible to read one of his poems carefully through without being struck with his exquisite sense of melody. Try it especially with his blank verse: — blank verse, as every judge of verse knows, is a much greater trial of an author's powers of versification than any rhyming metre. Read (Enone or Morte d' Arthur, and you will see what I mean. PETERS. But after all, allowing what you claim, is not this a small matter to build a poetic reputation on? You may have mere nonsense verses, like the "Song by a Person of Quality," perfect in the way of rhythm 174 • and metre: indeed it is a very common device of small poets to make sound supply the place of sense. BENSON. It is also a very common device of people who are not poets at all to profess themselves such geniuses that they can despise the ordinary laws of versification. An every-day trick that, and a sad nuisance are these little great men who set up to \vrite poetry without being able to write verse. Is the most correct and elegant prose translation of a passage from Homer or Dante poetry? The question seems almost absurd, but w^hy isn't it poetry? There are all the ideas of the original. It is the vehicle of them that makes the essen- tial difference. And any tangible and practicable defini- tion of poetry nuist somehow include metrical expression'^ if you admit one independent of this element, you may be driven to allow that the Vicar of Wakefield is a poem, to which felicitous conclusion I once pushed a transcen- dentalist who was arguing the point with me. PETERS. But metrical excellence is, to a certain extent at least, a matter of study and practice. BENSON. What then? PETERS. Why, you know, poeta — BENSON. Nascitur to be sure. Which means that unless a man has a genius for poetry he can never be made a poet. And the very same thing is true of the painter or the mathematician. A man requires education for everything, even for the proper development of his physical powers. PETERS. Of course you except political wisdom and statesmanship, which in a democracy come to every man by nature, like Dogberry's reading and writing. BENSON. Of course. But no man can afford to despise the rudiments of art, I don't care what his na- tural genius is. What would you say to a young painter who should refuse to study anatomy and perspective ? PETERS. Then you think it as necessary for a poet in posse to study metre, as for a painter in posse to study anatomy? BENSON. Rem acu. PETERS. You were going to mention another ex- cellence of Tennyson. BENSON. Yes, his felicity of epithet. You may go through his two volumes without finding a single otiose 175 adjective*. Now it is the happy employment of adjectives that especially makes descriptive writing, whether in prose or poetry, picturesque; and therefore in Idylls — iidvllia — poems which are little pictures, or each a series of pictures, Tennyson has no equal since his master in that branch of poetry, Theocritus. PETERS. You seem to have studied your man well, and therein you would have the advantage of me in a discussion. But let me ask you one question. Do you honestly think, to say nothing of this country, that Tennyson will ever have the same continental reputation that Byron has? BENSON. I do not, for a very good reason. Ten- nyson is decidedly a more national poet than Byron. Indeed, there is nothing national in the latter. There is nothing in him that a Frenchman or an American cannot appreciate as well as an Englishman; nay, there are many things which a Frenchman can appreciate better than an Englishman, because they are more in accordance with his feelings and sympathies. Whereas — PETERS. You must make an exception in favor of Byron's satires on contemporary English poets. BENSON. To be sure; but they are certainly not the poems on which his continental reputation in any way depends. Tennyson, on the other hand, is eminently an English poet. He likes to take his subjects from English country life, or English popular stories; and some of his shorter poems are simply and distinctly patriotic, embodying the liberal conservatism of an enlightened English patriotism. PETERS. I remember one beginning — "Love thou thy land with love far brought From out the storied Past." BENSON. There is a finer one than that: "Of old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet; Above her shook the starry lights. She heard the torrents meet." PETERS. Yes, I recollect; and how she gazes down from her isle-altar, and turns to scorn with lips divine the falsehood of extremes. There is nothing vio- lently or offensively national in that. 176 BENSON. He began with a great deal more spice. In one of his earlier volumes there is a sort of war- song conceived in a spirit of magnificent national conceit. It starts with this satisfactory assumption: — "There is no land like England Where'er the light of day be; There are no men like Englishmen, So true of heart as they be." And there is a pious and benevolent refrain or chorus, after this fashion: — '■''For the French, the pope may shrive them, For devil a whit we heed them ; As for the Fench, God speed them Unto their heaH's desire, And the merry devil drive them Through the water and the fire." After all, I like a man to stand up for his country. We don't do it half enough. PETERS. Whom do you mean by wel BENSON. You and I, Whigs and Locos, and everybody. But to return to our Tennyson. There is another reason for his being "caviare to the general," even in his own country. His mind is classically moulded, and his poems full of classical allusions. The influence of Homer and Theocritus especially is constantly traceable in his writings; and his felicitous imitations and sug- gestive passages constitute one of his greatest charms to the liberally educated. Sometimes he is harsh, if not unintelligible to the uninitiated, as when he says that Sir Bedivere stood with Excalibur, "This way and that dividing the swift mind In act to throw;" which reads very stijff till you recollect the Homeric dat^of-ievog xarcc d-v(.idv PETERS. I would go farther yet, and say that a man, to appreciate Tennyson fully, must be artistically educated and be familiar with Claudes, and Raphaels, and Titians. That was what struck me some time ago, on reading his Palace of Art, (at the recommendation 177 of an admirer, who considered it his chef d'ceuvre ) and your last remark, together with what you said just before about his picturesqueness, reminded me of it. I certainly am inclined to think with you, that Tennyson, like Shelley, will always be "caviare to the general," and therefore — but we won't quarrel. I have one more question to ask you. Don't you think that Tennyson owes some of his present reputation to clever friends? Isn't he the pet of his university? Is there not a certain club of Cam- bridge men that you once told me of? BENSON. They are not all Cantabs — some Oxo- nians like Arnold's pupil and biographer Stanley, and some non-university men like Carlyle. They comprise lions of all sorts , greater and less ; humorists , with Thackeray of Punch at their head; artists; literary men of fashion ; theologians , (did you ever read Maurice's Kingdom of Christ?) and plenty of reviewers. A poet who has generally one of his club in the Edinburgh and occasionally another in the Quarterly, stands a chance of having full justice done him. At the same time it is only fair to remember, Fred, that laudatory criticism is at times essential to justice, especially after unjust and one sided treatment, like the first notice the Quarterly took of Tennyson. Nor can the Tennysonians be charged with anything more than this. You cannot justly impute to them any mere puffery, or extravagant, because un- qualified, panegyric. Take Sterling's review, (lately republished in a volume of his works ;) there is no horror of fault-finding in it. When he doesn't like a poem he says so. How different from the mutual criticisms of a society of mutual admirationists ! PETERS. You are brim-full of your author, I see, and ready to lecture on him. Suppose you give me some account of his new poem there, {sotto voce^) especially as there will be more chance of getting something to drink after it. BENSON. That will I. It is a queer thing certainly, this poem. "A medley" he calls it, and so it is — a medley of grave and gay, where , like his own holiday rustics , he in one place pursues sport and philosophy hand in hand, in another, pure sport. The poet goes to see a jolly baronet, whose son, Walter, is one of his Vol. I. 12 178 college friends. It is a fair summer day, and there is a f^te to the tenantry. Walter shows his guest the house : — "Greek, set with busts; from vases in the hall Flowers of all heavens, and lovelier than their names, Grew side by side ; and on the pavement lay Carved stones of the Abbey-ruin in the park, Huge Ammonites, and the first bones of time; And on the tables every clime and age Jumbled together: Celts and Calumets, Claymore and snow-shoe, toys in lava, fans Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries. Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere. The cursed Malayan crease, and battle-club From the isles of palm ; and higher on the walls. Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk and deer. His own forefathers' arms and armor hung»" All which is very fine; but the literary visitor is sure to make for the books, and dive into "a hoard of tales that dealt with knights. Half legend, half historic, counts and kings That laid about them at their wills, and died;" till Walter pulls him out, book and all, to see the grounds and the ruins and the ladies. The happy multitude are scattered about their path. "A herd of boys with clamor bowl'd And stumped the wicket ; babies roll'd about Like tumbled fruit in grass; and men and maids Arranged a country dance and flew thro' light And shadow. * * * * And overhead The broad ambrosial aisles of lofty lime Made noise with bees and breeze from end to end." So they come to the ruins, where Sister Lilia has amused herself by dressing up an old ancestor's statue in new and fashionable woman's attire, and the young men begin to "talk shop," that is, in the present case, to talk college, which brings up the old question of female capacities. At last the guest is called on for a story that shall be moral and amusing both. PETERS. Unreasonable requisition! BENSON. Nevertheless, with Cantab assurance, he sets about "making a shot" at it; but, says he — i 179 "One that really suited time and place, Were such a medley we should have him back Who told the Winter's Tale to do it for us: A Gothic ruin, and a Grecian house, A talk of college and of ladies' rights, A feudal knight in silken masquerade. And there with shrieks and strange experiments. For which the good Sir Ralph had burnt them all. The nineteenth century gambols on the grass. No matter : we will say whatever comes : Here are we seven; if each man take his turn We make a sevenfold story." PETERS. Ah, each man a canto ; that would afford room for some pleasant diversities of style and thought. BENSON. Unfortunately, or fortunately, there is nothing of the kind. The seven cantos, or parts, or fyttes, or whatever you may choose to call them, are all in one continuous vein. Lilia wanted to be a Princess and have a college of her own: he therefore must be a Prince at least, and accordingly a Prince he is, — "blue-eyed and fair in face, With lengths of yellow ringlet like a girl ; For on my cradle shone the nothern star. My mother was as mild as any saint — " PETERS. That "any" is prosaic. BENSON. "And nearly canonized by all she knew, So gracious was her tact and tenderness ; But my good father thought a king a king: He held his sceptre like a pedant's wand To lash offence, and with long arms and hands Reach'd out, and pick'd offenders from the mass For judgment." This northern Prince had in his boyhood been betrothed to a southern Princess in her girlhood — a regular affair of business, as royal betrothals are. PETERS. Only royal ones, Carl? BENSON. Don't interrupt me, Fred, for I am like one of your fast trotters, very hard to start again after breaking. So when he was coming to man's estate, his father sent after tiie lady to fetch her, as per agreement; but instead of the Princess comes 12* 180 "A present, a great labor of the loom," and a letter from her father to the effect that she has "a will and maiden fancies," and in short won't be mar- ried at any price. You may fancy the old warrior monarch tearing up letter and present, and threatening an appeal to the ultima ratio. PETERS. The Prince resolves to go himself incognito, I suppose. BENSON. Precisely so, as you shall hear. "Then ere tlie silver sickle of that month Became her golden shield, I stole from court With Cyril and with Florian" — (These were his two friends, and the latter has a sister in the Princess's court,) "With Cyril and with Florian, unperceived. Down from the bastion walls we dropt by night And flying reached the frontier; then we crost To a livelier land, and so by town and thorpe, And tilth, and blowing bosks of wilderness, We gain'd the mother city thick with towers ;" (How like a journey in Fairy land it is, with all those quaint Elizabethan words!) "And in the imperial palace found the king. His name was Gama; crack'd and small his voice, A little dry old man, without a star, Not like a king." This little old king, who was as oily as one of your third-rate, shake-your-hand-with-two-fingers diplomats, explained that his daughter had been put up to founding a university for maidens by two widows, (one of them Florian's sister ;) whereat the Prince, chafing him on fire to find his bride, "Set out once more with those two gallant boys, Then pushing onward under sun and stars Many a long league back to the north," — (for the summer palace where this female university was founded lay on the northern frontier,) came to an inn near the place, and after a consulation with mine host, hit on the plan of turning ladies for the occasion. 181 "We sent mine host to purchase female gear; Which brought and clapt upon us, we tweezered out What slender blossom lived on lip or cheek Of manhood; gave mine host a costly bribe To guerdon silence, mounted our good steeds, And boldly ventured on the liberties." PETERS. "And so they renished them to ride On three good renished steeds." But the thing is an absurdity already. Do you sup- pose three men among a little town of women, could escape detection three minutes? Do you know three of your acquaintance that you would trust in such a position? BENSON. I have seen heaps of English women quite ungraceful enough to be men in disguise for that matter. Their entry is beautifully described. They come into "A little street half garden and half house ; But could not hear each other speak for noise Of clocks and chimes, like silver hammers falling On silver anvils, and the splash and stir Of fountains spouted up and showering down In meshes of the jasmine and the rose: And all about us peal'd the nightingale, Rapt in her song, and careless of the snare." PETERS. Good! and then? BENSON. Of course they mean to be on Lady Psyche's side, as a Cantab would say, for she is the younger, prettier and better tempered of the two tutors. So the Prince "sat down and wrote In such a hand as when a field of com Bows all its ears before the roaring east: 'Three ladies of the Northern Empire pray Your highness would enroll them with your own As Lady Psyche's pupils.'" And accordingly, "At break of day the College Portress came : She brought us academic silks, in hue The lilac, with a silken hood to each, And zoned with gold ; and now when these were on, And we as rich as moths from dusk cocoons, She, courtseying her obeisance, let us know The Princess Ida waited." 182 PETERS. Ah, now for the heroine! BENSON. "There at a board by tome and paper sat, "With two tame leopards couched beside her throne. All beauty compassed in a female form, The Princess: liker to the inhabitants Of some clear planet close upon the sun, Than our man's earth ; such eyes were in her head, And so much grace and power, breathing down From over her arch'd brows, with every turn Lived through her to the tips of her long hands. And to her feet." How do you like her? PETERS. The sketch is too shadowy methinks. Not definiteness enough of touch in it, and — surely one of those lines halts? BENSON. Yes, it is one of Tennyson's crotchets that flower and power are full dissyllables. But the Princess will define herself better by and by. Of course. Psyche finds out her brother, and of course she is persuaded to give them a little grace; else how should they and we see and hear any more of this Female University life? And here is some of what they saw and heard: — "And then we strolled From room to room : — in each we sat, we heard The grave Professor. On the lecture slate The circle rounded under female hands "With flawless demonstration: follow'd then A classic lecture, rich in sentiment. With scraps of thundrous Epic lilted out By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies And quoted odes, and jewels five-words long, That on the stretch'd forefinger of all Time Sparkle forever : then we dipt in all That treats of whatsoever is, the state, The total chronicles of man, the mind, The morals, something of the frame, the rock. The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, the flower. Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest. And whatsoever can be taught or known; Till like three horses that have broken fence, And glutted all night long breast-deep in corn "We issued gorged with knowledge, and I spoke: 'Why, sirs, they do these things as well as we." 183 PETERS. And to be sure they might, if they were only taught. BENSON. And so might most men sew and play the piano if they were only taught. But whether it would pay is another question. Here is an after-dinner picture : — "A solemn grace Concluded, and we sought the gardens : there One walk'd reciting to herself, and one In this hand held a volume as to read. And smoothed a petted peacock down with that." A most lady-like substitute for the small terrier that a Cantab w'ould be promenading about. "Some to a low song oar'd a shallop by Or under arches of the marble bridge Hung, shadow'd from the heat: some hid and sought In the orange thicket; others tost a baU Above the fountain -jets and back again With shrieks and laughter. * * * So we sat: and now when day Droop'd. and the chapel tinkled, mixt with those Six hundred maidens clad in purest white. Before two streams of light from wall to wall, While the great organ almost burst his pipes Groaning for power, and rolling thro' the court A long, melodious thunder to the sound Of solemn psalms and silver litanies, The work of Ida to call down from Heaven A blessing on her labors for the world." You see the finest of these descriptions have an amusing double sense. They are at once a parody on, and a description of English University life. PETERS. Yes, I remember going to Trinity Chapel with you, and those five hundred young men in surplices. How innocent and virtuous they did look — at a distance! I wonder if Princess Ida's girls tattled and gossipped as much when they pretended to be kneeling at prayers. There were two youngsters just in front of us that night who were settling the next boat-race all service time. But certainly there are many delightfully picturesque features in a Cantab's life. By the way, Carl, what has become of your sketches? 