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PORTRAIT GALLERY

I —

OF EMINENT

MEN AND WOMEN

EUROPE AND AMERICA.

EMBRACING

HISTORY, STATESMANSHIP, NAVAL AND MILITARY LIFE, PHILOSOPHY,
THE DRAMA, SCIENCE, LITERATURE AND ART.

WITH

BIOGEAPHIES.

EVERT A. DUYCKINCK,

ADTHOR OP "portrait GALLERY OP EMINENT AMERICANS," "CYCLOPEDIA OP AMERICAN LITERATURE," "HISTORY OP THE T^'AR

POR THE UNION," ETC, ETC.

ILLUSTRATED WITH HIGHLY FINISHED STEEL ENGRAVINGS

FROM

ORIGINAL PORTRAITS BY THE MOST CELEBRATED ARTISTS.

In Two Volumes. — Vol. I.

NEW YORK:
JOHNSON, FRY AND COMPANY,

27 EEEKMAN STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1873, by

JOHNSON, FRY AND COMPANY,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.

^/ 1

PREFACE.

BIOGRAPHY," says Archbishop Whately, " is allowed on all hands to be
one of the most attractive and profitable kinds of reading." The reason
of this is obvious. It has, when properly treated, the ease and variety of the
most agreeable forms of literature, and its subject-matter most nearly concerns
the reader. In its very nature it is bound to a certain interest of progress
and development, such as we look for in the Drama. Reaching back fre-
quently into the story of an ancient lineage, the infant human life is introduced
with a species of historic interest in the concerns and opportunities of the
family. The formative years of childhood succeed, with the influences of
education which, if they do not create the character, go far to shape its manifes-
tation to the world. How infinitely varied are these foims of development,
how peculiar the action of the individual mind ! Then comes the great struggle
for success as the years roll on, till the man, with noble endeavor, obtains the
mastery, and whether in art, science, literature or public affairs, places himself on
a pinnacle where he will be surveyed through all coming time. The end which
crowns the work of the personal career is yet to be reached ; and as we have
watched the rising of the hero with hope and anxiety, we look upon his age and
departure with sympathy and admiration. To observe and chronicle the achieve-
ments and vicissitudes of every year of busy life is the province of the biographer,
and there are no resources of literature which may not on occasion be serviceable
to the work. Hence, books of biography are more and more, in the hands of
consummate masters of the art, claiming the highest rank in our libraries. They
are no longer scant and meagre records of a few personal details, but, in the case
of men of eminence, require for their perfection a vast deal of the resources of
history and philosophy. In the hands of Macaulay and Carlyle, biography, in its
most attractive exhibition, is made to do the work of histor)^, and nobly it accom-
plishes the design. Nor is this simply a daring achievement of men of genius.
The greater part of the knowledge which we have of history, it may safely be
said, is at this day conveyed through the lives of distinguished personages.

Looking at the work before us — the exhibition of the Lives of Eminent
Men and Women of Europe and America, from the period of the Revolution
to the present day — we find, when we have made up the list, a singularly
general representaton of the nationalities of the present century as well as of

(3)

PREFACE.

the various modes of illustrious achievement. All the great nations of
Europe supply their men of thought and action, their great sovereigns, their
founders of governments, their distinguished military chieftains, their statesmen,
their philanthropists, their scientific discoverers, their poets and artists. The
new birth of Italy is exhibited in the record of Cavour, Garibaldi, and Victor
Emanuel, and the early rule of Pope Pius ; France has her Marie Antoinette,
her Charlotte Corday, her Napoleons, her Thiers ; Russia, her Alexander, with
his grand work of national reform ; Germany emerges from the old revolution
with her Goethe, Schiller, Humboldt, to enter upon the empire with King
William, Bismarck and Von Moltke ; England is illustrated from the days of
Johnson to those of Dickens and Tennyson in literature ; she has her statesmen
in Bright, Cobden and Gladstone ; her v^^arriors on sea and land in Nelson and
Wellington ; her philanthropists of both sexes from Wilberforce to Florence
Nightingale ; her race of female novelists from Jane Austen to Charlotte
Bronte ; her inventors in such examples as Stephenson and Faraday ; Scotland
has her Burns, Scott and Livingstone; Ireland her Burke, Goldsmith, Edge-
worth, Curran, Grattan, and O'Connell ; while in the United States, all of the
classes we have alluded to are represented in Washington, Franklin, Jefferson,
Lincoln, Grant, Webster, Fulton, Morse, Peabody, Bryant and others of either
sex, and so we might enumerate the whole of the hundred and more subjects
of these biographies. In no work of the kind, thus far published, has the same
attention been given to Female Biography and Portraiture. One-third of
the portiaits will be of illustrious women, eminent in history, literature, art or
philanthropy.

It has been the object to present these " lives " of persons of eminence suffi-
ciently in detail to interest the reader in their personal history ; to exhibit, to the
young particularly, the foundation of their success in early self-denial and resolu-
tion ; to include all that can be gathered within the necessary limits to display
the strong, essential elements of character. The artistical department of the
work is greatly indebted to the ability of our native painter, Mr. Alonzo Chappel.
In many instances the portraits have been re-drawn by him, while the selection
of originals has been made from the most eminent painters, including Sir Joshua
Reynolds, Sir Thomas Lawrence, Paul de la Roche, and others. They are here
presented in a novel style, with characteristic accessories. Unusual pains have
been taken in this country and in Europe, to obtain the most reliable authori-
ties ; while the engraving of the whole has been entrusted to experienced artists
of the highest reputation in London and New York, at a great outlay of cost.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME I.

PAGE.

SAMUEL JOHNSON 5

OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 28

HANNAH MORE, 43

FREDERICK II., 60

EDWARD GIBBON, 75

MARIE ANTOINETTE, 87

DAVID GARRICK, 106

GEORGE WASHINGTON, 123

MADAME D'ARBLAY, 139

EDMUND BURKE, 159

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, 169

MARTHA WASHINGTON, 182

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, 192

ROBERT BURNS, 204

CHARLOTTE CORDAY, 218

JOHANN WOLFGANG GOETHE, 226

JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE, 240

ABIGAIL ADAMS, . . . .255

GILBERT-MOTIER DE LAFAYETTE, 263

THOMAS JEFFERSON, 279

MARIA EDGEWORTH, 293

FRIEDRICH SCHILLER, 310

HENRY GRATTAN, 323

SARAH VAN BRUGH JAY, 334

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, 344

ROBERT FULTON 360

MADAME DE STAEL, 368

HORATIO NELSON, . 378

JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN, 396

JANE AUSTEN, 409

WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, 416

(ifEORGE STEPHENSON 433

liii I

iv CONTENTS.

SARAH SIDDONS, ^^

ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT, 466

WALTER SCOTT, 476

DOROTHY PAYNE MADISON, .488

LORD BROUGHAM, 494

LORD BYRON, 507

•ELIZABETH FRY, 529

ROBERT PEEL, S39

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 544

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS, 566

DUKE OF WELLINGTON, 577

THOMAS MOORE, 593

LYDIA HUNTLEY 8IG0URNEY, 605

ANDREW JACKSON, . . 615

SAMUEL JOHNSON

IN all EngHsli biograpliy it is ad-
mitted that the Life of Samuel
Johnson, as exhibited by Boswell and
his associates in the work, stands
forth the fullest in detail and least
likely to be exhausted in interest, one
generation succeeding another since it
was -written and the latest still perusing
it with eager curiosity. Never before
or since, has so minute and faithful a
record been given to the world of the
personal career of a man of letters,
probably of any man in any sta.tion of
life. The nearest approach to the nar-
rative in Euglish literature is one in-
spired by it, the life of Sir Walter
Scott, by Lockhart, lDut that is com-
jjaratively a simple production when
placed by the side of the ^performance
of his elder countryman. Of Burns,
also, we know a great deal, as we do of
the personality of Scott. The names
of these men bring before us at once
their noble traits of character, and we
may conceive on the instant how they
would thiuk and act under any cir-
cumstances. So too of others of whom
less has been written. We may know
the men ; but we do not know so much
of them as we may gather in a few
hours from our book-shelves of the life

of Johnson. Between what he ^^Tote
of himself and what was written of
him by others, of whom his great bi-
ographer was only the chief, what with
the revelations of his diaries, the can-
dor of his correspondence and the
vigorous impression of himself upon
his moral writings, we may be inti-
mately acquainted with him in his in-
ner as well as his outer life through
the entire seventy-five years of his ex-
istence.

For the story begins with his cradle.
He was anecdotical even in his infancy.
Non sine diis animosus infans. His
friend, Sir Joshua Keynolds, turning
his pencil in later years fi'om that
scarred and seamed countenance, im-
mortal on his canvas, in a fanciful pic-
ture portrayed the child as he may
then have appeared, a companion to
his infant Hercules :

" The baby figure of the giant mass,
Of tilings to come at large."

The portrait is that of a vigorous,
healthy child, and in that respect it
was but imaginary, for the real John-
son was, in his early years, sickly and
diseased, so miserable an object one of
his aunts afterwards told him that

(5)

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

"she would not have picked such a
poor creature up in the street." But
Reynolds, always a poet painter,
was intent upon a glorification of
his subject. This seemingly unhap-
py child came into the world in
the city of Lichfield, Staffordshire,
England, on the 18th of September,
1706. The house in which he was born
is still standing in 1872 a familiar
object to many pilgrims at the corner
of a street opening named St. Mary's
Square, "a tall and thin house of
three stories with a square front and a
roof rising steep and high," as it is de-
scribed by Nathaniel Hawthorne who
visited it, and as it may be seen repre-
sented in many familiar engravings.
Here at the time of the birth of his
son Samuel, Michael Johnson, a native
of Derbyshire, of obscure extraction,
was settled in a humble way as a book-
seller and stationer. When he was
more than fifty he was married to
Sarah Ford, of a peasant family in
Warwickshire. She was then at the
age of forty. Two sons were born to
them — Samuel, three years after the
union, and three years later, Nathaniel,
who died at the age of twenty-five.
In the year of his son's birth, Michael
Johnson was sheriff of the county ; he
owned the house in which he resided
and generally bore a respectable posi-
tion in the place. His business as a
bookseller was extended by his excur-
sions into the neis-hborino; towns where
he opened a shop on market days, held
auctions and offered for sale works of
various kinds, — ^law, history, mathe-
matics and a good stock of divinity for
the serious and, " to please the ladies,"
as one of his circulars informs us, a

" store of fine pictures and paper-hang-
ings " which were to be sold precisely
at noon " that they may be viewed by
daylight ;" for Michael Johnson was a
conscientious man and would practice
no deception even in the sale of pic-
tures. He was of a strong and robust
frame, but of a melancholy tempera-
ment, arising it may be from a scrofu-
lous taint which his son inherited with
his disposition. The mother of John-
son is described by Boswell as " a
woman of distina;uished understand-
ing ;" but fi'om the account we have
of her from her son she was quite il-
literate, so that she could not sympa-
thize at all with her husband's love of
books ; nor was she able to assist him
in his business as it became less pros-
perous and the family encountered the
hardships of poverty. Her uneducated
piety was sometimes troublesome to
her son in his boyhood when she kept
him home on Sundays to read the dull
and sombre homilies of " The Whole
Duty of Man ;" but she was kind to
him with a mother's fondness enhanced
by his sufferings from ill-health, and
he always entertained a grateful re-
collection of her.

The first authentic anecdote of J ohn-
son, as a child, belongs to his third year,
when being thirty months old, at the
advice of Sir John Floyer, a notable
physician at Lichfield, he was taken by
his mother to London to be relieved
of his scrofulous disease, the King's
Evil, as it was called, by the magical
touch of Queen Anne, who, following
the royal precedents from the days of
Edward the Confessor, as may be read
in Shakspeare, was supposed to be
1 gifted with power to relieve that com-

SAMUEL JOimSON.

plaiut. Johnson must have been
among the last on whom that cere-
mony was performed for which in the
old editions of the Books of Common
Prayer there was an especial religious
service. Queen Anne was the last to
practice this mode of cure. The iden-
tical gold coin or " touch piece " which,
according to custom the child Johnson
received on the occasion may now be
seen preserved as a curiosity in the
British Museum. The Johnson family
were inveterate tories and were in-
clined to believe to the end in the effi-
cacy of kings. Johnson professed to
retain a recollection of this introduction
to royalty, remembering a boy crying
at the palace when he went to be
touched and the appearance though
shadowy of Queen Anne. He had, he
told Mrs. Thrale, " a confused, but
somehow a sort of solemn recollection
of a lady in diamonds and a long black
hood." Another incident of about the
same time, savoring also of toryism, is
of a decidedly apocryj^hal character,
though circumstantially related to Bos-
well by a lady of Lichfield whose
grandfather witnessed the scene and
which is also represented on a bas-re-
lief of the monument to Johnson in
front of his birth-place. In this he is
pictured as a child of three years old
held on his father's shoulders listening
to the preaching of the famous high-
church Doctor Sacheverell. It was
impossible, the tale runs, to keep the
boy at home, for "young as he was he
believed he had caught the public
spirit and zeal for Sacheverell and
would have staid for ever in the
church, satisfied with beholding him."
Boswell gave the story in his book,

for he thought it "curiously charac-
teristic," but his editor, Croker, set the
idle tale at rest by reminding the
reader that at the time assigned the tory
preacher was interdicted from preach-
ing, and though he had visited Lich-
field in his triumphal progress through
the counties, it was when Johnson was
but nine months old. There is also a
stupid story of his having recited to
his mother at the same tender age of
three, four bad lines of his composi-
tion, an epitaph on a duckling which
he had trod upon and killed.