184 BENSON. Infandum jubes renovare. They were so free-spoken that no one in this land of liberty dared publish them. But we live in hope. Do you recollect what Punchs ays of the great Jawbrahim Heraudee, how, after having circumvented his enemies and made a great fortune, he "spent his money in publishing many great and immortal works?" That's what w^e mean to do some day, so help us Puffer Hopkins! PETERS. Ominous invocation! But how fares the Prince meanwhile? BENSON. He is invited to take a geological ride with the Princess. You may be sure he seizes the op- portunity to discuss the plan she had made for herself in contrast with that which others had made for her, not forgetting to say a good word or two for himself. "'I know the Prince. I prize his truth ; and then how vast a work To assail this gray pre-eminence of man ! You grant me license; might I use it? Think Ere half be done perchance your life may fail; Then comes the feebler heiress of your plan, And takes and ruins all; and thus your pains May only make that footprint upon sand Which old recurring waves of prejudice Resmooth to nothing: might I dread that you, With only Fame for spouse and your great deeds For issue, yet may live in vain, and miss Meanwhile what every woman counts her due, Love, children, happiness?' And she exclaimed: 'Peace, you young savage of the northern wild. What! tho' your Prince's love were like a god's, Have we not made ourselves the sacrifice? You are bold indeed: we are not talk'd to thus. Yet will we say for children, would they grow Like field-flowers everywhere ! we like them well. But children die ; and let me tell you, girl, Howe'er you babble, great deeds cannot die. They with the sun and moon renew their light Forever, blessing those that look on them. Children — that men may pluck them from our hearts. Kill us with pity, break us with ourselves. O children! there is nothing upon earth More miserable than she that has a son 185 And sees him err: nor would we work for fame, Tho' she perhaps might reap the applause of Great Who learns the one POU STO whence afterhands May move the world, though she herself effect But little: wherefore up and act, nor shrink For fear our solid aim he dissipated Of frail successors. Would indeed we had been, In lieu of many mortal flies, a race Of giants, living each a thousand years, That we might see our own work out, and' watch The sandy footprint harden into stone." After their philosophic equitation they luxuriate in a tent, "elaborately wrought With fair Corinna's triumph ; here she stood Engirt with many a florid maiden cheek. The woman-conqueror; woman conquered there The bearded victor of ten thousand hymns, And all the men mourned at his side." There is an instance, one out of many in the poem, of the admirable way in which all the adjuncts are artistically in keeping. Tennyson always seems to keep in mind Fuseli's rule "that all accessories should be allegorical," and this makes him eminently the painter of poets. And now comes what all the critics consider the gem of this work. PETERS. Isn't it a blank-verse song about "the days that are no more?" I remember seeing that quoted in three London periodicals the same day. I bought them at the railway station. BENSON. Even the same. There is a unanimity of opinion about it, which it may seem ridiculous to oppose, but I do candidly confess to you that I don't like it as well as some other things in this very poem. Perhaps it is from utter want of agreement with the sentiment. The past is for me a sweet season, not a sad one at all — in consequence no doubt of my fear- fully antiquated conservative sympathies. I never could feel, even though a great poet has sung it before Tennyson, "That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things," and therefore — 186 PETERS. That is the true critical fashion, Carl, to dilate upon your own feelings and neglect your author. BENSON. Straigtforward is the word then. In vino Veritas. When they begin to drink, the secret's let out and great is the flutter. The Prince, scornfully expelled, lights on the camp of his own father, who had heard of his danger, (it was a capital offence for any male to infringe on the University limits,) and marched down to rescue him. Pgor Psyche is there; she has lost herself and her child: hear what a touching lament she makes for it: — "Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah my child, My one sweet child whom I shall see no more ! For now will cruel Ida keep her back; And either she will die from want of care. Or sicken with ill usage, when they say The child is hers — for every little fault, The child is hers; and they will beat my girl. Remembering her mother: O ray flower! Or they will take her, they will make her hard. And she will pass me by in after-life With some cold reverence worse than she were dead. Ill mother that I was to leave her there, To lag behind, scared by the cry they made, The horror of the shame among them all. But I will go and sit beside the doors. And make a wild petition night and day, Until they hate to hear me like a wind Wailing forever, till they open to me, And lay my little blossom at my feet. My babe, my sweet Aglaia, my one child; And I will take her up and go my way And satisfy my soul with kissing her : Ah ! what might that man not deserve of me Who gave me back my child? The medley is true to its name. After this pathos we have some fighting, for there are three brothers of the Princess, tall fellows all, and one, Arac, a tremen- dous champion. He bullies the Prince, and thereupon the North and South agree to fight it out, fifty to fifty. I am sure Tennyson had the Ivanhoe tournament in his head when he wrote this. Arac knocks over every one, ending with the Prince; but nobody is killed, though 187 there is much staving in of iron plate and bruising of heads. Then the Princess, under whose very garden wall the mel^e has taken place, comes down with her maidens and opens her gates in pity to the wounded, and so the women lose their cause in gaining it. You may imagine the catastrophe — the Prince ill in bed, and the Princess nursing him and reading to him, and what must follow thence. But it is beautifully worked out. He lies in delirium, until she from watching him, and listening to his mutterings, and casting sidelong looks at "happy lovers heart in heart," (what a felicitous ex- pression !) begins herself to know what love is. At last he wakes, "sane but well nigh close to death, For weakness ; it was evening : silent light Slept on the painted walls, whereon were wrought Two grand designs : for on one side arose The women up in wild revolt, and storm'd At the Oppian law. Titanic shapes, they cramm'd The forum, and half crush'd among the rest A little Cato cower'd. On the other side Hortensia spoke against the tax; behind A train of dames: by axe and eagle sat, With all their foreheads drawn in Roman scowls. And half the wolf's-milk curdled in their veins, The fierce triumvirs, and before them paused Hortensia pleading : angry was her face. (How the lion-painters had had it all their own way! There is great humor in that picture, as well as artistic keeping.) I saw the forms; I knew not where I was: Sad phantoms conjured out of circumstance, Ghosts of the fading brain they seem'd ; nor more Sweet Ida ; palm to palm she sat ; the dew Dwelt in her eyes, and softer all her shape And rounder show'd: I moved; I sighed; a touch Came round my wrist, and tears upon my hand; Then all for languor and self-pity ran Mine down my face, and with what life I had, And like a flower that cannot all unfold, So drench'd it is with tempest, to the sun. Yet, as it may, turns toward him, I on her Fixt my faint eyes, and utter'd whisperingly : 188 'If you be what I think you, some sweet dream, I would but ask you to fulfil yourself; But if you be that Ida whom I knew, I ask you nothing ; only if a dream, Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die to-night. Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I die !" Do you remember a somewhat similar appearance in Miss Barrett, where the Lady Geraldine visits her poet-lover, and he takes her for a vision? "Said he, wake me by no gesture, sound of breath, or stir of vesture — " PETERS. Excuse me, but I never yet undertook to admire Miss Barrett, and would much rather you should read straight on. BENSON. It is a pity to interrupt so fine a passage. "I could no more, but lay like one in trance That hears his burial talked of by his friends, And cannot speak, nor move, nor make one sign. But lies and dreads his doom. She turned; she paused; She stoop'd; and with a great shock of the heart, Our mouths met: out of languor leapt a cry, Crown'd passion from the brinks of death, and up Along the shuddering senses struck the soul, And closed on fire with Ida's at the lips ; Till back I fell, and from mine arms she rose, Glowing all over noble shame, and all Her falser self slipt from her like a robe, And left her woman, lovelier in her mood Than in her mould that other, when she came From barren deeps to conquer all with love. And down the streaming crystal dropt, and she Far-fleeted by the purple island-tides Naked, a double light in air and wave, To meet her graces where they decked her out For worship without end, nor end of mine. Stateliest, for thee!" PETERS. I suppose our classical poet had one of the Homeric hymns to Venus in his mind, when he sketched that comparison. BENSON. Possibly, but there is no verbal resem- blance that I recollect. Let us see. Here is the shorter Hymn to Aphrodite. You shall have it word for word: 189 "Fair Aphrodite, goddess golden-crowned, Majestic in her beauty will I sing, Inheritress of all the crowning heights Of sea-beat Cyprus, whence the wat'ry breath Of Zephyr bore her lapped in softest foam Across the loud-resounding ocean wave. Her lovingly the golden Hours received And clad in robes immortal ; and they set Upon her head divine a golden crown Well wrought, and fair to look on; in her ears The flower of mountain-brass and precious gold ; And they decked out with necklaces of gold Her tender neok and silver-shining breasts. With such the golden Hours themselves bedeck When they betake them to the pleasant dance Of deities, and to their father's home. So having all her person thus adorned They brought her to th' Immortals, who rejoiced To see her." Homer, as you perceive, dwells upon the ornaments of the goddess more than on her native charms. But now for our Prince and Princess again. He has slept, "Fill'd thro' and thro' with Love, a happy sleep," and is awaked by her reading a sort of serenade to him and a beautiful one it is. Listen: — "Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white ; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk ; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font : The fire-fly wakens; waken thou with me. Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost, And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars. And all thy heart lies open unto me. Now slides the silent meteor on and leaves A shining furrow, as thy thought in me. Now folds the lily all her sweetness up. And slips into the bosom of the lake, So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip Into my bosom and be lost in me." By-and-by they come to an explanation. He makes an admirable confession of his faith, and a more admirable explanation and history of it, even thus: — 190 "'Alone,' I said, 'from earlier than I know. Immersed in rich foreshadowings of the world, I loved the woman: he that doth not, lives A drowning life, besotted in sweet self. Or pines in sad experience, worse than death. Or keeps his wing'd affections dipt with crime; Yet was there one thro' whom I loved her, one Not learned, save in gracious household ways Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants, No angel, but a dearer being, all dipt In angel instincts, breathing Paradise, Interpreter between the gods and men. Who look'd all native to her place, and yet On tiptoe seemed to touch upon a sphere Too gross to tread; and all male minds perforce Sway'd to her from their orbits as they moved And girdled her with music. Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him.'" And this is his satisfactory conclusion: — "My bride, My wife, my life, O we will walk this world, Yoked in all exercise of noble end. And so thro' those dark gates across the wild That no man knows. Indeed I love thee ; come. Yield thyself up : my hopes and thine are one : Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself, Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me." Enter the General. THE GENERAL. Well, Carl, what's on the tapis now? One of the nine male muses of Boston, eh? PETERS. No, indeed! but Tennyson's Princess, which our friend is well nigh enchanted with. THE GENERAL. It is two years or more since I heard Carl talking of that poem. The literati in Eng- land must have been expecting its appearance for a long time. And it seems to me surprising that they have not shown more disappointment — that is, if, as seems per- fectly natural, they meant to judge it by the standard of the author's former works. BENSON. Then you are greatly disappointed? 191 THE GENERAL. Not greatly, for I never was a violent Tennysonian. But I shall be surprised if you are not dissatisfied. PETERS. Carl looks incredulous : he wants your reasons, General. THE GENERAL. He shall have them. First, let us begin with the vehicle and dress of the ideas, the mere structure of the verse. Knowing that you all agree with me in the importance of this, I have no fear of being thought hypercritical. Every one must see on reading the poem, that much of the versification is on the Italian model. Now this may be a perfectly proper innovation. It is possible that "O swallow, swallow if I could follow and light," is as natural and suitable a line in the one language as "Molto egli opro con senno e con la mano" is in the other; so I will not dwell on this point, though it certainly admits of dispute. But there are many lines built on no model at all, in short, not verse at all. What do you say to this? "Strove to buffet to land in vain : a tree ;" or this — ''''Timorously and as the leader of the herd.'' And there are plenty not quite so lame as these, but very faulty, such as — "Albeit so mask'd, madam, I love the truth." "Of open metal in which the old hunter rued." "I did but shear a feather, and life and love." "Life. And again sighing she spoke, 'A dream." Now we have a particular right to animadvert upon these things in Tennyson, because his harmony of ver- sification is always insisted upon (and in many cases I admit with all justice) by his admirers. Here, then, he fails upon his own ground. And it cannot be fronl haste, for we know that the Princess has been some years in preparation; it must be either from wilful carelessness, or some perversity of theory. So much for the first charge. 192 Next, there is to be found in this poem a supera- bundance of quaint and harsh expressions. I do not refer to the affectation of dragging in antiquated words, such as "tilth ," and "thorpe ," and "enringed ;" but to such phrases as these : — "And then we past an arch Inscribed too dark for legib'e" "On some dark shore just seen that it was richy "Seldom she spoke, but oft Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone for hours On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of men Darkening her female field ; void was her itse," meaning that "her occupation was gone," I suppose; but it is not easy to get that sense, or any sense out of the words. The next fault I have to find is a very serious one. Your pet poet, Carl, is terribly gross, repeatedly aijd unnecessarily so. There, don't make such large eyes, but listen. The Princess "Was proxy-wedded with a bootless calf," to the Prince. Where was the need of allusion or re- ference to this barbarous and disgusting custom of a dark age ? You can't say it was introduced to preserve historical accuracy, for there is no historical or chrono- logical keeping in the poem. The Princess talks geology and nebular hypotheses, and the Prince drawls his similes from fossil remains. Then, again, the break at the close of the innkeeper's speech — why, the suggestion conveyed by it would be low for Punch, and only in place in the columns of a Sunday newspaper. And w'hy the Prince's question about the want of anatomic schools in the female University, but for the indiscreet inuendo which it conveys? BENSON. You grow over nice, General. THE GENERAL. Nay, if I did, you would hear me objecting to the whole scene of the three young gentlemen's discovery ; master Cyril growing tipsy and striking up a questionable ditty, "Of Moll and Meg, and strange experiences Unmeet for ladies;" and the Prince "pitching in" to him. 193 BENSON. Can you suggest any better mode of bringing about the discovery ? THE GENERAL. If no better can be devised, that only throws the objection upon the choice of such a subject. PETERS. That brings us to the point. Come, General, don't be nibbling all around the poem, like a mouse about a big cheese, but tell us what you think of it as a whole. THE GENERAL. As a whole, then, let me ask Benson if he considers it to add much to Tennyson's poetic reputation? BENSON. Is it perfectly fair to expect that each successive work of an author shall equal or surpass his former masterpieces? THE GENERAL. Somewhat of a Quaker answer, that, but it involves an admission which I accept as a satisfactory reply. PETERS. I have heard it objected to the Princess, that it was too evidently written with a moral and for a moral, and therefore could not be a really great poem. BENSON. That is really too bad, Fred. According to that rule, no allegorical picture can be a great painting. THE GENERAL. It certainly is not the objection I should make either. The idea that a great poem cannot have a moral, seems to me as one-sided and untenable as the theory of the extreme Wordsworthians , that a great poem must have a moral. My animadversion would be just of the opposite kind — that the subject of the Princess is too slight. It would be well enough for a semi-ludicrous trifle; it is not sufficient for an elaborate poem, the work of years. While reading this production, the suspicion has crossed my mind — a mere suspicion which it is perhaps uncharitable to utter — that Tenny- son has intended and striven to be eminently Shakspearian in it. Hence his peculiar phraseology, his changes from grave to gay and from gay to grave, his rigorous artistic propriety combined with his almost systematic chronolo- gical discrepancy, his introduction of comic characters, (though he must have seen by this time that humor is not his forte;) even the very reference to the Winter's Tale is not without meaning. But Tennyson is said to be a modest man, and it is hardly fair to tax him with Vol. I 13 194 such impudence. But at any rate the Princess goes far to confirm me in the opinion I held before, that long poems are not Tennyson's line, so to speak. And he must have an inkling of this himself, else why does he not finish Morte d' Arthur? — which is surely worth finishing, though it might not perhaps be "one of the epics of the world," as Carl thinks. There are many exquisite little gems in the Princess — many of "those jewels five-words long," that the author speaks of; but as a whole, I should be slow to call it a great work of art. BENSON. There are certainly also many things in it to which the General has taken exception, and which I am not prepared to defend. The thought has struck me that for some or all of these occasional lapses, we may have to thank the so-called "Water Cure" which the author underwent between his former volumes and this. PETERS. Not a bad idea that, Carl. The result was exceedingly likely. THE GENERAL. So then the same cause will account for the difference between "Evangeline" and "The Voices of the Night," and that between the Princess and Locksley Hall. BENSON. Well, we are agreed on one point at any rate. And having settled so much satisfactorily, let us refresh our inner man. Lift up the top of that oak windowseat, Fred; you are the nearest to it. What do you find there? PETERS. Something that looks very like a gate de joie gras reposing upon some old music; and a little basket with an assortment of soda buscuit and waters, and — is there a Bologna in this roll of yellowish paper? BENSON. Precisely. Where's the General? Oh, one naturally looks to the other window-seat for the liquids. Quite right. You will find some jolly old Cognac there, and a bottle of the real "Drioli" Maraschino , if you are not above so ladylike a vanity. Help me to clear the table, Fred. Put Dr. Arnold on the top of Vanity Fair, and pitch those Boston reviews into the chiffonier basket. Spread this Literary World out: it will do for an extempore table-cloth. There, we have the edibles and potables arranged I let us give a good account of them. m THE GENERAL. We will endeavor to do them justice , as we have been trying to do justice to the Princess. FANITY FAIR. AN Anglo-Saxon can appreciate, although he may not altogether admire Gallic wit; but a Gaul is hopelessly incompetent to understand Saxon humor. * It is to him what the Teutonic humor is to both Saxon and Gaul, who suppose it must be humorous to the Teuton because he vastly delights in it, but find it, so far as themselves are concerned, dreary in the extreme, and utterly valueless for purposes of amusement. Here is a book which has a brilliant run in England, where its author is acknowl- edged as one of the first periodical writers; we doubt if any Frenchmann could go through it without falling asleep in spite of the pictures. In our own country, where the original Saxon character has become partially Gallicized, the public opinion (setting aside that class * Nothing shows this more