Passing beyond these mythical in-
ventions to the sober facts of biogra-
phy we come upon a Dame Oliver, a
schoolmistress, such as Shenstone has
described, who taught the young
Samuel to read English, a dame so
wonderfully gifted that she could
peruse black letter, calling upon her
pupil to borrow from his father's
stock a Bible for her in that character.
Then came a preceptor, Tom Brown,
who published a spelling-book which
he dedicated to the universe ; and
after him Hawkins, the usher of the
Lichfield school, with whom Johnson
learned much, passing to the upper
form, literally into the hands of Mr.
Hunter; for this head master "Avhipt
me very well," as his great i:)upil af-
terwards stated with pride, being
prone as a moralist to defend this
method of implanting learning in the
youthful mind. He thought it much
better than the emulation system
which, he would say, created jealousy
among fi-iends, while the flogging set-
tled the matter at once and the knowl-
edge was secured. Johnson, however,
was an apt scholar and, notwithstand-

SAMUEL JOKNSON.

ing his admii'ation of the bii'cli, was
probably very little indebted to it for
his education. He early showed great
powers of memory, an indication of a
strong and fertile mind, that faculty
implying both sunshine and replenish-
ing of the soil. He would help his
fellow pupils in their studies, and was
so popular with them that they would
call for him at his home and carry him
to school in a sort of triumphal pro-
cession, one stooping to bear him upon
his back while two others suj)ported
him on either side. His eyesight,
which was defective from his birth,
kept him from the usual boyish sports,
but he contrived wonderfully well, as
he afterwards said, " to be idle without
them." Though capable of great ex-
ertions, with a mind always actively
employed, he was constitutionally en-
couraged to fits of indolence which
sometimes got the better of him, as he
was often in the habit of confessing
and lamenting. As a boy he liked to
wander idly in the fields, talking to
himself and had an immoderate fond-
ness for losing himself in old romances
such as the vicar ejected from Don
Quixote's library.

At the age of fifteen he was sent to
the Grammar School of Stourbridge,
in Worcestershire, Avhere he passed
about twelve months, returning home
to spend a couple of years " loitering,"
says his biographer, " in a state very
unworthy his uncommon abilities."
He was, however, all the while an om-
nivorous reader, browsing on the mis-
cellaneous stock of his father's books,
one day lighting upon the Latin works
of Petrarch, Avhich he devoured with
avidity — certainly not the proof of an

idle employment of his time. He had,
moreover, already in his school exer-
cises proved his ability in various po-
etical translations of Virgil and Horace,
so that, when in his nineteenth year he
was, with the promised assistance of a
gentleman of Shropshire, entered a
commoner of Pembroke Collesre, Ox-
ford, he carried with him a stock of
attainments which at once gave him a
creditable position at that University.
On the night of his arrival he was in-
troduced with his father, " who had
anxiously accompanied him," to his in-
tended tutor, Mr. Jorden, when, spite
of his ungainly appearance, for he even
then appears to have had something of
that uncouthness of jierson and man-
ner afterwards so much commented
upon, he impressed the company favor-
ably by his ready citation of a passage
from Macrobius, an out-of-the-way au-
thor for a novice to be acquainted with.
But Johnson was no novice in learned
reading ; and though he showed some
waywardness in attendance ujjon rou-
tine duties, he soon gained the respect
of the authorities by his talent, and es-
pecially attracted their attention by an
easily executed brilliant translation
into Latin verse of the Messiah of Pope,
who is said to have remarked, on being
shown the production by a son of Dr.
Arbuthnot, then a student at Oxford,
" The writer of this poem will leave it
a question for posterity, whether his
or mine be the original,"

Johnson passed about three years at
the University, his course being great-
ly impeded by his poverty, for the
assistance which had been promised
failed to be given, and the waning for-
tunes of his father enabled him to eke

SAMUEL JOimSOK

out fur his son but a scanty support,
which finall}^ failed altogether and com-
pelled him to leave without a degree.
So extreme Avas his want of resources
that he could hardly maintain the or-
dinary decencies of the place, going
about, or rather, shrinking from view,
with worn-out shoes, through which
his feet were painfully visible, and
when some friendly hand placed a new
pair at his door, throwing them away
Avith iudio-nation as an insult to his
poverty. Such was the pride of John-
son, an honest pride often shown in his
career through life, which preserved
his independence and kept him free
from the baseness with which he might,
from the associations into which he
Avas incAdtably thrown, have otherwise
been entansrled. His association Avith
Oxford Avas doubtless one of the import-
ant influences of his life, though it bore
no immediate fruit in academic honors.
He acquired there no inconsiderable
knowledge of Greek, must have added
largely to his stores of reading and, loA'er
of learning as he ever Avas, been pro-
portionately impressed Avith the genius
of the place. He had some reputation
Avhile there as " a gay and frolicsome
felloAA"," it is said, and Avas disposed to
be satirical and censorious. This he
long afterwards characteristically ex-
plained : " Ah, I Avas mad and violent.
It Avas bitterness which they mistook
for frolic. I Avas miserably poor, and
I thought to fight my Avay by my liter-
ature and my Avit ; so I disregarded all
power and all authority." In truth
there Avas seriousness enoucjh in his
life at this time. During his first A'a-
cation, passed at his home at Lich-
field, he became the prey of so oppres-
2

siA^e a melancholy that existence Avas
almost insupportable to him under the
anticipation of impending insanity.
It w*as but little relief to the evil at
the time that the burden Avas imagin-
ary, and that he shoAved the absurd-
ity of his fears by engrossing them to
the admiration of his physician Avith
remarkable ability in most excellent
Latin. The hypochondria, like the ter-
rors of a dream, produced much suffer-
ing ; but it Avas of a kind over which
he learned to gain control, though its
shadows accompanied him through life.
It Avas also while at Oxford that he be-
came the subject of those deep reli-
gious conAactions which, Avith a dash
of superstition, never departed from
him. The seeds of piety AA'ere early
implanted in him by his mother's
teachings; but, as we have seen, the
method was not alAvays Avell judged,
and in his youth he Avas disposed to
some laxity of opinion which Avas re-
strained by the habits of Oxford and
extinguished by a famous book of
evangelical piety Avhich he met Avith
there — " Law's Serious Call to a Holy
Life." He took it up, he tells us, " ex-
pecting to find it a dull book, as such
books generally are, and perhaps to
laugh at it, but I found LaAV quite an
even match for me ; and this Avas the
first occasion of my thinking in ear-
nest of religion, after I became capa-
ble of rational enquiry." Religion
thenceforth became intimately associ-
ated Avith his thoughts and actions.
A few months after Johnson left
Oxford his father died at Lichfield, at
the age of seA^enty-six, leaAang scant
property to his family ; for out of his
effects the portion Avhich came to his

SAMUEL JOHNSON".

son Samuel, excluding that whicli lie
might ultimately derive from his moth-
er, was but tAventy pounds. With this
he was to begin the world at the age
of twenty-two. But the regard in
which his father had been held was
something of an inheritance to him,
and the knowledge which, according
to the old proverb, siirvives houses and
lands, was to prove its excellence. He
looked to his scholarship as his first
means of support. The prospect of
advantage from it was for a long time
not a cheering one. He began by ac-
cepting the humblest position as a
teacher, that of usher or under-master
in the school of Market-Bosworth, in
Leicestershii-e, to which he proceeded
on foot. The situation was necessarily
irksome to one of his temperament,
Avho always grasped at knowledge with
impatience, seldom during his life read-
ing a book through, but, with an in-
stinctive sagacity, hastily "plucking
out the heart of its mysterj^" He
was in his capacity of usher con-
demned to the painful iteration of the
rules of grammar, the inflections of
nouns and the moods of verbs, with
boys to whom to-day's lesson was a re-
flection of that of yesterday, and identi-
cal with that of the morrow — a melan-
choly drudgery for the quick-minded
Johnson ; it was doubtless also aggra-
vated according to the manner of boys
by half concealed ridicule of his pecu-
liarities, and, when the whole was sup-
plemented by what he considered " in-
tolerable harshness " on the part of the
titled patron of the school, he threw
up the employment in disgust. A few
months were sufficient for this un-
happy experiment.

Leaving Market-Bosworth with no
other engagement in view, Johnson
accepted an invitation from Mr. Hec-
tor his school-fellow at Lichfield, to
visit him at Birmingham. Johnson
passed some time in this city, and
there wrote his first book, a transla-
tion from the French of a Voyage to
Abyssinia by fiither Lobo, a Jesuit
missionary, for which he received
from the bookseller Warren with
whom he lodged the payment of five
guineas. With praiseworthy indus-
try and sagacity, Boswell, with the
assistance of Burke examined this
book to ascertain if it bore any marks
of that peculiarly rich and effective
style which became known to the
world as the peculiar manner of
Johnson. So far as the translation
itself was concerned they found only
traces of the idiom of the original;
but when they came to the preface
their search was rewarded. In the
words of Boswell "the Johnsonian
style begins to appear." Iml^edded
like rich nuggets in the flowing
stream were some brilliant specimens
of genuine Johnsonese, a foretaste of
that inimitable generalization sup-
ported by picturesque detail and ani-
mating suggestions, enlivened by epi-
gram and antithesi, a pomp of
words in stately music supporting
a burthen of thought — the comprehen-
sion of the poet, the wit and philoso-
pher.

After a residence of about a year
at Birmingham, he returned to Lich-
field, where he made an ineffectual at-
tempt at literary occupation by issu-
ing proposals for publishing by sub-
scription the Latin poems of Politian,

SAMUEL JOHNSOK

with a life of the author, an under-
talcing which found few to encourage
it though the price was small ; so,
nothing came of it. Two years now
passed without any distinct employ-
ment to further his prospects in life,
when in July, 1736, he was married
to a Mrs. Porter, the widow of a mer-
cer at BiiTaingham with whom he
had become acquainted in his former
stay in that city during the life-time
of her first hushand. There was a
great disparity in the age of the pair,
Johnson, at the time of the marriage,
being in his twenty-seventh year
and the bride in her forty-eighth.
Nor was she remarkable for her per-
sonal charms, or any refinement in
her appearance, if we may credit the
account of Garrick in his description
of her to Boswell. But the mar-
riage, notwithstanding all inequalities,
proved a happy one. However the
lady might appear to the youthful
Garrick and the world, she was an
angel of light to her husband, whose
poverty she alleviated and consoled,
and whose mental ability she had suf-
ficient understanding to appi'eciate.