clearly than the use which the French have made, and not made, of their own one great humorist. They bray about him of course, for he is part of their natural glory; they talk about reading him — "bring me the tongs and a volume of Pantagraet ," as that precious Theophile Gautier says. Possibly they even read him as a bit of "business," though it may be doubted if he is not and has not generally been more read in England than in France Certainly he has left a greater impress on English than on French literature. Setting aside minor writers , there is no great modern French author, so Rabelaiesque as Swift or Southey. Most of the direct and professed imitations of Rabelais which one meets with in modern French are utterly inadequate. Balzac sontes Drolatiques are very clever in their way* but have little of their model except the antiquated spelling. Even their indecency, on which the author so prides himself in his preface is the indecency of Balzac and not of Rabelais. One man alone among contemporary French authors is imbued with the style and spirit of the old humorist, and that without making any parade of such inspiration; the resemblance too is more striking in the serious than in the comic portions of his works. Napoleon le petit is exactly such a book as Rabelais might have written had he been in Victor Hugo's place» 13* 196 of readers, unfortunately too large, who are the willing slaves of the publishers, and feel bound to read and talk about a book because it is advertised by a big house, in big letters, as "Thackeray's Masterpiece,") is about equally divided, some much enjoying "Vanity Fair," others voting it a great bore. French wit and English humor! We do not mean to expatiate on this oftendiscussed theme, tempting though it be, affording copious opportunity for antitheses more or less false, and distinctions without differences, but shall merely hint at what seems the most natural way to explain this national diversity of taste and appreciation in respect of the two faculties. Wit consists in the expression more than in the matter — it depends very considerably on the words employed — and hence the wittiest French sayings are, if not inexpressible, at least inexpressive in English. Under the homely Saxon garb they generally become very stupid or very wicked remarks — not unfrequently both. But an Englishman with a respectable knowledge of French can understand and be amused by French wit, though he will probably not enter into it very heartily. Humor, on the other hand, depends on a particular habit of mind; so that, to enjoy English humor, a Frenchman must not only understand English, but become intellectually Anglicized to a degree that is unnatural to him. In proof of this, it may be noticed that French-educated or French-minded Americans find Thackeray tedious, and (to take a stronger case, where no national prejudice but a favorable one can be at work,) yawn over Washington Irving. And yet, if we wished to give an idea of Thackeray's writings to a person who had never read them, we should go to France for our first illustration; but it would be to French art, not French literature. No one who has ever been familiar with the pictured representations of Parisian life which embellish that repository of wicked wit, the Charivari — no one who knows Les Loreltes^ Les Enfans Terribles^ &c., would think of applying to the designs of Gavarni and his brother artists the term cari- catures. He would say, "There is no caricature about them ; they are life itself." And so it is with Thackeray's writings; they present you with humorous sketches of real life — literal comic pictures — never rising to the 197 ideal or diverging into the grotesque. Thus, while his stories are excellent as a collection of separate sketches, they have but moderate merit as stories^ nor are his single characters great as single characters. Becky Sharpe is the only one that can be called a firstrate hit ; for "Chawls Yellowplush" is characterized chiefly by his ludicrous spelling, and his mantle fits "Jeemes" just as well. And just as Gavarni differs from Hogarth, should we say Thackeray differs from Dickens, a writer with whom he is sometimes compared, and to whom he un- doubtedly has some points of resemblance, though he cannot with any propriety be called "of the Dickens school," or "an imitator of Dickens," any more than Gavarni could be called an imitator of Hogarth. Thackeray has his points of contact, also, with another great humorous writer, Washington Irving. Very gracefully and prettily does Mr. Titmarsh write at times 5 there is many a little bit, here and there, in the "Journey from Cornhill to Cairo," that would not disgrace Geoffrey Crayon in his best mood. But his geniality is not so genuine, or so continuous. Not that there is anything affected about his mirth — he is one of the most natural of modern English writers: Cobbett or Sidney Smith could hardly be more so; but it is dashed with stronger ingredients. Instead of welling up with perennial jollity, like our most good-humored of humorous authors, he is evidently a little blaze ^ and somewhat disposed to be cynical. To compare Thackeray with Dickens and Irving, most of our readers will think paying him a high com- pliment, but we are not at all sure that his set would be particularly obliged to us; for it is the fortune — good in some respects, evil in others — of Mr. Titmarsh to be one of a set. But wherever there are literary men there will be sets; and those who have been bored and disgusted by the impertinence and nonsense of stupid cliques will be charitable to the occasional conceits of clever ones. Having had some happy experience of that literary society which is carried to greater perfection in England than in any other country, we can pardon the amiable cockneyism with which Michael Angelo's thoughts revert to his Club even amid the finest scenery of other lands, and the semi-ludicrous earnestness with which he dwells on the circumstance of your name being posted among the "members deceased," as if that were the most awful and striking circumstance attendant on dissolution. And, inasmuch as all his books are really books to be read, we can excuse the quiet way in which he assumes that you have read them all, and alludes, as a matter of course, to the Hon. Algernon Deuceace and the Earl of Crabs, and such ideal personages, much after the manner of that precious Balzac who interweaves the same cha- racters throughout the half-hundred or more volumes which compose his panorama of Parisian society — a society in which, as Macauley says of another school, "the women are like very bad men, and the men too bad for anything." This mention of Balzac brings to mind a more serious charge than that of occasional conceit or affectation which we have more than once heard urged against our author; namely, that his sketches contain too many disagreeable characters. A queer charge this to come from a reading generation which swallows copious illustrated editions of Les Mysteres and Le Juif, and is lenient to the loathsome vulgarities of Wuthering Heights and Wildfell Hall. But let us draw a distinction or "discriminate a difference," as a transcendentalist acquaintance of ours used to say. If a story is written for mere purposes of amusement, there certainly ought not to be more disagreeable charac- ters introduced than are absolutely necessary for relief and contrast. But the moral and end of a story may often compel the author to bring before us a great number of unpleasant people. In a former volume of this Review the opinion was pretty broadly stated that no eminent novelist writes merely for amusement without some ulterior aim ; most decidedly Thackery does not at any rate. We shall have occasion to refer to this more than once, for it is doing vast injustice to Mr. T. to regard him merely as a provider of temporary fun. He does introduce us to many scamps, and profligates, and hypocrites, but it is to show them up and put us on our guard against them. His bad people are evidently and unmistakably bad ; we hate them, and he hates them, too, and doesn't try to make us fall in love with them, like the philoso- phers of the "Centre of Civilization," who dish you up seraphic poisoners and chaste adulteresses in a way that 199 perplexes and confounds all established ideas of morality. And if he ever does bestow attractive traits on his rogues, it is to expose the worthlessness and emptiness of some things which are to the world attractive — to show that the good things of Vanity Fair are not good per se^ but may be coincident with much depravity. Thus Becky Sharpe, as portrayed by his graphic pen, is an object of envy and admiration for her clev- erness and accomplishments to many a fine lady. There are plenty of the "upper ten" who would like to be as "smart" as Rebecca. She speaks French like a French woman, and gets up beautiful dresses out of nothing, and makes all the men admire her, and always has a repartee ready, and insinuates herself every where with an irresistible nonchalance. Then comes in the sage moralist, and shows us that a woman may do all these fine things, and yet be ready to lie right and left to every one, and ruin any amount of confiding tradesmen; to sell one man and poison another; to betray her hus- band and neglect her child. (That last touch is the most hateful one: in our simplicity we hope it is an exagge- ration. That a woman should be utterly regardless of her offspring seems an impossibility — in this country, we are proud to say, it is an impossibility.) Or if any of his doubtful personages command our temporary re- spect and sympathy, it is because they are for the time in the right. Rawdon Crawley is not a very lofty cha- racter; he frequently comes before us in a position not even respectable; but when he is defending his honor against the old sybarite Lord Steyne, he rises with the occasion: even the guilty wife is forced to admire her husband, as he stands "strong brave, and victorious." Nor, though he finds it sometimes necessary to expose hypocrites, does Thackeray delight in the existence of hypocrisy, and love to seek out bad motives for apparently good actions. His charity rather leads him to attribute with a most humane irony pretended wickedness to weak- ness. Your French writer brings an upright gentleman before the footlights, and grudges you the pleasure of admiring him ; he is impatient to carry him off behind the scenes, strip off his Christian garments, and show him to you in private a very fiend. But Thackeray, when he has put into a youth's mouth an atrociously 200 piratical song, is overjoyed to add quietly that he "re- members seeing him awfully sick on board a Greenwich steamer." Thus far our description has been one of negatives. It is time to say something of the positive peculiarities of Mr. T., two of which are strikingly observable, — the one in his serious, the other in his comic vein. We shall begin by the latter, for though to us he is greater as a moralist than as a humorist , we are well aware that the general opinion is the other way, and that he is most generally valued for his fun. Many of the present English comic writers excel to an almost Aristophanic degree in parody and travestie, but in the latter Thacke- ray is unrivalled. Now he derides in the most ludicrous jargon, the absurd fopperies of the Court Circulars: '^Head dress of knockers and bell-pulls , stomacher a muffin;" now he audaciously burlesques the most classic allusions "about Mademoiselle Arianne of the French Opera, and who had left her, and how she was consoled by Panther Carr." Some men have that felicity in story- telling that they will make you laugh at the veriest Joe Miller as if it had been just invented, and similarly there is nothing so old or so dry , but it becomes a subject for mirth under Titmarsh's ready pen or pencil, (for Michael Angelo is an artist himself, and a right clever one, and needs no Cruikshank or Leech to illustrate him.) But Thackeray never sets about a story of any length without having a will and a purpose. And this indeed is a noticeable difference generally existing between the wit and the humorist , that while the former sparkles away without any object beyond his own momentary amusement, the latter has definite aim, some abuse to attack, some moral to hint. Thackeray attacks abuses, and it is with an honest indignation and simple earnest- ness that form the distinguishing features of his serious writings. He assaults all manner of social sham, humbug and flunkeyism, and gives it to them in a way that does you good to hear. Against toadyism, affectation and snobbery, he preaches a crusade in the sturdiest Anglo- Saxon. The charge began in the "Snobs of England;" it is now followed up in "Vanity Fair." Any one, there- fore, who reads the latter book should read the "Snob Papers" in Punch , by way of introduction to it. Tin- 201 worship and title-worship , and that "praise of men" which your fashionables love more than the "'praise of God" — Titmarsh is sworn foe to all these, and wages unrelenting w^ar on them — but with none of that cant which runs all through Jerrold and half through Dickens : he does not make all his poor people angels, nor all his rich people devils, because they are rich. Nor has he any marked prejudice against Christianity in general, or the Christianity of his own church in particular — which we are weak enough to think rather to his credit. More- over his sledge-hammer invective against fashionable fooleries, is not engendered of or alloyed with any rusticity or inability to appreciate the refinements of civilized life, as a backwoodsman or Down-easter might abuse things he did not comprehend; for Titmarsh has a soul for art and poetry , and good living , and all that is aesthetic and elegant. "Vanity Fair," then, is a satire on English society. The scene indeed is laid thirty years back, but that is of a piece with Juvenal's "Experiar quid concedatur in illos Quorum Flaminia tegitur cinls atque Latina." It is meant for the present time, as the very illu- strations show, in which all the male characters wear the convenient trouser (Americanice pantaloons) of our ow^n day, instead of the stiff "tights" w^hich were the habit of that period. In a work of this sort we naturally expect to find many type-characters — that is, characters who represent classes of people. Most of these are very good and true. Rawley Crawdon is a capital representative of the uneducated part of the young British officer y — profligate and spendthrift, stupid in everything but cards, billiards , and horseflesh , and too illiterate to spell decently; yet withal bold as a lion. It is pleasant to see such a man properly depicted now and then, for the writer who does it is doing his duty to civilization by assailing the old barbarous feudal notion that mere physical courage , which is generally founded on the consciousness of superior physical strength and dexterity, should ride roughshod over moral courage and intellect. And Lord Steyne is a thorough specimen of the aristo- cratic old Sybarite. Others had tried their hands at this 202 character before — D'Israeli and that coarsest of fine ladies , Lady Blessington — but none of them have succeeded like Thackeray. And Pitt Crawley is a perfect model of the stiff, slow, respectable formula man. And Osborne, Sr., is one of your regular purse-proud cits who measure everything by what it will fetch on 'Change. But some ^ of the portraits are not fair even to Vanity Fair, and that of Sir Pitt, the elder Crawley, seems to us positively unjust. He may be a true sketch from life; rumor has indeed given him a real name and family; but he is too bad to be a type of country baronets, or even of country squires. And though the high - life characters have bitter justice done them in most things, there is one point on which the men are a little wronged: they swear too much. Allowing that a fearful amount of profanity prevails among people who ought to know better, there is surely no necessity for its being repeated. We do not want to hear the thing simply because it is true, any more than w^e wish to see pictures of disgusting and frightful objects, however faithfully to nature they may be painted. But in fact English gentlemen are not so openly profane as Titmarsh represents them. The book has no hero: it openly professes to have none. But there is a heroine, at least a prominent female character, and she is equal to a dozen ordinary heroines and heroes. Becky Sharpe is an original creation, not the representative of a class, though there are traits about her that remind you of several classes. Any one who has been much in society must have had the fortune or misfortune to meet more than one woman who resem- bled Becky in some points — ay, even among us simple, unsophisticated, etc., republicans ; for in truth if you only leave out a little nonsense about titles, everything in Titmarsh's literary puppet-show will apply point-blank to our own occidental Vanity Fair. There are women as spitefully satirical as Rebecca, making mischief in the most ingenious and graceful ways — fashionable enough that, and not by any means a sin, but on the contrary no small recommendation in Vanity Fair. There are women all in the best society, who flirt with every passable man that comes near them, as Rebecca did; for observe, it is not proved that Mrs. Rawdon Crawley did anything more ; her biographer does not give you to 203 understand that she actually "comitted herself ' with any one — and this is very proper and pleasing in Vanity Fair. There are women w ho, like Rebecca, have always a plausible lie ready to excuse themselves ; and this is an excusable pecadillo in Vanity Fair. There are women who, like Rebecca, look to marriage only as a means of getting a position "in society," and what can be a more flattering homage to Vanity Fair ? There are w^omen, like Rebecca, who sponge upon spooneys and get money under false pretences; and the victims may "cut up rough" about it, but the rest of Vanity Fair pass it over as a venial offence and accept their part of the spoil. In short, put together a number of things the practice of which is not only allowable but successful in Vanity Fair, and what a devil of a woman you will make ! Such at least is our idea of the moral and theory of Rebecca Crawley nee Sharpe. She is the daughter of a dissipated artist and a French danseuse^ is brought up for a governess, has no principles worth speaking of, but plenty of accomplish- ments and much wordly cleverness. Hardly out of school, she makes beautiful play for the first man she meets, a dummy fat dandy, and thus Titmarsh defends her: — "It was an advance, and as such, perhaps, some ladies of indis- putable correctness and gentility will condemn the action as immodest but, you see, poor dear Rebecca had all this work to do for herself. If a person is too poor to keep a servant, he must sweep his own rooms: if a dear girl has no dear mamma to settle matters with the young man, she must do it for herself. And oh ! what a mercy it is that these women do not exercise their powers oftener! We can't resist them if they do. Let them show ever so little inclination, and men go down on their knees at once ; old or ugly, it is all the same. And this I set down as a positive truth. A woman with fair oppor- tunities and without an absolute hump, may marry WHOM SHE LIKES. Only let us be thankful that the darlings are like the beasts of the field [Oh ! Oh !] and don't know their own power. They would overcome us entirely if they did." We have known young ladies of the same opinion — that a woman may marry any man she likes — and some of them have been wofully sold in consequence, and remained utterly unmarried to the end of time. But if we are content not to state the proposition in extreme terms, w^e may make it sufficiently broad. The chances 204 of a woman getting the man she wants, are to those of a man getting the woman he wants, as nineteen to one on a very moderate estimate. Where the man is the attacking party, how easily all his approaches are seen through ! how they are turned to derision before his very face! And if he is really, truly, and hopelessly in love, it is a thousand times worse. Then, when it is of vital importance to him to make the best appearance, he is sure to be bungling and stupid, and not able to do himself justice. On the other hand, it is a beautiful sight, as a mere work of art, to see a man skillfully angled for, (for man before matrimony is like to a fish which is inveigled with rod and line: after the operation he re- sembleth the horse who is ridden with bit and bridle.) It is immensely