This alliance brought with it eight
hundred pounds, the widow's fortune,
and, encouraged by this new resource,
Johnson, Avho had failed in an en-
deavor to procure the mastership of a
grammar school in Warwickshire, re-
solved to set vip a species of academy
of his own. He accordingly hired an
imposing looking house, at Edial, in
the vicinity of Lichfield, and invited
the attendance of pupils to board
with him and be taught the Latin
and Greek languages. Only three
came, two of whom were David

Garrick, of illustrious memory, and
his brother George, sons of a gentle-
man, a half-pay captain, at Lichfield.
With such scant encouragement it is
a marvel that Johnson's patience held
out for a year and a half ; but it last-
ed probably as long as his means ;
and while these continued, spite of the
drudgery of teaching, the home
must have been to him a comfortable
one, fascinated, as the young lover was
— for Johnson was really a chivalric
lover — with the perfections of his
"Tetty," as he fondly called his wife
Elizabeth,

Johnson, who had employed some
of his leisure at Edial Hall, as his
house is called, in the construction of
a portion of his tragedy " Irene," now
by the advice of his friend Gilbert
Walmsley, a gentleman of Lichfield,
Register of its Ecclesiastical Court, a
man of reading and influence, resolv-
ed to jDursue the work with a view to
its introduction on the stage. This
directed his thoughts to London, the
certain refuge of provincial literary as-
pirants of all times. There if anywhere
in England he might turn his literary
talents, his sole capital, to account.
His pupil, Garrick, about being sent
to a school at Rochester to finish his
education, Johnson's friend, Walmsley,
gave them a joint letter to the head
master, the Rev. Mr. Colson, a man of
eminence as a mathematician. Com-
mending to him the youthful Garrick,
he wrote, " He and another neighbor
of mine, one Mr. Samuel Johnson, set
out this morning (March 2, 1737), for
London, together; Davy Garrick to
be with you early the next week, and
Mr. Johnson to try his fate with a

SAMUEL JOIIJS'SON.

tragedy, and to see to get liimself em-
ployed in some translation, either from
the Latin or the French. Johnson is
a very good scholar and poet, and I
have great hopes will turn out a fine
tragedy-writer." Nothing particular
api^ears to have come, so far as John-
son was concerned, of Colson's letter.
He was out of the way at Rochester
in a quiet seclusion, and Johnson was
to fight for his life against severe odds
in the rough training-school of Lon-
don. The booksellers were his first
resort. Apjilying to one of the craft,
with the intimation that he expected
to get his living as an author, the
dealer in hooks, surveying his robust
frame with a significant look, remark-
ed, "You had better buy a porter's
knot ;" and the man who uttered this
rude speech Johnson got to reckon
among his best friends. Occasional
literature offers the most available re-
source to a young writer in search of
employment, and Johnson was natur-
ally rttracted to it in one of its better
forms. Edward Cave, the son of a
provincial shoemaker, with some edu-
cation at Rugby school, had found his
way into literature in London through
his employment as a printer, and in the
face of the usual auguries of failure, had
successfully established the "Gentle-
man's Magazine," the most famous pro-
duction of its class and still surviving,
though changed with the wants of the
times, approaching its hundred and
fiftieth year — a longevity utterly be-
yond any of its short-lived race. "When
Johnson came to London it had been
five or six years in existence, and its
fame had reached him at Lichfield.
He had written a letter to its founder

two or three years before, offering to
contribute poems and criticisms, and
he now addressed him again, propos-
ing a new translation from the Italian
of Father Paul Sai-pi's History of the
Council of Trent. It was not, however,
till about a year later that he became
a contributor to the Magazine, his first
appearance being as the author of a
complimentary Horatian ode in Latin,
addressed to Sylvanus Urban, as the
editor designated himself on the title-
page of his work. After this he was
engaged as a regular contributor, and
for several years derived his chief sup-
port from this source. There were no
parliamentary reporters in those days,
the publication of debates being inter-
dicted; and to meet the public curi-
osity Avithout violating the law, it was
the custom of Cave to jjublish a dis-
guised account of the proceedings un-
der the name of " Reports of the De-
bates of the Senate of Lilli^^ut," in
which the leading sjieakers figured
under absurd disguised names, in a
clumsy slang language invented for the
occasion. The mask was awkwardly
worn, and not intended to conceal the
features. In this contrivance Johnson
was employed in the " Gentleman's
Magazine " to ^YYite out the debates,
often from the scantiest of material, be-
ing left to his oAvn resources to supply
thought and words. This he did with
much effect, bestowing his best elo-
quence it is said on the side of the to-
ries, of whom from his childhood he
was among the most resolute if not the
most bigoted.

Services like these might have se-
cured a scanty compensation barely
sufficient to keep soul and body toge-

SAMUEL JOimSON.

tlier, with little comfort for either ; but
Johnson, happily, mindful of his poet-
ical faculty, employed it in these early
months in the metropolis on a task
which raised him at once to a higher
level, gave him assurance of a posi-
tion in the world of letters, and which
doubtless had the most favorable effect
upon his character in sustaining him
through the dark days, aye, years of
trial and hardships yet before him.
Pope was at this time at the height of
his reputation, in the maturity of
his powers, having produced his best
works, and among the latest his ex-
quisite adaptation, to modern English
society, of the satires and epistles of
Horace. This was a sj)ecies of liter-
ature eminently adapted to gain the
admiration of Johnson, whose own
reading was always subservient to a
better appreciation of the daily life
around him. Few scholars, so inti-
mate with the past, have lived so
heartily in the present as Johnson.
No author has more closely identified
the life of all asjes in his writings, or
so demonstrated its essential moral
unity. It was an easy labor for him,
therefore, to supply with modern ex-
amples the scheme of an ancient poet
who had made Rome in the fulness of
its development the subject of his song.
In the sagacity and moral force of
Juvenal he had an author to his liking,
and in his descriptions of city life a
strong ground for his sympathy. It is
quite worthy of being noticed that the
first important production which John-
son gave to the world is stamped with
the name of London. Choosing the
third satire of Juvenal for his subject,
that quaint picture of Rome, sketched

by the departing Umbritius as he
shakes off the dust of the town from
his feet, he transferred its spirit to the
world of England of his own times,
and he accomplished this so gracefully,
with so much of taste, feeling and
power, that it secured him at once a
distinguished place among the poets
of En2;land. It is interestina; to trace
the modest manner in which this work
Avas brought forward. We first hear
of it in a very supplicating letter to
Cave, the printer, a letter which no-
thing but extreme poverty could have
extracted from a man like Johnson on
such an occasion. He sulmiits the
poem to his consideration, thinly dis-
guised as the production of another,
a person, he writes, who " lies at pre-
sent under very disadvantageous cir-
cumstances of fortune," and, a conces-
sion which is the strongest proof of
his necessity, offers to alter any stroke
of satire which the printer may dis-
like. Cave, upon this, sends the author
a " present " for his immediate relief, ac-
cepts the work, and suggests the name
of Dodsley the publisher for the. ti-
tle page. Dodsley proves quite willing
to have a share in it, thinking it, as
he said, " a creditable thing to be con-
cerned in;" and so, one morning in
May, 1738, the very same on Avhicli
appeared Pope's " Epilogue to the Sa-
tires," a sequel to the " Imitations of
Horace," Johnson's " London " was
given to the world. It was the first
introduction of the name of Samuel
Johnson to the polite society of Eng-
land, and it was a sufficient one. The
literati of London hailed in the new
poet a rival or successor to Pope ; the
scholars of Oxford Avere delighted, and

SAMUEL JOimSON.

Pope himself approved the work. Be-
ina; told that the author was an otscure
man named Johnson, for his name did
not appear on the title page, he re-
marked that he would soon be brought
to light. So favorable generally was
the reception of the j^oem that a sec-
ond edition of it was called for in a
week.

Comparing this work with the simul-
taneous production of Pope, the satire
of the man of twenty-nine with that
of the man of fifty, the preference must
be given to youth over experience. It
is quite fair to test Pope by the quo-
tations from his writings — for no Eng-
lish wi'iter has been quoted to such an
extent — but there are more remember-
ed familiar lines in Johnson's " Lon-
don," than in Pope's " 1738," as the
satire was called on its first appear-
ance. While the poem thus gained its
author reputation, its success did lit-
tle to mend his fortunes. It produced
him only ten guineas, half the sum or
less, that was given at the time for a
hack political pamphlet ; and Johnson
was left a living illustration of one of
the finest lines in the poem itself:

"Slow rises worth, by poverty depressed."

That poverty was so pressing that
Johnson in his despair Avould again
have assumed the office of a teacher,
the mastership of a school in Leicester-
shire beino; offered to him and willinsr-
ly accepted, if he could have complied
with the condition. To hold the situ-
ation, it was necessary that he should
have the degree of Master of Arts.
Oxford was thought of and set aside,
the request being considered too bold
a one for that high quarter ; but Earl

Gower, a patron of the school, thought
it worth while to solicit through a
friend the intervention of Dean Swift
to secure the coveted honor from the
University of Dublin. The English
nobleman plead hard for " the poor
man" whom he wished to serve, de-
scribinsc him in his letter " starved to
death in translating for booksellers,
which has been his only subsistence
for some time past." But fortunately
nothing came of it ; else Johnson might
have been lost to London and the
world, and served only as a notable
head-master or a curiosity among ped-
agogues in the local annals of a county
history. The law seems then to have
been thought of, and Johnson had many
requisites in subtilty and force of mind
for the profession ; but here again a
degree was wanted, and the project, if
seriously entertained, was abandoned.
So he was left to the booksellers.
Reviving the plan of a translation of
Father Paul Sarpi, a prospectus was is-
sued, some subscriptions obtained and
several sheets of the work printed,when
it was found, a strange coincidence, that
it had been already undertaken by an-
other Samuel Johnson in London ; and
in the discussion which ensued between
the two, the execution of it was given
up by both. At the conclusion of one
of his letters to Cave, relating to the
translation, Johnson signs himself Im-
pransKS. He had not dined that day,
a statement which might mean some-
thing or nothing; but in Johnson's
case it has been generally taken to
mean something — for Johnson, in com-
mon Avith his needy literary brethren
of the day, may very likely have been
in want of a dinner — and the absence

SAMUEL JOPINSOJS".

of a dinner to Johnson was no slight
privation. So the years wore on while
Johnson who was now living with his
wife in lodgings in London or its vici-
nity, eked out a scanty subsistence by
minor literary labors, chiefly essays,
biographies and translations for the
" Gentleman's Magazine." In 1744, on
the death of the poet Savage, he pub-
lished anonymously a life of that ex-
traordinaiy adventurer, whom he had
known intimately in his parti-colored
career in the metropolis, whose as-
sumptions and gleams of dashing
prosperity he wondered at, whose
poverty he had shared and ^vhose fate
he pitied. The book in which Johnson
narrated his adventm-es is unique in
biography. We know not where to
find anything so natural, candid and
spontaneous, so feeling and at the same
time amusino- a sketch of a va2:abond
existence. It is essentially the history
of a bastard with an instinct for high
life in his composition triumphant over
all the mortifications and disasters of
debt and poverty; a sketch wonder-
fully real and as ideal as any fancifully
embellished portrait drawn by the
pencil of Lamb. Indeed, it somehow
recalls to us in its sjjirit Elia's account
of the " triumphant progress " of that
splendid borrower, Ralph Bigod, Esq.,
in his exquisite Essay on "The Two
Eaces of Men." The shifts and expe-
dients of a poor devil author, the
grandeur of his mind supplying any
deficiencies of his pocket, have never
been more graphically related than in
this charming biography by Johnson.
It is pervaded throughout by the finest
sense of humor, and is the highest
jjroof which can be afforded of John-

son's superiority to the casual, improv-
ident career of the careless company
into which he was often thrown in the
early period of his life in London. On
every page there is the revelation of
some absurd folly or pretension, or of
darker profligacy, yet the picture upon
the whole is a genial one ; for Johnson,
though he knew its minutest peculi-
arities, was- so far above the scene in
moral elevation as to look calmly upon
it with the eye of a philosopher, as a
curious study of human nature. It is
a delightful mingling of details and
generalities ; the actual losing its gross-
ness in the ideal. In other hands. Sav-
age would most likely have appeared
as an indifferent poet and profligate
si^endthrift, cruelly treated by his ti-
tled, disreputable mother, if his story
was credited; but, in himself, an im-
practicable vagabond whom no kind-
ness could serve or generosity, how-
ever large, relieve, and who, for those
times, met an apj^ropriate fate in an
early departure from life within the
walls of a debtor's prison. But the
pen of Johnson coiild never be em-
ployed in unfeeling censure of the un-
fortunate, nor "even of the criminal.
The scamp is never disguised in his
narrative, though he sometimes ap-
pears to be playing with the subject ;
while the moral that ends the story,
"that nothing will supply the want
of prudence, and that negligence and
irregularity long continued, Avill make
knowledge useless, wit ridiculous, and
genius contemptible," loses none of its
force by the fairness, indulgent sympa-
thy and good humor of the nari'ative
on which it is built.

The rapidity with Avhich the book

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

was written lias been commented upon
as something remarkable, forty-eiglit
of its printed octavo pages being writ-
ten at a sitting which lasted through
the night — a noticeable thing, certain-
ly, when it is considered that it is not
altogether a simple, straightforward,
flowing narrative ; but, that it is con-
stantly interrupted by pregnant reflec-
tions, its sentences pointed with wit
and tied up in knots of philosophy.
But Johnson was full of his theme,
and what he wrote he had doubtless
often muttered to himself in his ha-
bitual reflections on the adventures of
his hero as they passed before him.

A book comjiosed in such a manner
could not fail of attention, especially
as the sul)ject of it was already a per-
son of notorious public interest, whose
career had been invested "wath the xm-
failing attraction of piquant scandal in
high life. Boswell tells us how Sir
Joshua Reynolds, " on his return from
Italy, met with it in Devonshire, know-
ing nothing of its author, and began to
read it while he was standing with his
arm leaning against a chimney-piece.
It seized his attention so strongly, that,
not being able to lay down the book
till he had finished it, Avhen he at-
tempted to move, he found his arm
totally benumbed."

The year following the production
of the biography of Savage, Johnson
puljlished a pamphlet of " Observations
on the tragedy of Macbeth," with pro-
posals for a new edition of Shake-
speare, which gained him the commen-
dation of Warburton, who was then
engaged on a similar undertaking.
Johnson began his studies for the
work, but it was for a time laid aside

for another of more jiressing impor-
tance, his " Dictionary of the English
Language," the plan of which was is-
sued in 1747. The work was a joint
enterprise of the trade, seven London
booksellers, at the head of whom was
Dodsley, contracting for its composi-
tion at the price of fifteen hundred and
seventy-five pounds. The prospectus
Avas dedicated to the Earl of Chester-
field, the fashionable patron of letters
of the time, who sent the author the
accustomed gratuity of ten guineas for
the compliment. The labor involved
in such an undertaking Avould have
been far more formidable to most
other authors than it j^roved to John-
son, who, confident of his own abilities,
in a resolute way resolved the task into
one of great simplicity, expending his
strength mainly on the definitions and
illustrations from classic authors. Em-
ploying no less than six assistants as
amanuenses, he handed over to them
for transcription passages or sentences
from the best English authors which
he had selected for the purpose, with
the word which he intended to illus-
trate, underlined. The word was writ-
ten on a slip of paper with the accom-
panying citation, and thus the Diction-
ary was in a great part formed as an
index of classic authors. When thus
arranged in alphabetical order, defi-
nitions were added, with etymologies,
derived from the best authorities. Of
coui'se, he was under great obligations
to his predecessors ; but the work was
distinctly marked by his mental habits,
and consequently, notwithstanding the
increased value of later philological
acquirements in his successors, is re-
produced to this day for our libraries

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

as enipliatically Johnson's Dictionary.
Opening the single capacious volume
now in use, no unmeet representative
of the burly form of Johnson, as Au-
gustus compared. Horace to the fat lit-
tle roll of his poems, we may light at
random on pages illuminated by his
philosophical acumen, rich with the
stores of his various reading from the
Bible and Shakespeare, through the
best English authorship to Pope and
Swift, while, interspersed with the
sound, manly definitions, are several
touches of satire and humor, inter-
■ posed, not more, perhaps, by prejudice,
than as a relief to the weary labor of
the work. In one of these he defines
the word oats, " a grain, which, in
England is generally given to horses,
but in Scotland, supports the people ;"
and in another, " pension," as " an al-
lowance made to any one without an
equivalent, in England, being generally
understood to mean pay given to a
state hireling for treason to his conn-
try," and " pensioner — a slave of state,
hired by a stipend to obey his master,"
definitions which were rather incon-
venient to him, when he came himself
to occupy that relation to his country.
To the word " Lich," which enters into
the composition of Lichfield, his native
town, he adds an interpretation of the
latter word, " the field of the dead, a
city in Staffordshire, so named from
martyred Christians," with the invoca-
tion. Salve magna pai'ejis !

The Dictionary was seven years in
progress. On the eve of its appear-
ance, in 1755, Lord Chesterfield soiight
to revive the good feeling of the author
towards him exhibited at the start, ])y
some handsome notices of the book in
3

advance in the periodical essays enti-
tled, " The World ;" but, Johnson, who
had been provoked by neglect in a visit
or two which he had paid to the no-
bleman's drawin2:-room, or knockinof
in vain at his door, was in no humor
to dedicate to him the finished work.
On the contrary, he spurned the flat-
tering overtures, and in a spirit of in-
dependence, the echo of which rings
in noble halls to this day, addressed a
remarkable letter to the Earl, Avhich
has done more to keejD the writer in
popular remembrance than the best
pages of his "Eambler."

To grace the title-page of his Diction-
ary, Oxford conferred upon Johnson
the degree of M. A. in 1755; LL.D.
came twenty years later from that
University, and, in the meantime, the
same degree had also been given by
Dublin. It was only in the latter part
of his life that he was known by the
title so familiar to us, of Dr. Johnson.

In the interval, while Johnson was
engaged upon the Dictionary, he had
published in 1749 a companion to his
"London," in a version of the tenth
satire of Juvenal, which he entitled,
" The Vanity of Human "Wishes." In
this, as in his previous version, he had
to contend in the literal part of his
work with the muse of Dryden, who
ti'anslated both poems ; but Johnson
had the advantage of a wider interpre-
tation in his introduction of modern
instances and manners ; while his be-
nevolent disposition led him to soften
the asperities of the original. In the
fierce picture of a vicious old age, for
instance, which darkens the brilliancy
of the Latin poem, Johnson has intro-
duced, — an idea entirely of his own

conception, — a sketch of tlie decline of
life, animated by purity and virtue :

" But grant, the virtues of a temp'rate prime
Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime ;
An age that melts with unperceiv'd decay,
And glides in modest innocence away ;
Whose peaceful day benevolence endears,
■Wliose night congratulating conscience

cheers ;
The gcn'ral fav'rite as the gen'ral friend ;
Such age there is, and who shall wish its
end ?"

The sketch of the life of the man of
letters is also his own, sadly inspired
by his observation and experience : —

" Should no disease thy torpid veins invade,
Nor melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade ;
Yet hope not life from griei or danger free.
Nor think the doom of man revers'd for thee ;
Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes,
And pause awliile from letters, to be wise ;
There mark what ills the scholar's life assail.
Toil, envy, want, the patron and the jail."

In one noble historic passage he has
fairly rivalled the genius of Jtivenal,
that in which the career of Charles
XII. is substituted for that of Hanni-
bal. In fertility of incident, ease and
rapidity of movement, the union of
personal emotion with historic gran-
deur, it stands unrivalled. Every
school-boy knows it, and the story as
told in these verses is "familiar as
household words," of the hero who

"left the name at which the world grew pale.
To point a moral or adorn a tale."

For this poem Johnson received but
fifteen guineas from Dodsley — a small
advance on the previous poem.

The year 1849 saw also the produc-
tion on the stage of Drury Lane of
Johnson's tragedy of " Irene," which
had been for some time finished. It
was brought forward by Garrick, who
gave it his best support, including

himself, Barry and King in the cast,
Avith Mrs. Gibber and Mrs. Pritchard ;
but it was by no means well adapted
for the stage, being deficient in dra-
matic interest and variety of incident —
a didactic poem in fact, in the form of
dialoo;ue. It was carried through nine
nights ; the profits of Avhich to the au-
thor, with the sum paid by the pub-
lisher, amounted to nearly three hun-
dred pounds. On the first night the
play was in danger, at an unfortunate
passage, of being damned. Johnson,
on being asked how he felt as to the
failure of his tragedy, stoically replied,
" Like the Monument ! " He knew his
powers too well to tempt the dramatic
line asrain.

The " Vanity of Human Wishes " and
" Irene" were succeeded in the spring of
the following year by the " Rambler," a
series of moral essays, somewhat after
the plan of the " Spectator," the first
number being published on the 20th of
March, and others following in suc-
cession on the Saturday and Tuesday
of each week till its conclusion with
the two hundred and eighth number,
on the 14th of March, 1752. The
work, as a whole, is distinguished from
its predecessors in this lighter school
of literature by its prevailing serious-
ness. The " Rambler " is for the most
part a collection of lay sermons or
moralities not unworthy of the j)ulpit;
for Johnson was quite capable of this
part of the office of a clergyman, and
many a sermon was preached in Eng-
land which he had furnished to the
cloth at a guinea a piece. Among his
private prayers and meditations Avhich
escaped destruction at his hands, is a
solemn invocation of divine support at

SAMUEL JOHXSO^.

his entrance on this work ; and the as-
piration to do something for the glory
of God and the good of man was never
lost sight of by him in its progress.
"With the exception of two numbers
by his learned friend Mrs. Carter, and
some three or four trifling communi-
cations, it was entirely written by him.
The numbers Avere j^ublished at two-
pence, and Johnson received two gui-
neas for each. Though compared with
the " Spectator," there is a certain heavi-
ness in the style, and the thoughts are
often of a sombre cast; yet to an in-
telligent and sympathizing reader, who
has seen enough of life to value it at
its true worth, these essays may still be
read with much of that admiration
which they awakened in their author's
own period. Their object is essentially
self-knowledge, and it is imparted from
the author's experience with the wis-
dom of a philosopher and the familiar
kindness of an intimate. Like Chau-
cer's " Clerk of Oxenforde,"

" Sounding In moral virtue was his speecli,
And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach."

The "Rambler" is not a book to be
opened in a careless moment, for the
stj'le is out of fashion ; but it requires a
reader of little sagacity to penetrate
to its profound stores of thought and
feeling ; and as he pursues his way
through apologues and allegories, he
will be rewarded by many delightful
sketches of character, enlivened by jest
and humor.

The same week in Avhich the " Eam-
bler" was brought to an end, Johnson
was called upon to mourn the loss of
his wife, his beloved " Tetty," Avho had
been with him, his consoler and friend,

through nearly sixteen years of priva-
tion and strug-firle. She lived to see the
establishment of his reputation as one
of the foremost poets and prose writers
of his time. He had greatly relied on
her approval of the early numbers of
the "Rambler." " I thought very well
of you before," said she, "but I did
not imagine you could have written
anything equal to this ;" and Johnson
treasured the observation with the
warmth of a lover. When he resumed
his work after her death, he chose a
particular room in the garret to write it,
because he had never seen her in that
place, and the rest of the house Avas in-
supportable to him. To the end of his
days he kept the anniversary of her
death Avith deA'Out religious exercises.
Though he had closed the "Ram-
bler," sick at heart Avith the burden of
his private sorroAvs, the essay Avas a
form of literature too well suited to his
mental habits to be long abandoned.
Accordingly, we find him in the
spring of 1753, Avhile he Avas still la-
boring on the Dictionary, engaging in
f lu'nishing various papers to the " Ad-
venturer," a ncAv periodical of the old
" Spectator" fashion, conducted l)y his
friend Dr. IlaAvkesAvorth. In this and
the folloAving year he AATOte twenty-
nine numbers of that work, which is
chiefly remembered by his participa-
tion in it. The topics upon Avhich he
mainly relied were those of literature
and philosophy in its application to
every-day life, for he constantly held,
Avith Milton's "Adam," in his discourse
Avith the angel Raphael :

" That not to know at largo of things remote
From use, obscure and subtle, but to know
That which before us lies in daily life
Is the prime wisdom."

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

Following the production of tlie
Dictionary, after an interval, in wliich
lie was engaged upon the "Literary
IMagazine," for wliicli lie wrote chiefly
reviews of books, he again resumed,
in April, 1758, the now classic style of
the Essayists, in "The Idler," con-
ducted wholly by himself, in a weekly
series continued for two years. These
papers were not published on a sepa-
rate sheet like the "Rambler," but
originally appeared in a weekly news-
paper called "The Universal Chroni-
cle." Twelve of the hundred and
three were contributed by Johnson's
friends; the rest were from his own
pen. Their general character ranks
them with their predecessors in the
" Eambler " and " Adventurer ; " but
they are of a lighter cast, with more
of variety in the treatment than the
former. The stjde, too, is more easy
and idiomatic; for Johnson, as he
mingled with the world, threw more
of the charm of his familiar conver-
sation into his writinsrs.