tickling to the victim himself, and vast fun to the circumstantes — such of them, that is, as have not similar designs on the sufferer. And so, by rule, Becky ought to captivate Joseph Sedley off-hand; but that would have wound up the history too soon; so the portly exquisite is carried aw^ay from her by the lover of her particular friend, whom she afterwards pays off handsomely for the kind turn done her. Spilt milk and lost lovers are not to be cried over; so the little woman dries her tears and makes another shy — this time suc- cessfully — at the dashing, fighting, stupid young officer, Rawdon Crawley, with his expensive tastes and limited means. But Mr. and Mrs. R. C. being people of family (he is and she professes to be) must live accordingly, and so we are let into the mystery "how to live well on nothing a-year." "I suppose there is no man in this vanity fair of ours, so little observant as not to think sometimes about the worldly aifairs of his acquaintances, or so extremely charitable as not to wonder how his neighbour Jones or his neighbour Smith can make both ends meet at tho end of the year. * * * * Some three or four years after his stay in Paris, when Rawdon Crawley and his wife were established in a very small comfortable house in Curyon street, Mayfair, there was scarcely one of the numerous friends they entertained at dinner that did not ask the above question regarding them. As I am in a situation to be able to tell the public how Crawley and his wife lived without any income, may I entreat the public newspapers which are in the habit of extracting various portions of the periodical works now published, not to reprint the following exact narrative and cal- 205 culations, of which I ought, as the discoverer, (and at some expense too,) to have the benefit. My son — I would say, were I blessed with a child — you may by deep inquiry and constant intercourse with him, learn how a man lives comfortably on nothing a-year. But it is best not to be intimate with gentlemen of this profession, and to take the calculations at second hand, as you do logarithms, for to work them yourself, depend upon it, will cost you something considerable, * * * * The truth is , when we say of a gentleman that he lives elegantly on nothing a-year, we use the word 'nothing' to signify something unknown; meaning, simply, that we don't know how the gentleman in question defrays the expenses of his establish- ment. Now our friend the Colonel had a great aptitude for all games of chance ; and exercising himself , as he continually did , with the cards , the dice-box or the cue , it is natural to suppose that he attained a much greater skill in the use of these articles than men can possess who only occasionally handle them. To use a cue at billiards well, is like using a pencil or a smallsword — you cannot master any one of these implements at first, and it is only by re- peated study and perseverance, joined to a natural taste, that a man can excel in the handling of either. Now Crawley, from being only a brilliant amateur, had grown to be a consummate master of billiards. Like a great general, his genius used to rise with the danger, and when the luck had been unfavorable to him for a whole game, and the bets were consequently against him, he would, with consummate skill and boldness , make some prodigious hits which would restore the battle, and come in a victor at the end, to the astonishment of everybody — of everybody, that is, who was a stranger to his play. Those who were accustomed to see it , were cautious how they staked their money against a man of such sudden resources , and brilliant and overpowering skill. At games of cards he was equally skilful, for though he would constantly lose money at the commence- ment of an evening, playing so carelessly and making such blunders that new-comers were often inclined to think meanly of his talent; yet when roused to action, and awakened to caution by repeated losses, it was remarked that Crawley's play became quite different, and that he was pretty sure of beating his enemy before the neight was over. Indeed very few men could say that they ever had the better of him." And, of course, if anybody hinted that the Colonel's play was too good to be true, he had his pistols ready, "same which he shot Captain Marker," to vindicate his honor. Are there any nice young men in Yankee land who live upon nothing in the same way? We don't pretend to know, and only ask for information. 206 But clever as Rebecca and her husband are in this way, they can't get much from his elder brother, the formula before alluded to, one of those people who know just enough to hold on to what they have got, which, to be sure, requires some capacity. "Pitt knew how poor his brother and his brother's family must be. It could not have escaped the notice of such a cool an experi- enced old diplomatist, that Rawdon's family had nothing to live upon, and that houses and carriages are not to be kept for nothing. He knew very well that he was the proprietor or appropriator of the money which, according to all proper calculation, ought to have fallen to his younger brother, and he had, we may be sure, some secret pangs of remorse within him, which warned him that he ought to perform some act of justice, or let us say, compensation, towards these disappointed relations. A just, decent man, not without brains, who said his prayers and knew his catechism, and did his duty out- wardly through life , he could not be otherwise than aware that something was due to his brother at his hands , and that morally he was Rawdon's creditor. But as one reads in the Times, every now and then, queer announcements from the Chancellor of the Exchequer acknowledging the receipt of £ 50 from A. B., or £ 10 from W. T., as consciencemoney, on account of taxes due by the said A. B. or W. T., which payments the penitents beg the Right Honorable gentle- man to acknowledge through the medium of the public press — so is the Chancellor, no doubt, and the reader likewise, always perfectly sure that the above-named A. B. and W. T. are only paying up a very small instalment of what they really owe , and that the man who sends up a twenty pound note has very likely hundreds or thousands more for which he ought to account. Such, at least, are my feelings, when I see A. B. or W. T.'s insufficient acts of repen- tance. And I have no doubt that Pitt Crawley's contrition, or kind- ness, if you will, towards his younger brother, by whom he had so much profited, was only a very small dividend upon the capital sum for which he was indebted to Rawdon. Not everybody is willing to pay even so much. To part with money is a sacrifice beyond almost all men endowed with a sense or order. * * * * So, in a word, Pitt Crawley thought he would do something for his brother, and then thought he would think about it some other time." It is a good old maxim of Vanity Fair that Sir Pitt went upon, "Every one for himself, and God for us all." Some rich men have a habit of doing nothing for their poor relations, and then wanting to know if they are satisfied; others do a little, and talk enough about that to make up for the deficiency — if talk would 1207 do it. All this goes off in England very quietly, as being the natural course of things in a country where the eldest son legally succeeds to all the property, and the younger children are more or less starved. Here it is not so common, for if a millionaire does not divide his property equaly, the law, or the lawyers generally, contrive to do it for him, and make a partition among all the familiy alike, however worthless or extravagant some of them may be, the beautiful consequence of w&ch is, that three generations never occupy the same house, and it is impossible to preserve, much less increase, any private collection of paintings, books, or curiosities. We brag of our equal law of succession, but in some things it certainly stands in the way of civilization and refinement. But though Rebecca is not able to bleed her diplo- matic brother-in-law, she gets the needful from a much greater man — Lord Steyne. To be sure his morals are not of the best, "but," as little Lord Southdown says, "he's got the best dry Sillery in Europe." A right Vanity Fair apology that! It's none of my business if this man is a profligate and a villain, so long as it does'nt hurt me. He is to be damned on his own account; meanwhile w^hy shouldn't I have the benefit of his good things as well as any one else? For, as Titmarsh says in another place, "wine, wax-lights, comestibles, crinoline- petticoats^ diamonds, Louis-Quatorze gimcracks and old china, and splendid high-stepping carriage horses — all the delights of life, I say — w^ould go to the deuce if people did but act upon their silly principles, and avoid those whom they dislike and abuse. Whereas, by a little charity and mutual forbearance, things are made to go on pleasantly enough: we may abuse a man as much as we like, and call him the greatest rascal unhung — but do we wish to hang him therefore ? No, we shake hands when we meet. If his cook is good, we go and dine with him." On which accommodating principle, whenever Lord Steyne had an entertainment, "everybody went to wait upon this great man — everybody who was asked: as you the reader, (do not say nay,) or I the writer hereof, would go, if we had an invitation." No, Mr. Titmarsh, there are people who wouldn't go at any price — people to whom you don't do full justice — your Lady Southdowns and the like — "serious 208 people," as they are denominated on your side of the water, and "professors of religion" on ours. And because these people — having their mental optics illumined by light from above — see through the hollowness and humbug and wretched unsatisfactoriness of the things of Vanity Fair, and value them accordingly, and do act upon their (not altogether silly) principles, and don't sell them for dry Sillery, or fine music, or pretty women, or any such amusing vanities — are they to be rewarded for this by being held up to ridicule? Verily they deserve better usage from your pen and pencil. Is there any philosophy or morality or wisdom, except practical Christianity, that will enable man or woman to fight Vanity Fair and come off conqueror? And if not, why do you, who preach so earnestly against Vanity Fair, sheer down Christian men and women? Titmarsh would answer probably that he did not, by any means, intend to laugh at religion, but a counter- feits or perverted developments of religion — the mock- righteousness of some who are not righteous at all; the want of judgment of others who are righteous overmuch. And were he, or any friend of his, to advance this de- fence of him, we should be charitably pre-disposed to accept it^ for there are passages in this book which none but a true Christian could have written — at least it seems so to us. Here are two taken at random. A poor widow is about to part from her child, whom she has not the means of supporting : — "That night Amelia made the boy read the sory of Samuel to her, and how Hannah, his mother, having weaned him, brought him to Eli, the High Priest, to minister before the Lord. And he read the song of gratitude which Hannah sang; and which says, Who is it that maketh poor and raaketh rich, and bringeth low and exalteth? how the poor shall be raised up out of the dust, and how in his own might no man shall be strong. Then he read how Samuel's mother made him a little coat, and brought it to him from year to year, when she came up to offer the yearly sacrifice. And then, in her sweet simple way , George's mother made commentaries to the boy upon this affecting story. How Hannah, though she loved her son so much, gave him up because of her vow; and how she must always have thought of him, as she sat at home, far away, making the little coat; and Samuel, she was sure, never forgot his mother; 4md how happy she must have been as the time came (and the years 209 pass away very quick) when she should see her boy, and how good and wise he had grown." The same widow's old bankrupt father dies. "Emmy stayed and did her duty as usual. She was bowed down by no especial grief, and rather solemn than sorrowful. She prayed that her own end might be as calm and painless , and thought with trust and reverence of the words she had heard from her father during his illness, indicative of his faith, his resignation, and his future hope. "Yes, I think that will be the better ending of the two after all. Suppose you are particularly rich and well to do, and say on that last day, 'I am very rich; I am tolerably well known; I have lived all my life in the best society, and, thank Heaven, come of a most respectable family. I have served my king and my country with honor. I was in Parliament for several years, where, I may say, my speeches were listened to, and pretty well received. I don't owe any man a shilling; on the contrary, I lent my old college friend Jack Lazarus fifty pounds, for which my executors will not press him. I leave my daughters with ten thousand pounds a-piece — very good portions for girls. I bequeath my plate and furniture , my house in Baker street, with a handsome jointure, to my widow for her life; and my landed property, besides money in the funds , and my cellar of well-selected wine, to my son. I leave twenty pound a-year to my valet; and I defy any man after I am gone to say anything against my character.' Or suppose, on the other hand, your swan sings quite a different sort of dirge, and you say, 'I am a poor, bligh- ted, disappointed old fellow, and have made an utter failure through life. I was not endowed either with brains or with good fortune, and confess that I have committed a hundred mistakes and blunders, I own to having forgotten my duty many a time. I can't pay what I owe. On my last bed I lie utterly helpless and humble ; and I pray forgiveness for my weakness and throw myself with a contrite heart at the feet of the Divine mercy.' Which of these two speeches, think you, would be the best oration for your own funeral? old Sedley made the last; and in that humble frame of mind, and holding by the hand of his daughter, life and disappointment and vanity sank away from under him." After reading such paragraphs as these, we feel bound to believe that it is mere iiQcovsta when Titmarsh says he would accept any great bad man's invitation. We don't believe that he would have dined with the Marquis of Hereford's mistress, as Croker alias Rigby used to do after slanging the imcnoral French novelists Vol. I U tl6 in that bulwark of orthodox principles, the London Quarterly. But to return to the amiable Becky. Under the patronage of the old rou6 whom she contrives to entice and wheedle without doing anything to compromise herself, she actually obtains a footing in "the very best society." "Her success excited, elated, and then bored her. At first no occupation was more pleasant than to invent and procure (the latter a work of no small trouble and ingenuity by the way, in a person of Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's very narrow means,) to procure, we say, the prettiest new dresses and ornaments ; to drive to the fine dinner parties, where she was welcomed by great people ; and from the fine dinner parties to fine assemblies, whither the same people came with whom she had been dining, whom she had met the night before, and would see on the morrow — the young men faultlessly appointed, and handsomely cravatted, with the neatest glossy boots and white gloves — the elders portly, brassbuttoned , noble looking, polite and prosy — the young ladies blonde, timid, and in pink — the mothers grand, beautiful, sump- tuous, solemn, and in diamonds. They talked in English, not in bad French, as they do in the novels. They talked about each other's houses, and characters, and families; just as the Joneses do about the Smiths. Becky's former acquaintances hated and envied her; the poor woman herself was yawning in spirit. 'I wish I were out of it,' she said to herself. 'I would rather be a parson's wife and teach a Sunday-school than this; or a sergeant's lady and ride in the regimental waggon; or O, how much gayer it would be to wear spangles and trowsers, and dance before a booth at a fair.'" Not being at all in the diplomatic way and very little in the fashionable way, we have had small per- sonal experience of "the very best" English society — the Almacks and Morning Post people to wit. So far as we did see any of it, we thought it marvellously slow, and by no means distinguished for taste, a great deal of solid material and resources badly developed, beautiful diamonds on ugly dowagers, ugly dresses on handsome belles — for, r^gle generale^ all the English women dress badly. In the easy, natural, frock-coat-and-no-straps part of life, honest Bull shines out; but in all matters 211 of fashionable elegance, he is nowhere in comparison with his neighbor Crapeau — nay, can hardly hold a candle to his young brother Jonathan whom he some- times affects to despise as a semibarbarian. By the way, what a chapter or two an American Titmarsh might make of our "upper ten thousand!" the handsome little silly girls just from boarding-school ; the little — men they call themselves — equally silly but not equally handsome, just from boarding-school too, only it is called a university; here and there a juvenile lion who has brought the last variety of vests and vices from dear, delightful, dissipated Paris — or perchance a real Parisian, baron or marquis, sent by subscription of a club with three changes of linen, to marry an heiress if he can get one — not forgetting the four great facts of a Gothamite ball, champagne, oysters, charlotte-russe and polka. We wonder how the Bostonese do these things. The ovreTOi say that they have metaphysical cotillons at the modern Athens, and discuss Wordsworth amid the mazes of la Trenis. Awful and stunning idea! Rebecca is apt to be bored, as all people who live merely to amuse and gratify themselves are. If she finds town-society stupid, she is not more pleased with rurali- zing at her brother-in-law's. "'It isn't difficult to be a country gentleman's wife,' Rebecca thought. 'I think I could be a good woman if I had five thousand a-year. I could dawdle about in the nursery and count the apricots on the wall. I could water plants in a green-house and pick oif dead leaves from the geraniums. I could ask old women about their rheumatisms, and order half-a-crown's worth of soup for the poor. I shouldn't miss it much out of five thousand a-year. I could even drive ten miles to dine at a neighbor's, and dress in the fashions of the year before last. I could go to church and keep awake in the great family pew, or go to sleep behind the curtain with my veil down, if I only had practice. I could pay everybody if I had but the money. That is what the conjurers here pride themselves on doing." And yet there is much enjoyment in the life of a country- gentleman's wife, or a country gentleman in England or America; but it is enjoyment only for those who like simple and natural pleasures — and Becky did not like simple pleasures. She disliked children, as we have mentioned. A terrible trait that even in man — 14* 21^ unless, like William Pitt, he is a great statesman at twenty-one, and has to defend his country against the world, when he may be excused from possessing any of the domestic affections in consideration of the work he has to do. The man who, having leisure to love children^ hates them — that man we would not trust with our purse, our secrets, our character, our life. But how much worse in a woman! It would take too long to follow Becky through her chequered career — her grand catastrophe, her exile, her ultimate partial recovery. Many of our readers were more or less familiar with her before seeing these remarks of ours; and such as are not, must have been tempted ere this to resolve that they will go to the fountain-head for information about her. We have only to observe, before taking leave of her, the skill which her biographer displays in lightly passing over some of the diabolical scenes she is concerned in, such for instance as "her second appearance in the character of Clytemnestra." Your true artist will produce infinitely more effect by just hinting at a horror, than a secondrate man can work by going into the most elaborate details. * Some notice should be taken of the Osbornes and Sedleys who make up the underplot of the story. We have some suspicion that Thackeray finished up old Osborne, the purse-proud merchant, more carefully than he had intended at first, in opposition to Mr. Dombey, to show his view of such a character in opposition to that of Dickens. If such a comparison is challenged, there can be no doubt that so far as verisimilitude and nature are concerned, Mr. Osborne, Sr., has it by long * We noticed a remarkable instance of this ten years ago. No one who has read Oliver Twist can forget the tremendous power with which the last scenes in the life of the miserable old Jew, Fagan, are worked out; but of the very last scene of all — of his actual execution — there is not a word. Contemporary with Oliver Twist, appeared an Irish story by one of the Irish novelists, which terminated with the execution of the principal villain. Every attendant circum- stance was minutely worked out, and "the agony piled up" uncommonly high; but after all the thought struck us immediately, "How much less impression is made by all these terrifying minutiae than by the half dozen lines in which Boz informs us that Mr. Brownlow and Oliver, in coming out of Newgate, saw the sheriff's preparations for the day's tragedy." 