While the " Idler " was in progress,
Johnson, in the spring of 1759, pub-
lished his romance "The History of
Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia," the
locality doubtless a reminiscence of
the travels of Father Lobo, which he
had translated. Like others of his
best writings it was written with great
rapidity, being composed in the even-
ings of a single week, the motive of
this exertion being to procure a sum
sufiicient to pay the exj^enses of his
mother's funeral and some small debts
left by her. She had continued to
reside at Lichfield, and had reached
the venerable age of ninety. Johnson
had constantly contributed to her sup-

port, and her last days were cheered
by his heartfelt correspondence. Eas-
selas is a collection of philosophic re-
flections on the aspirations and disap-
pointments set in a slender framework
of narrative and description. The
ideas suggested by the scenery and
characters, however, cover any defects
or inconsistencies of detaiL The con-
ception of a happy valley is pleasing
to the imagination, and the dialogue
is supported, not by any dramatic in-
terest, but by a certain melancholy
grace in the sentiment. The adven-
tures in the world are of a general
character, and used only for the pur-
pose of introducing the reflections.
The moral of the whole, the vanity of
all things human, is indicated in the
opening sentence of the book, a kind
of musical incantation to which the
rest responds : " Ye, who listen with
credulity to the whispers of fancy, and
pursue with eagerness the phantoms of
hope ; Avho expect that age will per-
form the promises of youth, and that
the deficiencies of the present day will
be supplied by the morrow ; attend to
the history of Rasselas, Prince of
Al)yssinia." It is the old moral, since
the days of Solomon ; but it is gently
touched, and its tone of disappoint-
ment never runs into the language of
despair ; and as we close the book we
feel that the shadows cast over the
scene are from the mountain heights
of a higher existence beyond. The
last thoughts of the volume are given to
the charms of knowledge and the solace
of immortality. For this work Johnson
received from his publishers a hundred
pounds, to which they added twenty-
five on its reaching a second edition.

SAMUEL JOIIK-SOK

The next incident of importance in
Johnson's life, which affected his whole
future career, was his acceptance of a
pension from George III. in 1762,
shortly after his coming to the throne.
The amount was three hundred pounds,
sufficient with Johnson's moderate
wants to provide for his comfort and
support his independence, for which
the resources of his writings had not
• always proved adequate. A few years
before he had been arrested for a debt
of less than six pounds, and had escaped
a temporary lodgement in a debtor's
prison by the friendly aid of Hichard-
son the novelist. Some surprise might
have been caused by Johnson receiving
a pension at all ; for, with his Jacobite
tendencies, he had shown but little con-
sideration for the house of Hanover;
but the ueAV reign offered an oppor-
tunity for the fusion of parties. Bute,
the prime minister, was a Tory, and the
recognition of Johnson's services to
literature and morality was sure to
be approved liy the persons in the na-
tion whose good opinion was best
worth having. The annuity was thus
conferred without pledges or condi-
tions, simply as an honor paid to lite-
rature and j)ersonal worth. In this
spirit it was received by Johnson, who
could afford to smile while his detract-
ors quoted his definitions of pension
and jDensioner in the Dictionary. " The
event," as Macaulay has observed,
" produced a change in Johnson's whole
way of life. For the first time since
his boyhood, he no longer felt the
daily goad urging him to the daily
toil. He was at liberty, after thirty
years of anxiety and drudgery, to in-
dulge his constitutional indolence, to

lie in bed till two in the afternoon,
and to sit up talking till four in the
morning without fearing either the
printer's devil or the sheriff"'s officer."
From that moment, indeed, he aj)-
peared almost exclusively before the
world as a man of leisure and society.
He was at the age of fifty-three, a time
of life when men of toil Ions: for some
enjoyment of the fruits of their labors,
and Johnson's had been emphatically
a life of care and anxiety. " Ho\v hast
thou purchased this experience ? " says
the fantastical Spaniard in Shakespeare
to his knowing attendant. Moth. " By
my penny of observation." If such
gifts could be estimated in coin, John-
son had expended a fortune in the ac-
quisition. He had been brought l)y
his poverty, in a hard struggle for ex-
istence, into close contact with the
realities, where dangers were at every
step to be avoided, and where character
was in constant risk of suffering ship-
wi'eck. A high sense of duty and a
morl)id conscientiousness had pre-
served his integrity, while he was de-
licately sensitive to every shade of
good or evil. A quarter of a century
had passed since he first went up to
London with Garrick, — years filled
with thought and painful effort, the
study of men and of books in depart-
ments of life and learning whex-e both
Avere at theii- highest intensity; and
he had been almost daily called to
turn the lessons to account in some en-
during form of literary composition —
essays, filled with knowledge of the
world and animated by philoso2)hy
like those of the "Rambler;" imagi-
native tales like "Rasselas;" liiogra-
phies like that of Savage, and poetry.

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

still leaning ujion actual life and his-
tory, as in "The Vanity of Human
Wishes." If, like his prototype, Ben
Jonson, he had been gifted with the
power to write dramas, the circle of
his experience and attainments would
have been complete ; and still a vast
deal of what Ben put into his plays
or its equivalent may be found in the
Essays of Johnson.

With this fullness and ripeness of
acquisition and development, having
proved his powers before the world in
writings, the great merit of which was
universally acknowledged, Johnson
now enters upon a new stage of exist-
ence, in which he supports a peculiar
character uni(|ue in English social his-
tory. This was the part, above all
others, of the great talker of his time.
It is not so much, after this, what
Johnson writes as what he says, that
eno-acjes the attention of his readers.
For the remaining twenty years of his
life, he is to be known chiefly by his
conversational talent, and for our ap-
preciation of this, we are indebted to
a person as singular as himself. Of
the eight volumes which compose the
standard edition of " Boswell's John-
son," six are taken uj) with the reports
of these conversations. It would be
vain to attempt within our present
limits to describe them. They exhibit
various shades of opinion on almost
every subject, moral, social, literary, po-
litical, which entered into the thoughts
of the age ; for they were held with its
representative men, its divines, its
statesmen, authors, men of fashion, and
a herd of others less distinguished, who
sought to light their tapers at that
abundant flame. Sometimes, indeed.

Johnson talked for effect, or rather
risked the appearance of it to draw
out all that could be said on a question ;
he was occasionally rude and repul-
sive ; now and then, prejudiced ; but,
in general, he appeared the great mas-
ter of common sense, genial, indulgent,
tolerant ; dogmatic it is true, but with
the dogmatism of a man who had re-
flected much, and, on topics of moral
interest, was not to be lightly shaken
in his argument ; terse and pointed in
his expressions, going dii'ectly to the
heart of the matter in the language of
everyday life.

For a result like this, Johnson, had
he foreseen it, might have sacrificed
much of his time and inclinations.
But Boswell was of great use to John-
son in many ways, and spite of the
great diversity in their characters and
tempers, was not merely tolerated but
grew to be loved by him. Much has
been said of the relation between them,
and some wonder has been expressed
that an intimacy should exist between
a man of such mental grandeur and so
weak a follower. Perhaps the best
solution of the apparent inconsist-
ency may be found in the remark that
Johnson was not in all respects so
strong, or Boswell so weak as each has
been represented. A character so lofty
may possibly be conceived admitting
of no associates but those of equal
height in genius, virtue and attain-
ments. But as such an individual sel-
dom, if ever, exists, the personages to
compose his court must be proportion-
ally rare. It is not in the course of
ordinary human nature to meet with
such select associations. It is a motley
Avorld we live in, Avhere the great and

SAMUEL J0IINS0:N'.

tlie little iu every rsvnk and quality are
freely mingled togetlier. Men of vii'-
tiie and men of intellect are every day
supporting various relations -with oth-
ers of less integrity and inferior in-
telligence. Nothing is more common
in the world than to find what are
called great men surrounded by com-
paratively little men. It may be, as
Pope says, that "fools rush in where
angels fear to tread;" or that the
crafty and designing seek to ally them-
selves to the powerful from motives
of self-interest; or that weakness seeks
strength to sujiport itself, while inde-
pendent greatness stands aloof from
its fellows. Jealousy is easily pro-
voked among equals, so that like does
not always affect like in the jiractieal
conduct of life. Greatness needs the
presence of littleness to show its ele-
vation. A vast deal of the machinery
of greatness, too, must be worked by
inferiors. Now, Boswell stood in va-
rious necessary relations to Johnson.
In the matter of temperament — of a
sound physical constitution, eager for
enjoyment, pursuing with zest the
good, and alas some of the evil things
of life — his animal spirits were a cor-
rective of the habitual melancholy of
Johnson. He came at intervals of his
busy existence to cheer the lonely sage
with gossip of the world, not only of
London, where he was admitted to the
best society, but of his northern home,
and of the continent where he had
visited Voltaire, and become intimate
with the popular hero of the day in
his island fastness — the patriotic Paoli.
There was no better reporter of the
humors of men than Boswell, and no
one, so easily as Johnson, could sift

the grain of wheat from his absur-
dities. When Johnson was in com-
pany, who so useful as Boswell to
divert the stream of conversation into
the proper channel to float the great
Leviathan of the deep? He was as
necessary to the chief talker of the
evening as the inferior c\o^Yn to the
master joker in the ring, the provoker
and victim of his wit. He was wil-
ling to suffer anything in the way of
rebuke and mortification, that his ad-
mired luminary might shine with the
greater lustre. We may not always
respect the voluntary slave, but we
must often be thankful to him for
what he accomplished, when his im-
pertinent nonsense elicited the wisdom
of his master. How was the fully
charged electrical machine to display
its vigor unless an obsequious hand
was extended to receive the shock?
What Sancho Panza was to Don Quix-
ote, his page to Falstaff, his squire to
Hudibras, Boswell was to Johnson.

But no man had more illustrious
friends than Johnson; and Boswell,
had he been suddenly carried off after
that first unpromising interview in
Davies' back parlor, would have been
a greater loss to posterity than to him ;
for had he not his Club—" The Club "
— with Garrick and Goldsmith, Key-
nolds and Burke, and a host of asso-
ciates worthy of their society for
members ; and for long years another
home of his own in the hospitable
mansion of his friend Thrale, a man
of wealth, sympathizing with men of
letters, Avhere also he found a still
more attractive species of Boswell,
spiced Avith the piquant humors of
her sex, in the fair Mrs. Thrale, bet-

SAMUEL JOIIXSON.

ter known "by lier later matrimonial
designation, Hester Lynch Piozzi. As
in the case of Boswell, she was suffi-
ciently distinguished by her intellec-
tual attainments to qualify her for a
partial appreciation of the greater
mind of Johnson.

We must now pass rapidly over the
remainina: incidents in the life now
hastening to its close. The long-pro-
mised edition of Shakspeare was pub-
lished in 1765. It was not a great
achievement in critical or learned illus-
tration of the text ; but it is memo-
rable in English literature for its noble
preface, in which Johnson, forgetting
the limitations of his own poor dra-
matic talent in " Irene," interprets as
no one ever more knowingly and feel-
ingly interpreted, the transcendent ge-
nius of the author whom he had so
eloquently pictured in verse : — -

" Each change of many-colour'd life he drew,
Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'd new;
Existence saw liim spurn her bounded reign,
And panting Time toil'd after him in vain."

After an interval of ten years he
published " A Journey to the "West-
ern Islands of Scotland," an account
of a tour which he had made with
Boswell in the autumn of 1773. He
was in his sixty-fourth year, in the
height of his London fame, and the ex-
cursion for him or any other man was
then considered quite an extraordi-
nary undertaking. The expedition
had been talked of for years. In 1764,
when he Avas visiting at Ferney, Bos-
well had mentioned the design to Vol-
taire. " He looked at me," says he,
"as if I had talked of going to the
North Pole, and said, ' You do not in-
sist on my accompanying you ? ' ' No,

sir.' 'Then I am very willing you
should go.'" At the present day a
great deal of the amusement of John-
son's book exists in the air of impor-
tance given to a journey which is gone
through with every season by hun-
dreds of cockney tourists, and which,
even in Johnson's time, had no more
inconvenience than a trifling excur-
sion to the Adirondacks, or other par-
tially settled mountain district has
now in our own country. The travel-
ers started together in August from
Edinburgh, where Johnson joined
Boswell, pursued their way along
the eastern coast of Scotland by St.
Andrews, Dundee, Aberdeen, and the
region bordering the Murray Frith to
Inverness, the last place which then,
says Johnson, " had a regular commu-
nication by high roads with the south-
ern counties." There they bade adieu
to post-chaises and "mounted their
steeds," traversins: the rock-hewn road
by the side of Lough Ness to its
southern extremity, whence they cross-
ed the Highland region, a simple two
days' journey, to the western coast,
coming out at Glenelg, opposite the
Isle of Sky. This and the adjacent
Island of Eaasay were pretty tho-
roughly explored, while Johnson was
nobly entertained by the Macleods,
the hereditary clansmen. In Sky his
Jacobite predilections were gratified
by an introduction to Flora !Macdon-
ald, the good angel of the Pretender
after the rebellion of '45, and he had
the sublime satisfaction of sleeping in
the very bed which Charles Edward
had passed a night in, when, in the
disguise of her female attendant, he
had been conducted by his fair guar-

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

dJan to the spot. " I would liave given
a good deal," said Johnson the next
morning at breakfast, "rather than
not have lain in that bed." So Bos-
well tells us in his fuller account of
the tour, which admirably supple-
ments the more staid narrative of
Johnson. Both accounts are admi-
rable in their way. Johnson gives a
philosopher's account of the High-
landers ; but if any one desires to see
what the journey really was, and how
the great Leviathan conducted him-
self under the novel circumstances, he
must read the report of it by Bos-
well. "Without crossing to the more
remote of the Hebrides, "far amid
the melancholy main," the travellers
took a southerly course from Sky,
visited Mull and lona, — at the men-
tion of which Johnson's style expands
in an expression of the loftiest patriot-
ism — and at the end of October were
again on the mainland in retreat to
London.