213 odds. There never was such a merchant or man of business at all as Mr. Dombey. His calm, icy pride is not the pride of a merchant at all; it would be in cha^ racter for a nobleman or a gentleman of old family. We wonder Dickens did not make him one or the other. There was nothing in the exigencies of the story to forbid it. Noblemen are ruined easily enough now-a-days — -witness the Duke of Buckingham, who has just been sold out as completely as the veriest Wall-street speculator, to the great joy of all radicals. Nor is Mr. D. let down and made to relent in a natural, gradual and plausible way, as Mr. O. is; but taken off the stage as melo-dra- matically as he was brought on. The loves and fortunes of young Osborne and Amelia Sedley, are designed to carry out still further the attack on what formed one of the strongest topics of denun- ciation in the "Snob Papers," — that heartless system (flourishing to perfection in France, but deep-rooted enough in England) which considers matrimony as the union, not of a young man to a young woman, but of so much to so much. A splendid theme for indignant declamation^ and one in which the satirist is sure to meet with much sympathy from the young of both sexes. But we must remember that the principle of union for love has, like all principles, its limitations. That two young people, long and fondly attached to each other, should be afraid to marry because they would be obliged to drop a little in the social scale, and deny themselves some of the outward luxuries they enjoy separately ; that they should sacrifice their hearts to those abominable dictates of fashion which Titmarsh has summed up in his Snob Command- ment, "Thou shalt not marry unless thou hast a Broughan^ and a man-servant;" this is truly matter of indignation and mourning, against which it is not possible to say too much. But we must also protest against the opposite extreme — the inference drawn from an extension of our principle — that love ought to overcome and exclude all objections, want of principles and character in the man for instance; or utter want of means on both sides to support a family ; or even — what is generally the first thing to be disregarded in such cases — incompa- tibility of relations and friends. Sentimentalists talk as if love were to be the substitute for, or at least the 514 equal of religion, (it is the only religion of the French writers,) whereas, in truth, it is no more infallible in its decisions or imperative in its claims than ambition, or courage, or benevolence, or various other passions, which, either indifferent or positively laudable in themselves, are liable to sad perversion and exaggeration. The lover makes great sacrifices for his mistress; so does the am- bitious man for his ambition; the covetous man for his fortune ; and, to take a passion wholly and unmitigatedly bad, the vindictive man for his revenge. In all these cases the sacrifices are made for the same end — the securing of a desired object for self; but because, in the first case, the object of desire is not the possession of a mere abstraction like fame, or of a mere material like money, but of another human being, therefore love has the appearance of being the most disinterested and self-sacrificing of the passions, while it is, in reality, gene- rally the most selfish. Is this view a soulless and worldly one ? We appeal to your own experience, reader. Of all the pur sang love-matches you have known — matches where one or more of the impediments we have mentioned existed — how many have turned out happily ? Nay, we appeal to Titmarsh himself and his own characters in this very book. Would it not have been a thousand times better for Amelia if she had married Dobbin in the first place? And might not George as well have taken Miss Schwartz as wed Amelia one month and been ready to run away with another woman the next ? * We must take leave of Titmarsh ; for he is carrying us oflP into all sorts of digressions. We never were so long filling the same number of pages as we have been on the present occasion, for whenever we opened the book to make an extract we were tempted to read on, on, on — the same things which we had read a dozen times — but there was no resisting. And when we re- * This is an element that never enters into the sentimentalist's calculation — if sentimentalists ever make calculations — the incon- stancy of love. Could the continuance of a first passion be insured, there would be more excuse for putting it above prudence, and duty, and filial affection; but alas! it often vanishes in what D'Israeli not unfelicitously calls "a crash of iconoclastic surfeit," and then, when that, for which everything was given up, becomes itself nothing, the reaction is awful. 215 solutely turned our back to his people, it was only to think, and reason, and argue about them. How many of the hundreds of novels, published every year, leave any impression on your mind or give you one afterthought about any character in them? It is easy to take excep- tions to the book — we have taken our share; we might go on to pick out little slips, instances of forget- fulness, as where we are told first that Amelia Sedley is not the heroine, and two or three pages after that she isj or when the climate of Coventry Island is so bad that no office will insure Rawdon's life there, yet in the very same number it is mentioned how much his life-insurance cost him. But, say what you will, the book draws you back to it, over and over again. Farewell then, O Titmarsh ! Truly, thou deservest better treatment than we can give thee. Thy book should be written about in a natural, even, continuous, flowing style like thine own, not in our lumbering paragraphs, that blunder out only half of what we mean to say. And do thou, O reader, buy this book if thou hast not bought it; if thou hast, throw it not away into the chiffonier-basket as thou dost many brown-paper-covered volumes; but put it into a good binding and lay it by — not among the works "that no gentleman's library should be without" — but somewhere easy of access; for it is a book to keep and read, and there are many sermons in it. OXFORD HEXAMETERS. Literary World, June 1849. The Bothie of Toyer-na-Fuosich , a Long-Vacation Pastoral By Arthur Hugh Clough. Cambridge : John Bartlett. 1849. THIS little book has been a puzzle to some of our Republican readers who are principled against Fraser. For as Mr. Bartlett has given no intimation whatever on the title-page that there was any such thing as an original English edition, they, seeing a book published k 216 at Cambridge, Mass., and composed in manyfooted lines, that run over like too copiously filled glasses (extra water will produce the fulness as well as extra spirit), thought that it must be some progeny of Evangeline, either in the way of imitation or quiz. Whereas it has about as much to do with Evangeline as with Southey's Vision of Judgment. The English have been writing English Hexameters (and Pentameters too, by the way) for se- veral years. We remember at least two partial trans- lations of the Iliad, by different hands, and a number of poems, original and translated, the joint composition of three distinguished University men, Archdeacon Hare, Dr. W^hewell, and (we believe) Professor Long. Indeed, there were plenty of Hexametrists before Longfellow (we speak of the present generation, without going back to Southey, much less to Sidney), but they are not often heard of on this side the water, because they want a sacred Bostonian. English Hexameters have generally one of two faults. Either a uniformity of structure that gives them a mo- notony of cadence, or a carelessness of structure that leaves them no cadence at all. The former is the pre- vailing error of Evangeline. Every line in it is the exact rhythmical and metrical counterpart of almost every other line. There is no variety of caesura or movement throughout the whole poem, and the monotony of the versification reminds us of a machine, invented in Eng- land a few years ago, which ground out hexameters to any extent, on the principle of the kaleidoscope somehow, and all after this pattern, Murmura torva tubce percellunt pectora dura, every line containing four neuter-plurals, a Mollossus of a verb, * and an Iambic genitive. ''The Bothie of what do you call it," has the opposite and worse fault of using so many variations and licenses, that the majority of the lines which it contains are no hexameters at all, and can only be admitted as apologies for such by a stretch of charity rather than of courtesy. The author benevolently warns us, that every kind of irregularity * By this formidable expression the writer appears to mean verb of three long syllables. — Printer's D. 217 must be expected, and that "Spondaic lines are almost the rule;" unfortunately most of these "Spondaic lines" are rather Trochaic lines, e. g. the second in the volume. "Long had the stone been put, tree cast, and thrown the hammer." And by way of compensation for occasionally falling short a few syllables, they now and then run over a good many, till they almost equal the notorious Alexan- drine of the Scotch versifier: — "And was not Pharaoh a saucy rascal. Who would not let the Children of Israel, their wives and their little ones, their flocks and their herds, and everything they had, go out into the wilderness for seven days to eat the Paschal?" The plot of "The Bothie" is the merest thread. Six Oxford men go out on a Reading party. Reading, in the University slang, means studying, and the reading parties are so called, on the Incus a non lucendo principle, because the party do anything but read. The veritable students stay at the University, while the "parties" betake them to quiet little places (such as the Island of Jersey, for instance), where the wine is cheap and the women hand- some, and the climate pleasantly enervating, and "the contingent advantages generally remarkable," as Dick Swiveller says — it may be judged how much reading they accomplish. Our party go to the Highlands, bathe chiefly, and one of them falls in love, and is ultimately married to a mountain lassie: his amatory proceedings are made the medium of introducing more Carlyle and Tennyson run mad than we have seen for many a day. However, not wishing to prejudice the reader, we shall give him a few extracts to judge for himself; and they shall be given in accordance with the more fashionable than just rule of picking out the best bits we can find : — THE USE OF DIFFERENT DENOMIXATIONS OF CLERGYMEN. "Here too were Catholic Priest and Established Minister standing, One to say grace before, the other after the dinner; Catholic Priest; for many still cling to the Ancient Worship, And Sir Hector's father himself had built them a chapel ; So stood Priest and Minister, near to each other, but silent, One to say grace before, the other after the dinner." 218 A touching picture of concord this: it reminds us of a venerable and lamented friend, who used to give little soirees to all the ists and oxies in the city, from Hughes to Bellows inclusive — and the interference of the Police was not found necessary on a single occasion : — WHAT THE "READING PARTY" DID WITH THEIR BOOKS. "Lo the weather is golden, the weather-glass, say they, rising; Four weeks here have we read; four weeks will we read hereafter; Three weeks hence will return and revisit our dismal classics, Three weeks hence readjust our visions of classes and classics. Fare ye well, meantime, forgotten, unnamed, undreamt of, History, Science, and Poets: lo, deep in dustiest cupboard Thookydid, Oloros' son, Halimoosian, here lieth buried. * Slumber in Liddell-and-Scott, O musical chaif ** of Old Athens, Dishes and fishes, bird, beast, and Sesquipedalian blackguard ! Sleep, weary Ghosts, be at peace, and abide in your lexicon-limbo, Sleep, as in lava for ages your Herculanean kindred, JEschylus, Sophocles, Homer, Herodotus, Pindar, and Plato." QUANDARY OF AN "EARNEST MAN," AFTER THE MANNER OFCARLYLE. "I am sorry to say, your Providence puzzles me sadly; Children of circumstance are we to be? You answer, oh, no wisel Where does Circumstance end, and Providence where begins it ? In the revolving sphere which is upper, which is under? What are we to resist, and what are we to be friends with? If there is battle, 'tis battle by night: I stand in the darkness, Here in the melee of men Ionian and Dorian on both sides, Signal and pass-word known; which is friend and which is foeman? Is it a friend? I doubt, though he speak with the voice of a brother. Still you are right, I suppose; you always are and will be. Though I mistrust the Field-Marshal, I bow to the duty of order. Let us all get on as we can, and do what we're meant for, Or, as is said in your favorite weary old Ethics, our ergon. Yet is my feeling rather to ask, where is the battle? Neither battle I see nor arraying, nor King in Israel, Only infinite jumble and mess and dislocation, Backed by a solemn appeal %r God's sake do not stir there.'" * A literal translation of the pseudo-epitaph of Thucydides ** Chaff is fast-man for banter. 219 METAPHYSIC MUSINGS AND LOVE-LONGINGS OF A POETIC YOUNG RADICAL. "Souls of the dead, one fancies, can enter, and be with the living, Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her! Spirits escaped from the body can enter and be with the living, Entering unseen, and reliving unquestioned, they bring do they feel, too? Joy, pure joy, as they mingle and mix inner essence with essence 1 Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her ! Joy, pure joy, bringing with them, and when they retire leaving after No cruel shame, no prostration, despondency, memories rather. Sweet, happy hopes bequeathing, Ah ! wherefore not thus with the living ? Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her ; Is it impossible, say you, these passionate fervent impulsions, These projections of spirit to spirit, these inward embraces, Should in strange ways, in her dreams should visit her, strengthen her, shield her? Is it possible rather that these great floods of feeling Setting in daily from me towards her, should impotent wholly Bring neither sound nor motion, to that sweet shore they heave to? Efflux here, and there no stir nor pulse of influx ! It must reverberate surely, reverberate idly, it may be. Yea, hath He set us bounds which we shall not pass, and cannot ? Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her; Sureley, surely, when sleepless I lie in the mountain lamenting, Surely, surely, she hears in her dreams a voice 'I am with thee !' Saying 'although not with thee ; behold , for we mated our spirits Then, when we stood in the chamber, and knew not the words we were saying,' Yea, if she felt me within her, when not with one finger I touched her, Surely she knows it, and feels it, while, sorrowing here in the moorland. Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I might go and uphold her !" And hereabouts we fell into a doze, and dreamed that a friend asked us what we had been reading, and we told him the Bother of toping no Physick, and he said he thought the title a very strange one and not at all true, for it was the Bother of toping Physick that had disgusted him with the old school and made him a Some-thing-or-other-path , and then we woke up in the act of writing a dreary essay on English Hexameters, which would infallibly have put our public to sleep, but we shall be merciful, and only inflict on them this stray scrap of it. 22Q English lines that will do duty for Hexameters are the easiest things possible to write — easier than any kind of rhyme. Real English Hexameters are harder to write than real Blank Verse, and a fortiori harder than any kind of ryhme. Even these are chiefly valuable as tours de force. Sir Philip Sidney wrote Hexameters in his day, so did Southey in his, so do Hare, Whewell, Long- fellow, Clough, cum multis aliis^ at the present time ; but the metre is never likely to be popular. We say this not on account of any particular unfitness in the Hexa- meter for the purposes of modern versification, so much as on the general principle that exotic metres cannot be successfully introduced into a language already supplied with measures of verse. A strong instance of this is afforded by the German Trochaic Stanza of Five-Trochee lines, with Cataletic lines alternating. No one ever read ''The Gods of Greece" or "The Bride of Corinth" in the ori- ginal without being struck with the beauty and grandeur of this metre , yet we will wager that no one prefers Bulwer's translation of the latter poem to Anstey's. Nor has Aytoun's original poem in the same stanza (Hermo- tinus), though published in Blackwood with a particular description of an eulogy on the measure prefixed, found many admirers or imitators in ten years, and the author has not been tempted to repeat the experiment. NEW YORK SOCIETY AND THE WRITERS THEREON. Literary World, 1850. 1. Earning a Living. A Comedy in Five Acts. By a Citizen of New York. New York. 1849. 2. Revue du Nouveau Monde. Publi^e les ler et 15 de chaque mois. Par Regis de Trobriand. 3. The Lorgnette; or, Studies of the Town. By an Opera Goer (weekly). Henry Kernot, New York. SOME fifteen months ago the American Review threw out a hint of the ample field afforded to the satirist in S21 New York fashionable society, and expressed some sur- prise that the subject seemed to be left by tacit consent of competent parties, in the hands of Mr. Willis. The field is now, it seems, to be worked in earnest, for the first time (with the above-mentioned exception) since the days of Salmagundi ; and we are very glad of it. The observations of educated and refined men upon so- ciety and manners are not only amusing in a merely literary point of view, they are of great value to the future historian, and of present importance in representing the country correctly to the eyes of foreigners. One reason why English editors so often take their ideas of American city life from the New York Sewer ^ and other equally absurd sources, is because American gentlemen have written so little on this topic. The sketches of Mr. Willis, racy and amusing as they usually are, do not supply our desideratum. After all, much remains to be said on the subject. Thus far our writers have aimed rather at exposing follies than at thro\ving out any hint of remedies for them. This is a necessary first step, but only the first step. It is very possible that in endeavoring to amend or supply the deductions or want of deductions of these writers, we shall only mar their lucid statement of the premises; still the spirit moves us so strongly to say something, that we must even take our chance. And what we have to say, be it premised out of respect to our friends at a distance, will have reference particularly and solely (unless where otherwise distinctly specified) to New York society, not merely because our Gotham is in some senses, and most certainly in a fashionable sense, the metropolis of the Union, but because to discriminate the difi'erences and shades of fashionable life in our several cities, would require more personal observation than we have devoted to the subject, and more space than these columns allow us. What then, to begin, are the prominent features of New York fashionable society — those for instance that would first strike an entire stranger who, armed with the proper letters and habiliments, should tumble in upon the middle of a season? The most remarkable is one which would seem at first sight rather adapted to the observation of the medical than the fashionable traveller, 222 being a dancing epidemic of the kind well known in the history of physic. Yet such is the power of example and fashion in rendering habitual and ordinary the most abnormal states of mind and body, that we are compelled to place first among the characteristics of our exclusives the Polkamania , or feverish excitement after foreign dances of luscious and familiar character. Such epide- mics have been of frequent occurrence. The Taranlism of Italy, popularly attributed by the ignorant peasantry of that country to the bite of the Tarantula or ground- spider, is the most notorious. "In the fourteenth century, soon after the terrible pestilence of the Black Death" (we quote from Dr. Hecker, as translated in a recent number of the Westminster) , "a new epidemic appeared in Europe of an extraordinary character, showing itself in a violent and involuntary motion of the muscles of the tegs. The physicians of the time formed the idea that if the patients were encouraged to dance until they fell down exhausted with the fatigue of the exertion, a reaction would commence by which a cure might be promoted. Bands of music were, therefore, provided for the use of the afflicted, and airs of the Polka character were composed, to suit the wild Bacchanalian leaps which their dancing resembled. * * * The common notion of the time, countenanced by the clergy, was, that the persons afflicted were possessed, and the patients themselves generally fell into the same belief, and acted accordingly." The present epidemic seems to have become local in these parts during the youth of that generation which is just stepping off the stage, and we learn from an erudite historian cited in the 17th No. of Salmagundi, that the town is indebted for it to our friend de Trobriand's coun- trymen. This veracious traveller describes with much homely pathos how "Gotham city conquered was And how the folks turned apes." How the Hoppingtots (an obvious synonyme for the Gauls), "being impelled by a superfluity of appetite and a deficiency of the wherewithal to satisfy the same," resol- ved to invade our ancient and venerable city, and ac- cordingly "capered towards the devoted place with a horrible and appalling chattering of voices." How "when m their army did peregrinate within sight of Gotham, and the people beheld the villanoas and hitherto unseen capers which they made, a most horrific panic was stirred up among the citizens;" how the invaders pursued their siege day and night until ^the fortification of the town began to give manifest symptoms of decay, inasmuch as the breastwork of decency was considerably broken down and the curtain work of propriety blown up;"*"* how the Gothamites ^made some semblance of defence, but their women haoing been all won over to the interest of the enemy, they were soon reduced to abject submission;" how the conquerors put them all to the fiddle without mercy; and terminates his melancholy narrative with this affecting conclusion: *'They have waxed to be most flagrant, outrageous, and abandoned dancers ; they do ponder on noughte but how to gallantize it at balls, routs, and fandangos, insomuch that the like was in no time or place ever observed be- fore. They do moreover devote their nights to the jolli- fication of the legs and their days to the instruction of the heel. And to conclude : their young folk who whilome did bestow a modicym of leisure upon the improvement of the head, have of late utterly abandoned this hopeless task, and have quietly as it were settled themselves down into mere machines wound up by a tune and set in mo- tion by a fiddle-stick." A New York fashionable of either sex, between private rehearsals and public performances, usually oc- cupies about seven hours of the twenty-four for six days out of seven in the practice of the Polka, Redowa, Schot- tisch, and other dances of the free and affectionate cha- racter. In summer at a fashionable watering place, these seven hours are not tmfirequently extended to ten or eleven. In fact it is the main business of their lives; what was said in joke of Margaret Fuller, is true of them in sober earnest: dancing is what they call religion. Of course the immediate and necessary inference is that a man who does not dance perpetually has no business in society. When de Trobriand said that ''a Ball ought not to be a meeting consecrated exclusively to the waltz or the polka, but a combination of all the elements of social life with a view to pleasure," his remark, which to an intelligent foreigner would seem but an allowable truism, must have been a startling paradox for many of his 224 readers. When he said that "the dance usurps all the floor, and the talkers, hunted from wall to wall and from door to door, are generally obliged to abandon their con- versation," he did not use the language of exaggeration or caricature, but of simple truth, nay of truth under- stated. For he might have gone on to say, that if they do find refuge in some "protecting embrasure of a window or corner of a hall," the extraordinary circumstance of two persons preferring conversation to dancing, renders them marked at once, and the young people who are twisting about the room in each other's arms, have time, in the midst of the most affectionate embrace or operatic display, to keep an eye on Mr. Blank and Miss Dash, who are talking behind the window-curtain, and to invent some choice narrative about them afterwards. The next striking feature in our fashionable society is its monopoly by the younger members of it. A stranger's first remark to himself on entering a New York Ball- room is, that he has fallen among a society of boys and girls. Nor do strangers only remark this; the native habitue is often heard to complain .aloud that, just at the age when best qualified by maturity and experience to assume his proper place in society, he is ousted by some brainless boy who is better skilled in the last mo- dification of the newest dance. Now, such a state of things would seem naturally to arise from the tacit ad- mission that dancing the polka is the sole end of society, for very young people dance better than older ones, and are better posted up in saltatory intelligence. But here at starting a discrimination should be made, as yet un- made we believe, but very perceptible and very important. The measure of juvenility is not the same in both sexes. The women have their share, if not their fair share, of maturity. Married, nay single ladies of thirty — say twentyeight, are among our most eager and ceaseless polkers; married women of thirty-five who retain their good looks (and there are some such) do sometimes venture out into society, and even at a ball attract some part of the attention which is their due, thus adding another to the many instances of the power of beauty, which overcomes even the fascinations of the Redowa. The average age of bringing a young lady "out" is not much younger in New York than in London. It is of teh 225 "Lords of creation" that extreme youth is peculiarly pre- dicable. Most of these Lords are juveniles of from sev- enteen to twenty-three, who consider a man completely blaze and superannuated at twenty-four. Seniors of Colum- bia College (where the age of admission is fourteen) — adventurous youths w^ho have passed the two years which should have been the concluding ones of their course at that college, in acquiring such virtues as may be picked up during a fragmentary continental tour and a brief residence in Paris — precocious young men about town who are just old enough to have had their name six months on the books of the club — such is the material which furnishes the majority of our ball-room beaux. In a word, while our women in society are, though younger, not very much younger than women in society else- where, our men (or representatives of men) are mere boys; and therefore we would speak of this second dis- tinctive feature, not as the juvenility of our leaders of fashion, but the juvenility of the male leaders and the disproportion of age between the sexes. We say disproportion of age^ for, allowing their years to be equal, as they usually are,* the lady is virtually many years in advance. A woman, all the world over, is as old at twenty as a man is at twenty-eight; that is to say, she has as much world-knowledge as much tact, as much finesse, as much judgment of character, as much self-possession (using the term in its best sense, as distin- guished from the assumed impudence of a boy fashionably christened aplomb)^ as much — cunning we were going to say, — but that is rather a harsh term to apply to a lady. Now this disproportion of ages gives rise to many serious evils ; so many , that we hardly known which to begin with. The young women must despise, or at least undervalue the young men with whom they associate, as inferior to themselves in manner, tact, and conversational power. Hence they form a low opinion of men, as men, and are tempted to value them only for their external * And not only in fashionable society, or New York society, but in America generally, as every one must have noticed for himself. We remember, one wet day at a country house, reading through bodily three volumes of some Ladies' Magazine, full of indigenous tales. In most of these the hero was twenty-one , and the heroine twenty; sometimes the ages were reversed. Vol. I 1^ advantage, — personal beauty, skill in dancing — above all wealth. Here is a fearful incentive to mercenary marriages. But we prefer to confine ourseles to its effects on married life. The bride and bridegroom are the same age, say twenty-three or four, unless indeed she happens to be a year older than he. In a mere external and physical point of view the first consequence is, that she is an old woman while he is in the prime of life, for though both sexes among us are too apt to break themr selves down, and grow old before their time, this pre- mature decay is more general and more speedy with our females. The inconveniences, mistakes, mortifications, and jealousies that constantly arise from such discrepancy, are too evident to require more than being hinted at. But this is nothing to the moral phase of the question, the effect which a virtual disparity of ages has had in establishing a gynocracy. That a gynocracy does exist, no one conversant with fashionable life will be hardy enough to deny. In nine cases out of ten the lady rules the roast. That cardinal duty of a wife, respect for her husband^ is utterly ignored by her. He is regarded as little more than an upper servant. (It certainly speaks well for our women of ton, that thus far they have so little abused this power: a state of things may well be imagined in which, under the corrupting influence of foreign ideas, it would run into terrible license.) Now the main cause of this is undoubtedly the original equality (which is virtual disproportion) of ages. As the bride, we repeat it, is substantially ten years older in all world- knowledge than the bridegroom, she soon gets the upper hand of him. If he is a man of some character, the fight may last two or three years; occasionally he is driven by his domestic troubles into evil courses, in which cases he usually goes to work with the national rapidity and earnestness, so as to kill himself off in twelve months, and leave his widow more triumphant than disconsolate. Generally he lets down his ears, "w/ iniquce mentis asellus^^'' and submits his back to the burden. "And what if he does?" exclaims some gallant or fair reader, "is it not all for the best? have you not just said that the ladies do not abuse their power?" Verily, not that; they abuse it much less than might have been expected, for which we are thankful; but still there are 2^1 great evils inherent in female domination. The inability of the fair sex to distinguish accurately between income and capital is notorious. The gynocracy has also fostered the Polkamania — Their women having been won over to the interest of the enemy ^ says the sage historian in Sal- magundi. But especially mischievous is it for the addi- tional tyranny, the imperium super imperio, which it raises up in after years. The rule of the mother involves and produces the rule of the daughter. Women are apter to spoil children than men: the young lady soon learns to manage her mamma; that is, to manage the whole house — and thus the househould of a New York gentleman presents a most Hibernian and reversed-pyramid aspect of government; the marriageable daughter is Queen Pa- ramount, the mother vice-reine, and the husband and father a species of steward, whose business is to secure seats at the Opera, to look after the baggage when tra- velling, and to pay (no small item that) the bills of Ma- dame and Mademoiselle. And now for our moral deductions and suggestion. We have looked at the two most palpable features of our fashionable society ; its exclusion of the head in favor of the heels, and the extreme youth of the male portion of it. We have seen that these involve absurdities and evils ; indeed, that they are absurdities and evils in them- selves. We have seen that the latter of them has some bearing on the former. The inference follows of itself. Our young men are let into society too soon. It is desirable that they should be kept back at least four years, and launched at twenty-two instead of eighteen. ^^4 Our collegiate course is not sufficiently extended: our collegians aro "educated" too soon. The excuse generally urged for this, is the necessity of a young man's making his own fortune, und the inability of his parents to pay for his education beyond a certain time — excuses which do not apply to the class of persons of whom we are speaking; and yet in New York, where men are better able to bear the expense of a thorough education for their sons than any other city of our Union, the boys enter and leave college at an earlier age than in any other city. Not that we would insinuate, for a moment, that the standard of study at Columbia is below that at Yale or Harvard; on the contrary we know it, in classics 15 "^ 228 • at least, to be higher; but we do say that the students enter and leave it at too early an age, and that they should be retained longer, which would afford the op- portunity of greatly enlarging and improving the course. The same remark is applicable to the Collegiate depart- ment of our University; and this is our first suggestion towards social reform. It is a remedy to which every father could contribute his mite ; nay , every young man himself, of discretion and true ambition. The effect would be every way beneficial. Our young men, coming into society with their minds formed, would be able to com- mand the attention and respect of women who now use them merely as machines to dance with, or attach to them a temporary interest, from sensuous or mercenary motives. They would be more likely to marry upon reflection, and to get wives of a suitable age ; that is to say, at least five or six years younger than themselves, and consequently to be properly looked up to and respected by those wives. Moreover, as their education would be thorough enough to fructify not only would they start better than now, but they would improve more rapidly. At present (owing in a great measure to our precocious and superficial education), one reason why the boy of eighteen, so often usurps the place of the man of thirty is, that there is not so much difference betw^een the intellectual calibre and weight of character of the boy of eighteen and the man of thirty as there ought to be — as there is in some other countries. The Polkamania would be considerably abated, for clever women, who are now driven to dance from having no talkable person to talk to, would find opportunity for intervals of sensible conversation ; and the young men, having some furniture in their heads, would not be perpetually thinking of their feet. True, there are "human beings erect upon two legs, and bearing all the outward semblance of men," who, after passing their sixth lustrum, have no ideas but those inspired of Saracco, and no ambition beyond that of adding another to the existing four hundred and sixty figures of the German cotillion; but these creatures are happily rare, and indeed only kept in countenance by the foolish boys who envy and imitate them. And if it be objected that such a re-modelling could never be carried out, as it would be continually liable to the 229 intrusion of external deranging forces, in the person of every juvenile stranger from other parts of the Union, the reply is obvious, that if our denizens were to put these affairs on a right footing among themselves, these outside impertinents would soon be made to know their place, as forward boys are in other parts of the world. Thus we have come to some practical conclusion, and our remarks, so far as they go, are in a certain sense complete. But many divisions of our subject remain. The position of married women among us, the watering- place influence, the Sybaritism of our "Upper Ten," and above all, the three great questions — 1. What consti- tutes the fashion and quasi Aristocracy of New York ? 2. How is it possible to intellectualize this quasi Aristo- cracy (Mr. Willis's problem, at the solution of which we have made a partial shot already)? and 3. How far is it possible or desirable to put dow^n foreign influence, and erect a purely native standard of taste , propriety, and fashion? One marked feature of our Gothamite society is its Sybaritism. We use the term rather than luxury^ or many others nearly equivalent, which might have been employed, to express much outlay of money and eff*ort for personal decoration and nourishment — for dress, furniture, eating and drinking — and a corresponding habit of fastidiousness in such things. The favorite expenses of different nations are suf- ficiently easy to ascertain, and not unamusing to distinguish. Thus, an Englishman runs out into servants and horses; and after that, his delight is to have plenty of house- room, that he may never be unable to give a stray friend a spare chamber. But he is not generally particular in his dress, so that he be sure of two changes of linen a day; or in his table, provided it affords an abundance of substantial edibles and potables. The landowner, who numbers his domestics by dozens, and his hunters by tens, walks about among his retainers in rough shoes and shooting coat , and does the honors in his own drawing-room, dressed in simple black and white, without so much ornament as a gold chain or a ruffle. If he keeps a continental artiste^ it is more for the sake of his guests than the delectation of his own palate; while as to his furniture — one of its chief recomendations to 230 him is, that the greater part of it passed through the service of some generations of his ancestors before it came into his possession. Now , instal a Frenchman in such an establishment, and he would forthwith melt down a large proportion of the animals (human and other) about it into brocatel, gilding, and plate-glass ; nor would he be unlikely to dispose a few of them over his own person in the shape of fancy chains, jewelled studs, or shirt and waistcoat embroidery. Now, the New Yorker, having all the Frenchman's fondness for jewellery and patent leather , superadds to it the one vanity of the Englishman — the inexhaustible supply of fresh linen; and similarly in his fare he unites the Englishman's pro- fusion with the Frenchman's delicacy, besides a certain discriminating taste in wine peculiar to himself. We believe our fashionables go to a greater proportional expense for eating and drinking than any similar class in the world. In furniture , the taste is very French, though even here we have a knack of combining the most expensive habits of both nations. A Frenchman, in furnishing his house, always has a tendency to run out largely into plate-glass — it is a characteristic trait of his vanity — he likes to see numerous multiplications of himself. On the other hand, he is sometimes vulner- able in the article of carpet, which is the Englishman's strongest point. The New Yorker has impartially adop- ted the one's love for numerous showy mirrors, and the other's predilection for comfortable and costly carpeting. Our towns -people certainly go to great expense for furniture, whether we consider the fortunes of the fur- nishers or the size and style of the houses furnished. We have known the mere internal painting and decorations — what a friend of ours calls the Plattification of a house — to cost nearly as much as the building, and the fur- niture to cost half as much as house and lot together. The consequent want of correspondence between interior and exterior is often very striking, and it was doubtless the report of some such incongruity by an observant cockney, which gave