The same year that Johnson pub-
lished his account of this journey, the
rising war with the Colonies being then
the topic of the day, he wrote a pam-
phlet, of some interest historically to
American readers, entitled "Taxation
no Tyranny." Though well constructed
in point of style, it is generally ad-
mitted to have done the author little
credit by its constitutional principles,
his main consideration being that the
colonists should be content with their
position, as they enjoyed a similar
"virtual representation" to that of
the greater part of Englishmen, Avhom
he admitted, withoixt any desire or
suspicion of reform, were not directly
represented at all. He was old and
4

conservative, and planted himself firm-
ly on the established order of things,
as if commercial tyranny and parlia-
mentary restraint could go on for ever.
When he speaks of the suppression of
the revolt, it is in the terms of one
conscious of superior force, who had
but to will to execute. It would be
humanity, he thought, to put a sufli-
cient army in the field to " take away
not only the power but the hope of
resistance, and by conquering without
a battle, save many from the sword."
Bancroft, contrasting the suffering, in
early privations, which Johnson had
escaped, with that which he would in-
flict, charges him with " echoing to the
crowd the haughty rancor, which pass-
ed down from the king and his court
to his council, to the ministers, to the
aristocracy, their parasites and follow-
ers, with nothing remarkable in his
party zeal, but the intensity of its
bitterness ; or in his manner, but its
unjDaralleled insolence ; or in his argu-
ment, but its grotesque extravagance."
Another literary work yet remained
to Johnson, one worthy of his pen and
in which he gathered the ripest fruits
of his critical studies and his personal
association with men of letters. Tow-
ards the close of 1777, an association
of the London booksellers resolved
upon the publication of an extensive
collection of the English poets, with
brief preliminary biographies, to be
obtained, if possible, from the pen of
Johnson. He readily entered into the
plan, naming two hundred guineas for
his work, which was acceded to. At
the outset his purpose was to give only
a few dates, with a short general charac-
ter of each poet ; but as he warmed

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

in the execution, the design was ex-
panded, especially in the more im-
portant subjects, into the full bio-
graphies and elaborate critical and
philosophical discussions which ren-
der the series in the estimate of Bos-
well, generally admitted by the read-
ing world, " the richest, most beautiful,
and, indeed, most perfect production
of Johnson's pen." Exceptions may
be taken to particular opinions, to the
political prejudices in the case of Mil-
ton, and his singular want of appre-
ciation of the poetical powers of Gray,
some of whose finest verses he treats
with the levity and ignorance of a
pert school-boy ; but upon the whole,
especially where the topics fall within
the range of common life, Avhere oppor-
tunity is afforded for symjDathy with
humanity, the great test of biographic
excellence, the " Lives " may be read
with admiration and delight. In the
style Johnson is at his best. As he
grew older, his mind seems to have
worked itself clear of its early incum-
brances. We no longer meet with the
artificial mannered tone of the " Ram-
bler." He was full of his subject, and
enters upon the narration with the
ease of conversation. There is no other
book in the English language equally
great, it has been observed, produced
between the age of sixty-eight and
seventy-two. It was the last harvest
of the author's genius ; and the work
is marked on many a page with the
most touching expressions of feeling.
In writing the lives of others he was
portraying his own.

The career was soon to be broufjht
to a close. Some of the most illus-
trious of his friends were preceding

him to the grave. Goldsmith died in
1774, Garrick in 1779, and Thrale was
called away, the greatest afiliction of
the kind which could have befallen
him, for it deprived him of a home, in
1781. In the year following, his own
household was invaded, in the death
of Robert Levett, a humble physician
of the lower classes, to whom, with the
blind Miss Williams, another unhappy
victim of poverty, Mrs. Demoulins,
and yet other nondescripts, agreeing
in nothing but their common misery,
he had charitably given a hoene. The
inmates were constantly annoying him
with their quarrels ; but even this dis-
turbance had become a kind of relief
to his loneliness. In a copy of verses
of singular feeling, he paid a tribute
to the lowly Avorth of Levett, which
will outlive many compliments to the
great who in their life-time would have
looked down with contempt upon their
subject.

Compare the treatment of the noble
Chesterfield with that of the insig-
nificant Levett, and you may take the
measure of Johnson's pride and hu-
mility, honest virtues both, one sup-
porting the other. There was some-
thing heroic in the magnanimity of
Johnson towards the poor and suffer-
ing. The incident will, while his name
lasts, never be forgotten, of his bearing
home with him on his back, thi'ough
Fleet street, a poor victim of disease
and ignominy, which Hazlitt, in one
of his lectures to a London audience,
pronoiinced "an act worthy of the
good Samaritan."

In the summer before he died, in
August, 1774, Dr. Johnson paid his
last visit to his old home at Lichfield.

SAMUEL JOIII^SOK

While there, lie narrated to a young
clergyman attaclied to the cathedral,
an incident of his life, one of the most
touching and pathetic in all biography.
He recalled how in the closing years
of his father's life, more than fifty years
before, he had been guilty of a single
act of disobedience, refusing on a par-
ticular occasion through pride to at-
tend him at one of his petty sales of
his stock at Uttoxeter market. His
father went alone, but long after he
was dead, Johnson often accompanied
him thei'e in imagination. At last, a
few years before his death, desiring to
atone for his fault, he resolved upon
an extraordinary act of humiliation.
He went to the very spot where his
father had been accustomed to keep
his stand in the market-place at Ut-
toxeter, and stood there a considerable
time bare-headed in the rain. "In
contrition," he said, " I stood, and I
hope the penance was expiatory."

After this, there remains for us but
to state the departure of this pious
penitent. His health was gradually
failing him. In the summer of 1784,
having previously suffered from an at-
tack of paralysis from which he had
recovered, he felt his feebleness in-
creasing, and had some thought of es-
caping the severities of the coming win-
ter by a visit to Italy, which was aban-

doned for lack of means. His mental
strength remained, meanwhile, unim-
paired, "While in the country, in Oc-
tober, he translated an ode of Horace,
in which the poet moralizes on the
lessons of mortality in the changing
seasons :

" Who knows if Jove, who counts our score,
Will toss us in a morning more ?"

But few were now left. Returnins:
to London in the middle of Novem-
ber he became more seriously ill, his
thoughts reverting to his departed
friends and solaced with the comforts
of religion, while the cheerful activity
of his mind was shown during his
sleepless nights in translating the
Greek epigrams of the Anthologia into
Latin verse. When the last hour
came he met it with thorough equa-
nimity, fully conscious of the event,
counting the thin falling sands of life.
His last words to the daughter of a
friend who came to visit him were,
" God bless you, my dear." And so
in his old home in Bolt Court, within
the sound of his beloved Fleet Street,
on the thirteenth of December, 1784,
Johnson expired. On the twentieth
his remains were laid in Westminster
Abbey by the side of his friend Gar-
rick. Their pilgrimage to London was
ended.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH,

THE family of Golclsmith, of Eng-
lish origin and on the Protestant
side, liad been long settled in Ireland
and furnished various clergymen in dif-
ferent offices to its established church,
when Oliver, the subject of this notice,
was born at Pallas, in the County of
Longford, on the 10th of November,
1728. His father, the Rev. Charles
Goldsmith, was rector of the parish,
married to the daughter of the head-
master of the diocesan school at El-
phin, which he had attended, and at
the time of Oliver's birth was the par-
ent of three children, struggling to
maintain a decent position in the world
on an income, all told, of forty pounds
a "year — an average sum in the remu-
neration of poor curates which has
passed from the poet's verse into a
species of proverb. The picture of the
clergyman drawn by Goldsmith in the
" Deserted Village " has been generally
supposed to refer to his father, and it
exhibits in enduring colors the simple
virtues of the man and the home into
which the poet was born. Many traits
of Charles Goldsmith's amiable dispo-
sition are again reflected in the " Vicar "
of Wakefield, and his portrait was also

(28)

drawn by his son in the sketch of the
father of the " Man in Black," in the
Citizen of the World.

Oliver's first instructor, the village
schoolmistress, dame Delap,who taught
him his letters, reported him the dull-
est of boys and " impenetrably stupid ;"
and when, at the age of six, he fell into
the hands of a male preceptor, Thomas
Byrne, a somewhat vagrant character,
he acquired more of his unsettled hu-
mors and fondness for music than of
any book learning he may have pos-
sessed. It is said that at this time his
mind became well stored with the
ballad lore and superstitions of the
peasantry — incentives to his imagina-
tion and lessons in story-telling. The
family were now at Lissoy, not far from
Pallas, in considerably improved cir-
cumstances, the poor pastor having
succeeded to a better living at that
place. While at school there, Oliver
was visited by a severe attack of small-
pox, which left its marks permanently
on his countenance, adding to the em-
barrassment of a somewhat heavily
built, ungainly figure. From the aca-
demy at Lissoy he was sent to a su-
perior school kept by the Rev. Mr.

\.0r^£O '^liaf.w'i

{K^^ ^;.^^^/^--^

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

Griffin, at Elj^liiu, where one of liis
uncles resided. There, amidst the
jeers of his companions at his clumsi-
ness and stupidity, he made some ac-
quaintance with Ovid and Horace, and
was thus led into that pathway of the
muses, which, spite of all prognostica-
tions, no one of his generation was to
pursue to greater advantage. There
was time enough before him yet, for
he was now only in his ninth year, and
there were soon indications that he was
to be something more than the butt of
his ill-mannered associates. One day
at his uncle's at Elphin there was a
little dance, when Oliver, in the gay-
ety of his spirits ventured a pas seul
on the floor. " Ah ! " says the fiddler,
" ^Esop !" upon which the boy, stopping
in his hornpipe, turned the laugh upon
his assailant in his first recorded coup-
let:

" Heralds ! proclaim aloud I all saying,
See ^sop dancing, and his monkey playing."

Thus, this first trifling display of his
poetic talent recalls the last brilliant
eftbrt of his muse published after his
death, "Retaliation." From the cra-
dle to the grave, it was the fortune of
the good-humored Goldsmith to be
constantly thrown upon the defensive.

After a year or two with Mr. Griffin,
Goldsmith passed to the hands of an-
other clerical instructor, Mr. Campbell,
at Athlone ; thence, in his thirteenth
year, to another reverend gentleman,
Mr. Hughes, at Edgeworthstown, with
whom, at the age of sixteen, he con-
cluded his school studies. On leaving
home at the close of his last holiday,
he met with an adventure of an amus-
ins: character. A month in the life of
Goldsmith, it may be remai'ked, would

have been nothing without its adven-
ture ; and of all places in the world
for an adventure, Ireland, with its rol-
licking ways of life, was, in his days,
the readiest to furnish one. Setting
out from Ballymahon, where his friends
had provided him with a horse and a
guinea, on his way to Edgeworthstown,
he found himself at night half-way on
his journey, in the town of Ardagh.
Falling in with a notorious wag, one
Kelly, and conscious of the unaccus-
tomed presence of the guinea in his
pocket, with something of an air of
importance, we may suppose, enquiring
for an inn, he was directed to the house
of a gentleman of the place, named
Featherstone. Mistaken by the ser-
vants for an expected guest, his horse
was taken care of according to his di-
rection by the servants, and, entering
the mansion, he stoutly called upon the
proprietor for a liberal supper, order-
ing wine and magnanimously inviting
the wife and daughter of his landlord
to join him. Mr. Featherstone saw
the mistake and humored it, enjoying
the style of the young student with
whose father he had been acquainted
at college. Parting with his guest at
bed-time he received an order for a hot
cake in the morning, and it Avas not
till breakfast was over that Goldsmith
was allowed to appreciate the jest
which had been played upon him. In
this case, however, he had been no
loser; nor has the world been since,
for the joke furnished him with the
main incident in his comedy, "She
Stoops to Conquer," over which to this
day many thousands of persons are
every season enjoying their hearty
laugh.

OLIVEE GOLDSMITH.

The time had now come for Oliver
to be sent to college, Trinity College,
Dublin, where his elder brother Henry
had preceded him, entering as a pen-
sioner. Owing to an exercise of false
generosity in sacrificing his income to
portion a daughter married to a gen-
tleman's son, Goldsmith's father was
unable to support him at the univer-
sity in the same comfortable though in-
ferior rank. Oliver was consequently
throAvn upon one still lower, the low-
est grade of all, that of sizer or ser\'itor,
which gave him board and instruction
free of expense, with a small charge
for his room, while he Avas to perform
various minor duties in return, of which
sweeping the courts in the morning,
carrying the dishes from the kitchen to
the table of the FelloAvs and waiting
in the hall until they had dined, after
which he might dine there himseK,
were among the number. He also was
entitled or compelled to wear in token
of his servitude, a black gown of coarse
stuff without sleeves with a distinctive
red cap. For such privileges a higher
degree of scholarship was expected on
entering than from the nobler fellow
commoners who paid their way and
were dressed in more gentlemanly at-
tire. The sizers Avere generally mature
in age and better qualified in learning
than the other students. Goldsmith,
however, was still young, at the age of
seventeen. In the account of the de-
linquencies of his youth Avhich occupy
so unseemly a proportion of his biog-
raphies, it must be set down to his
credit that he passed his rigorous ex-
amination successfully. He was, how-
ever, not much of a student at college.
His sensitive nature felt all " the slings

and arrows" daily cast upon him by
the " outrageous fortune " which con-
demned him to ignominious servitude
and suffering, in a seat of the Muses,
Avhere all should have been cheerful
sunshine; and he was, moreover, con-
stantly insulted by a brutal tutor, a
Mr. Theaker "Wilder, a cold-blooded
mathematician, Avho confounded all
moral and intellectual qualities, " think-
ing he was witty when he Avas simply
malicious," an ugly fellow Avith his
spite and ignorance to handle poor
Goldsmith at an examination. For,
with whatever learning he may have
possessed, he was profoundly ignorant
of Goldsmith's nature. Long after-
Avards, AA'hen his pupil Avas at the height
of his fame, this unhappy man came
to a violent end, being found dead one
morning on the floor of his room Avith
some bruises on his person, a disaster
attributed to his disreputable mode of
liA'ino".

While Goldsmith was bearing these
inflictions he Avas cast more deeply into
poverty by the death of his father, in
his second year at the College, AA'hen the
scanty remittances from home ceased,
and he Avas thrown upon casual loans
from his friends to supply his narroAV ne-
cessities — not, hoAvever, Avithout some
assistance from his oAvn genius. He
composed street ballads, for Avhich he
found a ready sale, receiving five shil-
lings for each from a bookseller in the
city ; and, Avhat Avas more agreeable to
his nature, his instinctive pride in au-
thorship was gratified by listening to
them at night as they were sung by
the criers in the streets — a consolatory
suggestion, Ave may hope, to him in
the midst of his humiliations of the

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

" All hail hereafter ! " There were
other incidents, too, of a rougher cha-
racter, of this college life. Feuds be-
tween gownsmen and the town people
were not uncommon in Dublin in the
last century. A riot occurred, in which
a bailiff who had arrested a student
was assailed, the peace of the city was
disturbed, and several lives lost in the
tumult. Goldsmith was not a ring-
leader in this affair, but he had been
out Avith the rioters, and was publicly
admonished for favoring the tumult.
To redeem his character, he tried the
next month for a scholarship, and fail-
ing in this, succeeded in gaining a
trifling " Exhibition," worth about
thirty shillings. Characteristically
enough, he celebrated this little tri-
umph by a dancing party, of more
frolic than exj^ense, in his upper rooms,
and in the midst of the hilarity was
confronted by his savage tutor for
his infringement of the rules. The
tutor from words proceeded to vio-
lence, and Goldsmith was so roughly
and ignominiously handled. Wilder,
with his mathematical attainments,
being a redoubted pugilist, that
Goldsmith, stung by the disgrace, de-
termined to escape from the College.
Selling his books, he improvidently
loitered in Dublin till his stock was
reduced to a shilling, with which he
set out for Cork, with a vague inten-
tion of going to America. The shil-
ling sujDported him for three days, and
when the proceeds of such clothes as he
had to sell were exhausted, he began to
feel the sufferings of hunger. Late in
life he told Reynolds how, after fasting
at this time for twenty-four hours, a
handful of gray peas, given him by a

girl at a wake, was the most delicious
meal he had ever tasted. Utterly desti-
tute, he turned homeward, was met on
his way by his brother Henry, who re-
lieved his wants and accompanied him
back to College. There he remained
to the end of his four years' course,
takins: his deo:ree of Bachelor of Ai'ts
in 1749. "The popular picture of
him in these Dublin University days,"
writes his biographer, Forster, " is little
more than of a slow, hesitating, some-
what hollow voice, heard seldom, and
always to great disadvantage in the
class-rooms ; and of a low-sized, thick,
robust, ungainly figure, lounging about
the College courts in the wait for
misery and ill-luck." Something, doubt-
less, is to be added to this notion of
Goldsmith on the score of reading and
scholarship. Though, as he afterwards
told Malone in London, " I made no
great figure at the University in mathe-
matics, which was a study much in re-
pute there, I could turn an ode of Ho-
race into English better than any of
them." But of all who were students
at the University during his service
there, certainly he appeared the least
likely to be enthroned at its gate in a
monumental statue. Yet there he now
stands, in the exquisite workmanship
of the sculptor Foley, clad in his habit
as he lived, his right hand, falling at
ease, holding a j^en, his left support-
ing an open book, his countenance re-
flecting at once his humor and intelli-
gence — the oppressed servitor of 1745
— the most interesting tradition of the
University a century afterwards.

From Collesre Goldsmith returned
home, and uncertain as to his pros-
pects, with no settled resolution, passed

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

three years in a desultory mode of
living, occasionally visiting his brother
Henry, the clergyman, in the village
school at Lissoy ; and what was more
to his inclination, freely partaking in
the junketings and frolics of the care-
less company of the place. As the
clerical life seemed to be the natural
resource of the family, his mother, his
brother-in-law, Hodson, for whom the
elder Goldsmith had made the sacrifice
in the matter of his daughter's dowry,
and his uncle, the Rev. IVIr. Contarine,
who was often visited by Goldsmith
at his parsonage in Roscommon, all
united in urging Oliver to take holy
orders. The advice was not much in
accordance with his habits or inclina-
tions, but he accepted it, and after the
necessary interval, presented himself
to the Bishop of Elphin for ordina-
tion. Various explanations are given
of his rejection — one, that he was too
young ; another, that his doubtful re-
cord at College had preceded him;
another, which is quite probable, that
he had neglected the preliminary stu-
dies ; and yet a fourth, that his dress
stood in the way, particularly a most
unclerlcal pair of scarlet breeches,
which he wore on the occasion.

The next resource for Goldsmith was
provided by his uncle Contarine, the
only one of the family who seems to
have had much faith in him, or done
much for him. He obtained him the
situation of tutor or companion in the
family of a gentleman of his county
named Flinn, which lasted for a year,
when it was broken up by Goldsmith
charging one of the household with
unfair play at the card-table. So it
must have been upon the whole a

rather free-and-easy sort of life under
the roof of Mr. Flinn. He parted
with it somehow with money in his
pocket, thirty pounds, it is said, and
rode away with a good horse to Cork,
where, a second time, according to a
letter written to his mother, he enter-
tained the idea of going to America.
He actually, he says, paid his passage
in a ship bound for that country, but
being off with a festive party in the
country when the wind proved favor-
able, " the captain never inquired after
me, but set sail with as much indiffer-
ence as if I had been on board." The
generous steed with which he set out
had been sold, the money the animal
brought had been spent, and the thirty
guineas had been reduced to two, the
greater part of which was expended
upon a broken down, raw-boned horse,
to which "generousbeast" ashestylesit,
he gave the name of Fiddleback. Leav-
ing Cork for home on the back of this
Rozinante, with five shillings in hand,
expecting to recruit his finances from
an old college friend on the road, who
had often expatiated to him on his hos-
pitality, he parted Avith half a crown to
a beggar on the way, and in this impov-
erished condition reached the dwelling
where he looked for relief. His account
of his reception, an admirable speci-
men of his early literary talent, recalls
the incidents and humor of the pictu-
resque Spanish novels. Indeed, Laza-
rillo de Tormes himself might have
been the hero of his adventure.

Another attempt was now to be
made in one of the professions, and
the law was thought of, — kind-hearted
Uncle Contarine, whose benevolence
was worthy of his early intimacy with

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

tlie good Bishop Berkeley, furnishing
out of his slender clerical revenue fifty
pounds to set him on the track. He
was to proceed to London to keep the
usual terras; but got no further than
Dublin, where he was stripped of all
his money at the gambling table by
one of his Irish acquaintances. This
sent him back to his home. Uncle Con-
tarine receiving him with kindness. A
few months after, at the siiggestion of
another relative, the chief clerical dig-
nitary of the family, Dean Goldsmith,
of Cloyne, the third and last of the
professions, that of medicine was re-
solved upon and Uncle Contariue again
stepped forward to furnish the pecu-
niary outfit for Edinburgh, where the
study was to be prosecuted at the Uni-
versity. Here Goldsmith remained a
year and a half, becoming a member
of its Medical Society and attending
the lectures, particularly admiring the
scope and ability of Munro, the pro-
fessor of anatomy. He found pleasure
in his studies, in a letter to his uncle,
speaking of the science as " the most
pleasing in nature, so that my labors
are but a relaxation, and, I may truly
say, the only thing here that gives me
pleasure." There is a hint of his em-
ployment, probably as a tutor, in the
family of the Duke of Hamilton, to eke
out his resources ; but the remittances
of the generous Contarine, though lim-
ited, Avere sufficient to su2:)port some
indulgence in dress, as the tailor's bills
yet extant indicate in their items of
sky-blue satin, rich Genoa velvet and
high claret-colored cloth; Avhile there
was something left to undertake a visit
to the Continent to perfect his medical
studies at one of its universities. Paris
5

was resolved upon for this purpose,
and in the spring of 1754, Oliver em-
barked on his round-about way thither
in a ship to Bordeaux. But, as luck
would have it, the vessel was driven
by a storm into Newcastle-upon-Tyne,
whei'e the j^assengers were seized, on
the charge of being recruits for the
French service, and Goldsmith with
difficulty procured his liberation after a
fortnight's imprisonment. It was some
consolation afterwards to reflect that
had he been allowed to proceed with
the vessel he would probably have been
drowned with the crew — shipwrecked
at the mouth of the Garonne. Fmding
another shij) ready for Holland, he
took his passage for Rotterdam, arri-
ved there safely, proceeded to Leyden,
and presently reported in a very agree-
able letter to his Uncle Contarine, the
state of medical learning at its Univer-
sity, at which he was for some time a
student. He noAv gained some sup-
jiort as a teacher of his native language,
in which we may suppose he turned
his knowledge of French to account.
Habitual cheerfulness, with a physical
constitution of great endurance, en-
abled him to support a life of make-
shifts, which to a less courageous tem-
perament would have been nnendu-
rable. Encouraged by the example
of the Baron Ilolberg, then recently
deceased, who, following his own in-
clinations in a career of adventure had
risen by his exertions from a youth of
poverty to the highest rank in the lite-
rature of Denmai'k, he determined to
pursue the somewhat vagrant course
Avhich, in the career of that eminent
man had preceded his acquisition of
fame and fortune. As Holberg's story

OLIVEE GOLDSMITH.

was afterwards told by Goldsmitli
liimself, " without money, recommend-
ations or friends, lie undertook to set
out upon liis travels, and make the
tour of Europe on foot. A good voice
and a trifling skill in music were the
only finances he had to support an un-
dertaking so extensive ; so he travelled
by day, and at night sang at the doors
of peasant's houses to get himself a
lodging,"* The exact counterpart of
this is the story of Goldsmith's life for
the year 1755. Setting out in Febi"u-
ary, he made some stay at Louvain, in
Flanders, at whose University, it is said,
he obtained his degree of Bachelor of
Medicine. He is to be traced at Brus-
sels and Antwerp, and signally at
Paris where he attended the chemical
lectures of Rouelle, admired Mademoi-
selle Clairon, then the delight of the
stage, and, as we may gather from
what he subsequently wrote, was no
unenlightened spectator of the down-
ward tendencies of the French mon-
archy.

Travelling through Switzerland,
Goldsmith appears to have made the
acquaintance of Voltaire at Geneva,
and, crossing the Alps, to have pene-
trated Italy as far at least as the chief
cities of Lombardy and Florence. In
the beginning of 1756, he was again
in England.