rise to Mr. Alison's brilliant disco- very, that 'Hhe houses of wealthy Americans are very plain externally, and very magnificent within, like those of the Jews in the middle ages — and for the same reason'' 231 Some will be disposed to regard this increasing sybaritism of ours as a sign of our progress in civiliza- tion; and of civilization in the mere material sense of the term, according to the distinction dravi^n by Coleridge, it doubtless is. But to real cultivation and the highest progress it is decidedly antagonistic. It directly increases the power of mere wealth in society, and consequently increases the difficulty of bringing intellect into its pro- per place. It also keeps many very desirable people out of society, because they have too little fortune or too much prudence to live up to the fashionable standard of expense. Still worse , it effeminizes the men and makes mere sugar dolls of the women. The former scorn to encase their white hands in anything less delicate than French kid; the latter would faint at the sight of the shoes w^hich all English ladies use for walking; and both sexes debar themselves of proper out-door exercise for fear of soiling their fine clothes. Let no one tax us with asceticism, or Grahamism, or any other ism. We honor all the Fine Arts, and cheerfully admit the dressing of bodies (living or dead) to a place among those arts. We have a most proper respect for the tailor, so long as he keeps in his place and does not usurp too much attention. To the advan- tages of a w^ell-spread table, no one is more feelingly alive than ourselves. We look upon the dinner as a great social, political, moral, and literary agent. But sybaritism and extravagance are by no means necessarily conducive to true hospitality and table -sestheticism — but very often the reverse. Even as we write, there rises up before us a supper at which "we assisted" some few years ago, and which has ever since been recorded in the recording tablets of our mind as a supper of suppers. The table was spread in a library, walled in with musty tomes and full of comfortable old furniture, not very different from what is around us at present. A jolly set we were , all sorts and ages — a Semi- Puseyite Congregational parson, and an ex-president of the Jockey Club ; a merry old doctor and a sarcastic young poet; a travelled bibliographer, who had studied men as well as books, and observed the cities and dis- positions of more people than did old Ulysses ; a literary merchant, who had given up making money to buy pic- 2^2 tures, and who knew something about the pictures he bought — every two w^ere a contrast, and all of us cemented together by a feeling^of good fellowship and mutual appreciation. One genius of the party concocted the punch, another genius assisted the cook in stewing the oysters. There w^as plenty of cold game and hot baked potatoes; there was quantum stiff, of good malt liquor, and a few prime bottles of Cordon Bleu; there was only one man-servant on the premises, and him we dispensed with as soon as possible; and that night we didn't go home till moring. Had there been an "occasional" hired waiter in the room, or a dish of Weller's spun- sugar work, or one of Delmonico's sham silver skew^ers, or had the sofas been too fine to loll upon, or the curtains not used to stand smoke , it w ould have spoiled the whole affair. One cause of the sumptuousness of our extraordinary fare is the poverty of our ordinary. Many things are hard to procure good in New York, but the hardest of all is a good cook. Many a man would like to give cosy little banquets to six or eight friends, but he dare not trust the Irishwoman in his kitchen (it is a libel on the respectable name of cook to apply it to such crea- tures). Therefore, as he has to call in the confectioner, he thinks it will be cheaper to put three or four dinners into one, and so he gives a "kill-off"' to twenty or twenty-four people — just the sort of dinner one does not like to be asked to. Hence too, so many men, married and unmarried, dine luxuriously and expensively at the club (it is a characteristic of our clubs that a dinner at them costs more than anywhere else), rather than keep Lent all the year round at home. The Bostonians are in advance of us here. They are tolerably supplied with good plain private cooks, and that of itself is one reason why society should be more intellectual there than here. Wealthy men of late, have adopted a laudable habit of making donations for public objects. We suggest to the next of our millionaires w^ho dies — no, it is not necessary that he should die — who wishes to be a public bene- factor, that he found a free academy for the instruction of cooks. It would be a most beneficial and glorious institution. Meanw^hile we beg those disciples of progress who are so clever at teaching other people what to do 233 with their money — Mr. Horace Mann for instance — not to be offended at this intrusion of ours into what they doubtless consider their own exclusive domain. Any speculations upon our society would be very incomplete without some allusion to the watering-place^ which is a peculiarly American feature. Not but what there are watering-places in other countries, but people go to them to undress and be comfortable and compara- tively unconventional , whereas our people go to our watering-places to dress more and be more fashionable and more conventional than ever. It is a half ludicrous, half painful exhibition of the pursuit of exclusiveness under diffculties. It has been frequently remarked that, whatever theories about the necessity of the contrary may be coined by natives or foreigners, there is in all our large cities, a certain exclusive set, — a quasi ari- stocracy of fashion. It has also been observed that this set is kept up and managed chiefly by the female portion of it, the men being obliged by the daily necessities of life to submit to a great deal of social democracy. Thus the banker's blacksmith may shake hands with him — or try to at least ; but the banker's wife ignores the existence of the grocer's wife, who lives next door to her. This is all very well for the winter season ; but the hot weather drives people out of town. Every one has not a country seat : the recent ravages committed upon more than a hundred continuous miles of the most beautifully situated summer-residences in the world under the specious name of improvement, have made our wealthy citizens not over eager to invest in a species of property which, however delightful, is held by so precarious a tenure, and lies at the mercy of the first railroad company who chooses to take it almost without compensation. So our fashinonables throng to the watering-places; there they are lodged and waked and fed, along wdth all the world, in droves of five hundred, at the will of some despotic landlord, who considers his guests created solely for his use and profit. Unable by wealth , social position , or any other claim, to obtain any more civilized treatment than the average, they labor to keep up their distinction by "cutting a dash" in various ways, more particularly by incongruous and inept display of millinery and tailory. What can be more absurd^ for instance, than ladies and 234 gentlemen coming in full dress to a table d'hote dinner (often of the commonest and most scanty description) at one, two, or three o'clock! An hour after they are walking or driving, and their fine clothes covered with sand or dust. An English traveller comes to one of these feeds in his shooting-coat or linen jacket, and is set down for a clown: he has much better reason to consider the black coats and low^-necked dresses about as superlatively snobbish at such a place and time. But this is only one out of the absurd selfannoyances of fashion; there are graver and really very serious disad- vantages of this sort of life. The habit of doing every- thing under the eyes of five hundred people — the impossibility of any approach to privacy — knocks all the modesty out of youth, and fosters a love of notoriety and questionable display, the result of all which is fre- quently a recklessness and thorough abandon^ as if our gay Gothamites had left all their propriety in town be- hind them. We have seen gentlemen, who, when at home, invariably "behaved as such," stooping to bribe a penny- a-liner for a puff of their equipage or costume; and have witnessed ball-room and post -ball -room scenes which may be most conveniently disposed of by the term Saturnalia. The manifest evils of such a system, and the increase of private fortunes , have already caused the partial introduction of some qualifying expedient, such as the erection of cottages either independent of or partially connected with the hotel, and the multiplication of private parlors in the hotels themselves. Could we flatter our- selves that any remarks of ours would ever be deemed worthy the notice of those aristocratic "lords of the land," who condescend to keep hotels at our watering- places for the (not always) accommodation of the public, we should most respectfully suggest to them that large additions to their buildings , consisting entirely of private parlors^ would be a vast accommodation to their guests, and a very good investment for themselves. The demand for private rooms is always tenfold the supply, and people will pay any price to get them. We now come to speak of a very important point — the position of married ladies among us. The general American practice in this respect affords a marked contrast 235 to our other habits, as viewed in comparison with those of the two great European nations. For whereas in most matters we adopt a course between the French and English, with a preponderating tendency, however, to the French , here we have reversed the French rule entirely. In France a young lady is shut up like a nun — literally like a nun, for she is generally educated at a convent. Were she to be seen walking publicly with a young man (even though accompanied by a third party) she would be compromise for ever. Her knowledge of the world and society begins when she is married, and from that time she amuses herself as much as she can. With us , the young lady has her full swing while a young lady, and subsides very much after marriage. The English practice is a medium between ours and the French. One thing ought to be premised at starting — that if our married ladies do not take a very prominent place in society, it is not because they are shut up by their brutes of husbands, nor is it fair to blame the latter for the comparative seclusion of their wives. The hus- bands never have any voice in the matter. Our married women were at first very domestic, because the paucity and incapacity of their servants made their presence in- doors necessary. This necessity no longer exists, or exists to a much less degree; but the female tribunal of scandal has as repressing an influence. If the diminution of a young wife's gaiety is not owing to the increasing cares or expense of her family, it is much more attributable to fear of her own sex than to the selfishness of her husband. We suspect our friend De Trobriand's charac- teristic gallantry has led him a little astray here. Acute and courteous as his remarks are, we do not consider that they cover the whole ground, or are strictly fair to all parties. The purport of them amounts to this. American men are certainly irreproachably faithful as husbands and fathers. Their whole aflfections are concentrated in their wives and children, for whom they make money, and on whom they spend it. Nevertheless, they do not fulfil their duties; and their beautiful and virtuous wives are often unhappy, for their husbands do not continue to play the lover, do not take the trouble to pay them petits sains J they do not try enough to amuse them, and prevent 236 that ennui which (to the mind of a Frenchman) is the necessary consequence of staying at home in the evening. It so happened, that almost simultaneously with M. Trobriand's "Femmes," there appeared in Major Noah's paper an article which may be fairly said to present the other side of the case — the Anglo-Saxon view against the Celtic, or the husband's defence against his wife's volunteer advocate. It was immediately suggested by some of the recent divorce cases, was written with the strong common sense which is characteristic of the Major's productions, and (save only one unlucky sentence of bathos, in which "the sacrifice of real estate by referees' sales" forms a grand climax to the sufferings of the lonely husband, the desolate wife, and the worse than orphaned children) in very eloquent and effective English. The Major discourseth thus. Our wives expect too much from their goodmen. They do not consider their daily toils and anxieties. A man comes home in the evening after stocks have fallen, or one of his debtors has ab- sconded, or the other side has carried a point against him in court, and his wife pouts and looks chilly, because he is not in a fit state to pay her nice little compliments and attentions, or to carry her off" to some show. This the Major thinks is very unreasonable. In comparing these opposite views, it seems but just to begin with the realities^ and then proceed to the sentimentalities of the case. Let us look then a moment at the actual daily occupation of man and wife. Very few of our married men but are in some business or profession. And the few who have no stated pursuit, are not on that account released from a troublesome amount of miscel- laneous business. Cooper has well said that "it requires no less care to keep a fortune in this country than to make it." The man of property and leisure, w^ho has only to go down to the bank every quarter-day, when the dividens fall due, and draw his five or ten thousand, is a rara avis indeed. Ko, the fashionable lady's husband is usually a lawyer, or merchant, or broker, or a gen- tleman on the look-out for eligible investments, and he works all day as only an Englishman or an American can work. Meanwhile, what is his wife about? Her housekeeping and nursery duties, provided as she is with bonnes and maids, do not occupy her an hour a day. 237 She passes her mornings in driving about, in the tittle- tattle of those scandal manufactories the "receptions," in consulations with her dress-maker and milliner, in shopping and running up bills, which her husband works to pay. It is *no exaggeration to say, that the idlest married gentleman has more necessary daily occupation than the most industrious married lady. Now, such being the case, it does seem to us, that when they meet at the close of the day, if either party has a right to expect amusement of the other, it is the man who may naturally and justly ask his Avife to amuse him. And there are ways enough in which she might do so, if she did not think it a diminution of her own dignity and consequence. For instance, most of our women are musically educated, and attain very respect- able vocal or instrumental power of performance — quite enough to be very pleasing and soothing. But what lady of fashion would think of playing or singing for the de- lectation of only her husband? She would think it a most inappropriate casting of her pearls. Or again, suppose a poor fellow, who has written at his desk by day till he has no eyes left at night, should ask madame to read for him. Would she not think herself martyrized by the bare hint? But further, M. Trobriand's disquisition is all predi- cated on the French conception of home^ which is a very depreciating one, or, rather in fact, none at all. For a Frenchman does not know w^hat home means. He has no such word in his language; he has no idea corres- ponding in the English word in his heart. It is no bull to assert of him that he never feels at home but when he is abroad. To say, then, that M. Trobriand cannot put himself to the place of an un-Gallicized Anglo-Saxon householder, that he cannot understand or appreciate the feelings, the tastes, the sympathies, the passions — ("We thank thee, Gaul, for teaching us that world") — is only to say that he is a Frenchman. A Parisian's ideas of domesticity are necessarily connected with vul- garity and ennui. The discomforts of the menage are the most ordinary topic of the Parisian caricaturist with pen or pencil. But to our Anglo-Saxon man it is quite another matter; "dressing-gown and slippers" do not "destroy his illusions," or vulgarize his associations, or bore him. After a day of such work, physical or mental, or both, as a Celt cannot imagine^ he has discharged that day's duty to his family; he needs, and he deserves repose and re- creation. And it is not either repose or recreation to him to begin his day's work over again — to get up an elaborate toilette for a concert or ball. His refreshment and delight are to enjoy the conversation of his wife and the prattle of his children; to read his evening paper leisurely over a cosy cup, of tea; or if an old friend drops in, to have a literary chat, or to play at billiards or metaphysics, or even to "talk horse," so much the better. This domestic comfort, saith the Baron, with a vir- tuous alacrity to "damn the sins he has no mind to," is the "calculation of a misplaced egotism." Whatever be its motive, it is a calculation very seldom realized. How- ever tired the husband may be with working all day, he must run out again at night to amuse his wife, who, having no self-resources, is tired with doing nothing all day. How many yawning unfortunates we have noticed at the opera! where the system of fashionable gossip has the happy effect of making the place a bore to a wearied man, whether he likes the music or not. If he does not, it is of course no gratification to him; if he does, all his pleasure is sure to be spoiled by little beaux running into the box, and chattering just as the choicest morceaux are sung. How many unfortunates, too tired or too wise to dance, have we seen at balls, far into the small hours, dead knocked up with waiting for their rotatory halves, and vainly seeking solace in the punch- bowl! We shall never forget a young husband — clever enough in business, with a fair sporting turn, but by no means so fashionable as his wife — whom we once en- countered in just such a predicament, soon after honey- moon. His beautiful bride had been polking since nine; it was then half-past three, and that emblem of a bad eternity, the German cotillion, was about one third through, say in the sixtieth figure. Poor B. — ! He had drunk up all the punch — nothing was left of it but the lemon- skins and the big ladle — and there he stood in the corner, supporting a bouquet equal in splendor and cir- 239 cumference to that historical one of Mrs. Kemble's, * and making a number of disparaging observations about the cotillion and the man at the head of it. How delighted he was on seeing us, to find a companion in misery, and how he did begin to expatiate on Trustee and Lady Suffolk! It is utterly unfair then for M. Trobriand to insinuate that our husbands keep their wives out of society, for whenever the wife wishes to launch out into the extre- mity of fashionable dissipation, she pulls her husband after her, will-he nill-he. A little further on he has hit upon the real reason of our married ladies' comparative seclusion. It is ''cet esprit de comm^rage," the spirit of gossip and scandal, which he justly stigmatizes as a provincialism unworthy the metropolis of the new world. His remarks on this point are very just in the main, though we cannot agree with all his inferences and illustrations (some of which his translator has left out altogether, while others he has ingeniously contrived to divest of all meaning). We would instance particularly his observations on the popular judgment of a married woman's preferences in comparison with those of a girl, where he has entirely confused two things, which are, and ought to be, in their nature essentially different. We conclude then on the whole, that if married women do not take their proper place in society, it is, first, because they are afraid of each other's tongues. The remedy for this is in their own hands, or rather their own mouths; our sex should not be held respon- sible for it. Secondly, because if they do not dance there is a deficiency of sensible and amusing men to talk to them. One way of obviating this^ would be to make all our matrons continue polking till forty ; such an ex- pedient we are sure M. Trobriand has too much sense to recommend. Another and more satisfactory way (to which we have already alluded) would be to increase the number of actual men in society. And now, at length, for our social problems. Before we can speak clearly of any probable or desirable in- fluences on any society, we must have some definite idea * "Almost as big as the interesting youth who walked in with it." — Vide her diary. 240 of what that society is; therefore, it is necessary in the first place to inquire, what constitutes the fashionable society of New York? Not a very easy question to answer; we suspect many a man, who is in the thickest of it, would be puzzled to tell himself how he came there. Perhaps we can best and soonest arrive at a conclusion by examining in detail the difterent requisites which have been or might be alleged. First then, is there anything corresponding to what is understood abroad by the terms rankj blood, family^ &c.? Clearly next to nothing. Our state or federal dignitaries, if they mix in fashionable society at all, either appear there as transient lions, or owe their position in it to circumstances independent of and antecedent to their political elevation. Of the descendants of our old Dutch settlers, some are in society and some not. Of our fashionables, some have no grandfathers, and others no fathers. To speak candidly, our observations of the family-aristocracies which exist in some parts of our Union, do anything but make us regret the absence of such distinctions here. In some of our southern cities the aristocracy and fashion of the place consists of six or eight old families, who associate and intermarry ex- clusively with one another. And for this very reason — because they have not refreshed and strengthened them- selves by forming connexions with the talent and wealth of other classes, they have fallen into the pitiable po- sition of an aristocracy without talent or money, their lack of the former preventing them from being of any use, their lack of the latter from being much ornament; and altogether they lead a very seedy and disappointed sort of existence. But to return from this brief digression. 2dly. Does talent or literary reputation enter into the requisites for a fashionable? So far from it, our fashionables seem to be growing up in the most shocking state of illiterature , and to have very generally agreed among themselves, that talent (save of the heels) is a thing conveniently to be dispensed with. There are a very few literary men fairly in the heart of fashionable society, and a few more half-in, as it were — whom one meets at some, but not at all, or at all the best entertainments of a season. But most of them, like the 241 political celebrities in the same situation, owe their po- sition to circumstances independent of their literary merits.* Is it mere money, then, that gives fashionable po- sition? A certain class of writers would answer yes — and make a great mistake in doing so. The difference between the fashion and the "second set" is not one of mere income. We know of people living on two thousand a year in the former circle, and of millionaires in the latter. No doubt money is an important element in a fashionable position — and we should like to know in what large city of the civilized world it is not. A great deal has been said (chiefly by some noble litterateurs) about the exclusiveness of the old French nobility — how they despise bankers and such parvenus, and re- fuse to associate mth them. Now, let us put against this the well-known fact, that a rich American who goes to Paris and gives magnificent balls, can make sure, so soon as it is well established that the balls are magnificent, of having all the Faubourg St. Germain at them. True, he cannot boast of being invited to their entertainments in return, for the simple reason that these people never give any: they prefer to illustrate, at the expense of others, the proverb about a certain class of persons who make feasts and a certain other class who eat them. But John Bull — he has the real uncontami- nated no-mistake aristocracy of blood, and birth, and breeding, that keeps the vulgar rich at a distance. Indeed ! What English statesman was it that said, "every man with ten thousand a year had a right to hope for a peer- age?" But that was some time ago. Let us come down to our own day. In the present parliament — Lord John Russell's parliament — there was a Mr. George Hudson, who had been a linen-draper's assistant — what * We shall never forget a conversation we once overheard on this subject, between a distinguished author, who happened also to be a fashionable pet, and an old friend of his. The author was la- menting that literary talent had not its proper place in our society, and that literary men, as such, were rather looked down upon. The other urged his own case against him. "What man is more generally invited than yourself, or more gladly welcomed?" "Yes," replied the author, and for the j&rst time in the course of a long acquaintance, we saw a slight shade of bitterness pass over his fine features, "but it is because I am a friend of the A. 's, and the G. 's, and the S. 's (mentioning several wealthy families) and not on account of my books." Vol. I 16 242 we call a dry-goods clerk — in a county town , and had such refinement and polish as might be expected from such beginnings; but he had made (or was supposed to have made) a colossal fortune by railway speculating; he played old tory and supporter of the aristocratic interest, and the aristocracy took him up and courted him. His wife had the looks of a cook and the manners of a washerwoman; her conversation was a mixture of Mrs. Malaprop's and Mrs. Ramsbottom's , and her blun- ders the jest of the town; but then she was the wife of the rich Mr. Hudson, and displayed on her portly bust a diamond necklace, which rumor valued at thirty thou- sand pounds; and so aristocratic dames received her and smiled upon her. Now^ to be sure, this unlucky couple are cast off, because their bubble has burst; but the memory of what they were cannot be so easily obliterated. It may be argued, however, that the rich man has a greater advantage here than in Europe, from the fact of his having one rival element of consideration the less to contend against — that of rank or family; to which it is conceded, that there is nothing appreciable corre- sponding among us. But against this advantage must be set off a drawback which does not exist over the water — unless, indeed, the progress of democracy may have recently introduced it in France. One of our worst social evils, whatever be its origin , is an extreme spirit of envy, not confined to any class, but extending to all. Not only are the democracy spitefully envious of the quasi-aristocracy, but the quasi-aristocrats are spitefully envious of one another, and of those who are superior to them in any temporal desirabilities. When, therefore, a man essays to put himself forward in society, by means of mere expenditure, it is true that he finds no hereditary class to decide against his claims; it is true that he has the power (greatly augmented by the increasing spirit of Sybaritism) to purchase a number of fashionable toadies; but he has also to undergo the ordeal of more secret envy and open scandal than he would encounter in a European capital. Finally, then, is social position referable to a certain standard of taste , ornament in manners , and fashion generally? We are inclined to think that it is, and that the standard of reference is the Parisian. Our young 243 lions dress like Frenchmen, and take delight in bringing home trunks full of Parisian habiliments. Our ladies are close copies of the Paris fashions. Our millionaires import from Paris the furniture of their houses , and would import the houses ready built were it possible. The genial custom of "seeing mahogany" after dinner is in imminent danger ot abolition, because it is not in accordance with Parisian habits. To have been in Paris is our "having swum in a gondola." People who would not know each other here, become acquainted there. For an unfashionable family, who, from sudden acquisition of wealth or other motives, have aspirations to the fashion- able, the shortest way from Pearl street to Washington Place is through Paris. A geographical paradox, but very true for all that. One thing must be borne in mind. It is the external rather than the intellectual standard of Parisian refine- ment that is imported and adopted — the civilization rather than the cultivation, to keep up the Coleridge distinction. And this for two reasons. First, a great deal of the French wit and piquancy depends on the language and national character, and is not easily trans- ferable to the language or character of an Anglo-Saxon people. Secondly, the society to which the standard is transferred being immature in comparison to that from which it is transferred — boys instead of men, young ladies instead of married women — is less capable of appreciating the intellectual, and more apt to confine itself to the external elements. Now then it is time to come to our second problem. How our quasi-aristocracy can be intellectualized. A fearful question truly, to judge from many things which we have already taken note of; still, it is not to be shunned or despaired of. And first, let us put in a caveat^ very necessary to our right understanding of the matter. The literary man must not expect too much. If he repines and thinks himself ill-used because he is not made a lion of fashion , he errs as much as when he grumbles because he has not realized by his writings so large a fortune as the banker or broker has by his speculations. In either case he undervalues his high privileges, and shows a disposition to sell his birthright for a very moderate mess of pottage. It seems but just 16* U4: and fitting that , as those who devote themselves to money-making generally make the most money, so those who devote themselves to the study and pursuit of fashion should be the fashionable leaders. Let us take an extreme case to illustrate our meaning. Dickens is probably the most striking example extant of a snob of genius — a great name in literature without the feelings or education of a gentleman. It is not possible to fancy him associa- ting genially and naturally with highbred men and women, for he has no real conception of what they are , as is evident from the terrible failures he makes whenever he introduces them into his writings. Now suppose Dickens were to consider himself unjustly treated, because the Almacks and Morning Post people did not run after him, and ask him to their balls.* Let us remember, moreover, that it is unfair to judge the fashionable gentleman by a purely intellectual standard. Take a goodnatured man of prepossessing exterior and elegant manners, who has travelled enough to observe the habits and tastes of the principal European nations; let him have a little ear for music, and a good eye for dress and decorations; add to this a handsome fortune, with a liberal disposition, that prompts him to spend it in generous hospitality, and you have a person calculated to take a prominent position in society. You are glad to know him yourself, and to introduce friends from abroad to him; you look upon him altogether with con- siderable respect, if not admiration. And yet he is not merely non-literary , but positively unintellectual. His conversation does not instruct or amuse. He would be an absolute nuisance shut up with you in your library for a long winter evening; the dead bore of an after- dinner tete-d-tete with him would not be alleviated by the best Latour he could pour out for you. Yet if he were gone out of society you would miss him very much. Conversely, a very clever man may be a great bore in mixed society, if he has a habit of falling into reveries instead of attending to the person he is supposed to be talking to, or if he introduces his learning or his criti- * A friend who is looking over our shoulder says that Boz does think this very thing, and is quite savage against the aristocracy in consequence. We suspect our friend niust be mistaken: Boz could hardly be such a dummy. I 245 cisms inaptly (if, for instance, he tmll quote Latin to ladies, as some Bostonians we wot of are apt to do), or if he pertinaciously neglects the proprieties of dress, or in any other way assumes a dispensing potcer of genius^ and practically claims the right to do or omit things which ordinary mortals may not. There is indeed one species of intellectual display for which there is as much room in fashionable society as in the most purely literary circles, and which is as congenial to the former as to the latter — we mean conversational talent. This is the kind of cleverness which we may most reasonably expect from, and are most likely to find in the man or woman of fashion. In its perfection it is seldom connected with any great ability on paper. The strongest cases which are popularly ad- duced of the union of both talents — Theodore Hook for example — are in reality rather evidence the other way. Not one tenth of Hook's extant writing comes up to his traditional renown for conversational wit. Every man, we believe , who has been much conversant vsdth both writers and talkers, can supply instances from his own observation of persons who, having displayed very decided talent in conversation, and being tempted thereby to write, have very much disappointed their friends when they came to appear on paper. Indeed, when we consider the number of books written nowadays, so large that even a diligent reader does not get through with more than a thousandth part of them, it is to be wished on all accounts, that, when people can talk really well, they should confine their energies to talking. It must be confessed that the popularity of brilliant conversationalists among us is somewhat diminished by a fear of their satirical powers and propensities. Nor is this fear altogether unfounded. We have been often pained to observe this abuse of wit give point to ill- natured remarks, and have wondered why our best talkers were so apt to be bitter. This union of clever- ness and ill-nature is one of the most deplorable conse- quences of that envious spirit to which we have had occasion to allude. It is a connection that ought to be broken off, and it is worth the attention of our good- K natured and sensible ladies (there are plenty such) to K devise some means for the purpose. Perhaps as every- I 246 thing is done by societies and associations nowadays, a plan of this sort might be started, "for the encourage- ment of witty conversation without personal detraction." Small prizes might be assigned to the deserving — neatly bound copies of Willis and de Trobriand; while incor- rigible offenders against the penultimate commandment might be sentenced to read back numbers of the North American Review. If, then, our boys were kept longer at college, if our girls were taught that the Polka-Redowa is not the chief end of life, if our married women went more into society, and that not merely for dancing purposes, if our literary men who have fashionable aspirations would not take ultra-literary airs, if our clever talkers would not pander to the unhealthy appetite for detraction, if our party-goers would be content w^ith less champagne and oysters, in exchange for more "feast of reason" — if all these changes could be brought about^ there is no doubt that our fashionable intercourse would be much more intellectual and soul-satisfying than it is at present. Iff Alas, who shall pretend to count the possible gathering of small birds , were the sky to fall in some day ! If these changes were brought about! when or how should they be? — and our melancholy echo, like the Irishman's, answers — "Really I can't tell." And now for the last question — How far is it possible or desirable to originate or maintain a native standard of taste, propriety, and fashion? That our society should in its commencement borrow largely from Europe was in the nature of things unavoidable. At first it inclined to be a provincial and colonial imi- tation of the English. Most of Paulding's early satires were directed against Anglomania. Of late years this has been entirely altered, and we are becoming rapidly Gallicized. Many are disposed to measure our progress in civilization and refinement, by our progress in this imitation of the French. So are not we. While readily acknowledging the superiority of the Parisians in coffee, confectionery, and gloves — in dress and cookery ge- nerally — we are not prepared to accept their standard of decorum or morality, or indeed of taste, in all things. Of their inability to enjoy or understand domestic felicity we have already spoken. Nor is it to be wondered at, 247 when we consider that the whole French theory of matrimony is fundamentally wrong, being founded on the mariage de convenance, or union of so much to so much. Surely there is no fear of any such perversion of our customs here, it will be said ; for our young people would never let their parents make such matches for them. True enough , but there is danger of something even worse — that they may make such matches for themselves. An increasing sybaritism is a dangerous incentive to mercenary unions, and this sybaritism, be it remembered, we owe in a great measure to the French; it is much more a Parisian than an English or home growth. Are our morals generally improving under this new regime? Nay, for that matter, are the manners of our young men so much improved? Is there not observable among them a growing tendency to mistake impudence for self- possession, and to talk to ladies at home as they would to actresses and dancing-girls abroad? But to return to the other point. Could Mr. Willis say now, as unhesi- tatingly as he did several years ago, that "morality is the best card for a young man to play, if he wishes to advance his position in society?" Is there not an attempt — we are glad to say an attempt merely as yet — to make vice fashionable? We wish all these questions could be promptly answered in the negative; but some of our sad experience would prompt an answer the other way. Surely there are social features purely native, which manifest as much refinement and cultivation as any exotic ones. That chivalrous treatment of women — that sen- timent , so conspicuous and prevading , that the most bigoted and mendacious foreigners have been constrained to admit its power — a feeling that makes every gentle- man the natural protector of every lady , and saves woman every day from molestations or anxiety in situa- tions which, in other countries, would require for her the miraculous guard of Una — a feeling which, carried to the verge of the absurd in some things, and beyond the verge of the prejudicial in others, as we admit that it is, still betokens a most advanced state of real civili- zation — is this sentiment of foreign origin? Is it not our indigenous growth? Take another trait, now we fear not so strongly marked as formerly, but still peculiarly 24« . American, in contra-distinction to the habitual judgment of the fashionable world in other countries — the idea that a gentleman is bound to pay, not only his debts of honor, but his tradesmen's bills also. Or, to descend to merely material considerations, have we not excellent tailors and hatters of our own? Is there a city in the world that can boast better Madeira than our own Gotham? Do we not build as good carriages and raise as good horses as the English do, and better than any of the Continental nations can ? Your travelled exquisite thinks it low-toned and vulgar to boast of such matters, but we hold that it is as much more vulgar as it is less sensible to slight the good things we have, for an indis- criminate eulogy and imitation of what is foreign. Why should we turn our shirt collars up or down as the French happen to do, without any reference to the pe- culiarities of our climate? Why should we, who dine at four or five, go to balls at eleven, because the Europeans do so, their hour of dining being about seven, and the majority of their men not being expected at their offices by nine next morning? Far be it from us to run into the other extreme of depreciating all things and men foreign. "Clever men learn many things even from their enemies," said a clever man of old.* Every nation might learn or adopt some things with advantage from foreigners; we are surely no exception. But let our adoption be with discrimination. We may make the French our patterns in dress, without making them also our patterns in propriety. Above all , do let us remember that Paris is not the only city in the world besides New York, and that there are other places where something may be learned, and whence somewhat might, without disadvan- tage, be borrowed. * Aristophanes , Aves , 376. all'' «7r' ixS'(:(OV Srjta noXka f.iavd^avovoiv o\ Go