On his landing.at Dover, at the age
of twenty-eight, begins with him the
real struggle for life. He is too old
for dependence upon the scant re-
sources of home any longer ; the ani-
mal spirits of youth in their first ef-
fervescence have subsided, and he can

* Inquiry into the Present State of Polite
Learning.

no longer hide his mortifications in a
foreign land, or divert them by its
novelties and amusements. The hard
realities of English life are before him ;
hard enough they had recently proved
to the indomitable moral energy and
strength of Johnson ; how will Gold-
smith with his susceptibilities and
weaknesses encounter them? With
suffering and humiliation enough, as
we shall see, but with a glorious tri-
umph in the end. Happily, the strug-
gle was relieved by the cheerfulness
of his disposition, and " a knack of
hoping," as he called it, in which he
had great advantages over Johnson,
while his imagination and sense of
humor invited him to a certain superi-
ority over the lowest parts he was
called upon to perform. _ We may con-
stantly observe him in his writings
turning his discomfitures to profit, and
even as he had fluted his way through
poverty on the Continent, making with
the magic of his pen, his petty miseries
" discourse most excellent music." It
was not an easy thing at the very en-
trance upon this new period of his ca-
reer, for this starving man to get even
from Dover to London. He accom-
plished it, it is said, by a turn at low
comedy Avith some strolling players in
a barn, and had offered his services on
the way as a hireling in an apothecary's
shop. The latter became one of his
earliest resources in London in em-
ployment Avitli one Jacob, on Fish
Street Hill, for Avhom he pounded
drugs, and by whose assistance he was
promoted to a humble physician for
the poor of the class of Johnson's friend
Levett. It is of this period of his life
that the story is told of his perseve-

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

ranee in keeping possession of his hat,
of which a respectful patient pertina-
ciously sought to relieve him. He held
it firmly to his breast to conceal the
patch in the dilapidated second-hand
velvet coat in ^yhich he "was support-
ing his professional reputation. A
poor patient, a printer's M'orkman in-
troduces him to his master, Richard-
son, the author of Clarissa, who gives
him some employment as proof-
reader. One of his fellow Edinburgh
students falling in with him at this
time was constrained to listen to two
or three acts of an abortive tragedy,
and to a still more chimerical project
of proceeding to the Holy Land to de-
cipher the inscriptions on the " M'rit-
ten mountains." From this wildness
of the imagination, he is recalled by
the daily drudgery of usher to a clas-
sical school kept at Peckham, in the
neighborhood of London, to which he
was introduced by another of his Ed-
inburgh companions, the son of its
proj)rietor. Dr. Milner. There would
seem to have been some obscui'e ser-
vice of this kind in another situation
not long before, not so easily traced as
that at Peckham, the memory of which
survives in various anecdotes related
by the family, exhibiting a fondness
for practical jokes in the servants' hall
— proof of the ignominy of the posi-
tion as well as of the incumbent's in-
nate love of fun and frolic. Like his
contemporary, Johnson, who had en-
dured the same infliction, he had no
reason to remember it with equanimity.
Both were at a disadvantage in ap-
pearance and personal peculiarities.
The usher or under-teacher of his
time comes up in Goldsmith's writings

with a feeling of anything but ad
miration.

He had not been, however, many
months with Dr. Milner, in the school
at Peckham, when he made the ac-
quaintance, at his table, of Griffiths,
the bookseller, of Paternoster Row,
who was engaged in the publication of
the " Monthly Review." The " Critical
Review," the literary character of
which was maintained by Smollett,
was then pressing him hard, and Grif-
fiths was on the look-out for contribu-
tors. Struck by some remarks of Gold-
smith, the publisher, thinking he might
serve his purpose, procured from him
some specimens of his powers as a
critic. Their merits were perceived by
the shrewd eye of Grifiiths, and Gold-
smith was secured, body and mind, for
a year, to be boarded and lodged with
his employer, be paid a small salary,
and write articles as called upon for
the Review. Griffiths, who was much
of a screw, held him to a strict account
in the employment of his time, and
when his daily task was done, it was
at the mercy not only of the publisher
himself but of his wife, who tampered
with the articles. This arrangement
with Griffiths lasted fiv^e months of the
year, when it was broken off. It was
a long time for Pegasus to be kept in
harness. Goldsmith resented his treat-
ment, Griffiths also had his complaint,
and the contract was closed. In dis-
gust at the poor reward of literary ex-
ertion, the author, Avho as yet hardly
ventured to call himself such, returned
to the school at Peckham. Dr. Milner,
who had shown himself in the affair
with Griffiths desirous to promote the
welfare of Goldsmith, now undertook,

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

througli the influence of an East India
director, to procure him a medical ap-
pointment at a foreign station ; and
while this affair was in progress, he
devoted himself assiduously to the pre-
paration of an independent work which
should give his friends and the public
some assurance of his talents. The
subject which he chose was an Enquiry
into the Present State of Polite Learn-
ing in Europe, as the book was en-
. titled on its publication.

While Goldsmith was engaged on
the composition of this work, he was
assured of the success of his friend
Milner's application for his employ-
ment in the East. He was in fact ap-
pointed physician to one of the fac-
tories of the East India Company on
the Coromandel coast. His spirits were
raised in consequence, and he applied
.himself more heartily to the Essay,
looking to its success to supply the
means for his outfit, and endeavorins;
with honest pride and confidence to
enlist his friends in Ireland in pro-
curing su1)scriptions for the book. The
letters "which he Avrote for this pur-
pose ai'e in his best vein, full of kindly
feelings towards his correspondents,
with that genial humor which Avas
never more fully awakened than when
he thought of the home associations of
his youth. In one of these epistles to
Byanton, at Ballymahon, he let his
pen wander on in a fine strain of rhap-
sody, picturing to himself, what he
evidently considered the greatest ab-
surdity, the future fame of Goldsmith !

Could he but have tasted then the
reality of this posthumous applause !
For he was entering upon his darkest
hours of disappointment. From some

unexplained cause the Coromandel ap
poiutment was taken fi-om him and
given to another ; and when, in des-
pair, he offered himself at Surgeons'
Hall for examination as a hospital
mate, with an eye perhaj^s to the ex-
ample of Smollett and service in the
navy, he was rejected as incompetent.
This was his last attempt at profes-
sional life. Fortunately, the doors of
a wider temple were opening before
him. But they were to be entered
through much sorrow. Goldsmith,
after his separation from Griffiths, was
still called upon for occasional essays
for the Eeview, to which he had re-
cently contributed four articles to pro-
pitiate the publisher to become secu-
rity for him with his tailor in pro-
viding a new suit of clothes for the
Surgeon's examination. Before the
debt was paid, the keeper of poor
Goldsmith's quarters, in his humble
retreat in Green Arbor Court, was ar-
rested, and his wife came in tears, sup-
plicating her lodger for relief. Gold-
smith being himself in arrears to the
coiiple, there was a double claim upon
him as a man and a debtor. The first
was with him always sufficient. To
provide means on the emergency, the
new suit went to the pawnbroker's,
M^hile Griffiths' four books for review
were deposited as security for a
loan with a friend. Immediately upon
this, the publisher demanded payment
for the clothes or their instant return
to him, calling also for the books. In
vain Goldsmith asked for delay, while
Griffiths had no words for him but
those of insult and imputations of
fraud. Tlie letter which Goldsmith
wrote in reply has been preserved — a

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

most toucliino; memorial of his suffer-
ings. Manfully rebuking Griffiths for
his aspersions, lie deprecates his inter-
pretation of his character, and, the one
ray of light in this dax'k epistle, trusts
that on the appearance of his book
from Mr. Dodsley's press, the " bright
side of his mind " may be revealed to
his reviler. But Griffiths, setting aside
his avarice, could have needed no in-
struction on this point. He knew
Goldsmith's merits, and was ready to
negotiate Avith him for a Life of Vol-
taire, out of the allowance for which
the debt to the tailor was paid. The
publication of the Essay on Polite
Learning followed, and gave the au-
thor at once a respectable standing in
the world of letters. He had written
an independent book, in which he
had manfully and tenderly protested
against the assumptions which stood
in the way of men of genius, and it
could hardly be perused by a candid,
intelligent reader without ranking
its author among their number. His
course from the date of the publica-
tion of this work was onward.

The Essay on Polite Learning,
though relieved by much happy
illustration, was, upon the whole, a
purely didactic work, where the free-
dom of movement of the writer's mind
was fettered by the conditions of the
subject. Nor had he a fair opportu-
nity as yet to exhibit his peculiar vein
in the magazines, in which his writings
had been confined mainly to reviews.
He was now to appear in his individ-
ual character, subject to no law but
that of his humor, as the genial essay-
ist, to which department of literature,
aftei- all that had been accomplished

in the Tatlers, Spectators, and Guar-
dians, he was to impart an ease and
gracefulness entirely his own. At the
solicitation of Wilkie, a bookseller in
St, Paul's Churchyard, he undertook
the preparation of a collection of mis-
cellaneous papers to be published
weekly in a distinct pamphlet fonn,
to which he gave the title, " The Bee."
The 'first number appeared at the be-
ginning of October, 1759, and was fol-
lowed by seven others, the contents of
which were all furnished by himself.
Somehow, as a whole, the publica-
tion, though it contained a nimiber of
very pleasing papers, was not success-
ful. It was too much of a miscellany
to fasten the attention of the town.
At least we may infer this from the
better reception of the writer's next
ventui'e in this line, when he had the
advantage of greater apparent unity
in one Continuous thread upon which
to hang his observations. This was
but a couple of months later, when he
commenced in the new daily paper
started by Newbery, the " Public Led-
ger," the series of letters in the char-
acter of a Chinese Philosopher visiting
England, subsequently collected under
the title of " The Citizen of the World."
Under this thin disguise he had the
privilege of satirizing with greater
freedom than he might otherwise have
assumed, the vices and follies of the
day ; while a certain piquancy in the
invention of his observer. Lien Chi
Altangi, the curiosities of whose " flow.-
ery land" were then coming into fash-
ionable vogue, gave an interest to re-
flections on matters of government and
politics, which had become dull and
wearisome in the ordinary forms of dis-

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

cussion. Goldsmitli, too, by this time,
from liis practice in magazines and
reviews, had become a thorough adept
in the arts of composition in this
lighter walk of literature, and success
had given him courage to trust to his
own genius. The volumes of the " Citi-
zen of the World" contain some of
his most charming -\vi-itings. The style,
in his unapproachable idiomatic felic-
ity, invests the most familiar topics
with interest, while it is frequently the
medium of new ideas, on the most im-
portant. He is more than once in ad-
vance of his age as a reformer on ques-
tions of national and domestic policy,
ventilates various sound notions of so-
cial as well as political economy, and
is always on the side of virtue and
humanity. His satire on occasion is
sufficiently pungent ; but it has no bit-
terness, and is always sheathed in the
most exquisite humor. As the papers
grew in number from week to week,
his wit, so far from flagging, acquired
new powers by exertion; his touch
was at once lighter and more assured ;
and in his introduction of the " Man
in Black," disguising his benevolence
under an assumption of cynicism, and
in " Beau Tibbs," who sought to con-
ceal the poverty of his poor vain life
by the pretences of the imagination,
he added two new and delightful char-
acters, worthy of association with
Roger de Coverley and his friends in
the " Spectator," to the gallery of Eng-
lish Action.

The enterprise of Newbery in his
various literary undertakings now gave
Goldsmith constant employment, with
a paymaster ready to assist him in his
occasional extra pecuniary necessities,

the result usually of his generosity
and hospitality. The squalid lodging
in Green Arbor Court was deserted for
respectable rooms in Wine Office Court,
Fleet Street, where, in the spring of
1761, we hear of Johnson as a visitor,
and a year or so later, also under the
wing of Newbery, our author is in
pleasant rural quarters at Islington,
daily entertaining his fi'iends in the
intervals of his preparation of a series
of letters on the History of England,
which, with an eye to popular favor,
were set forth on their publication as
addressed by a nobleman to his son.
The device was successful enough, the
knowing ones of the day variously at-
tributing the book to Lords Chester-
field, Orrery and Lyttelton ; so true in
that time were the lines of Pope :

" Let but a Lord once own the happy lines,
How the wit brightens and the sense reiines."

The year 1764 is memorable in the
life of Goldsmith, for in that he wrote
the "Vicar of Wakefield," and com-
pleted his poem of the "Traveller."
The first knowledge which we have of
the former is in a striking scene in
which Johnson appears as an actor.
The story as related by Johnson him-
self with great exactness is thus given
by Boswell. " I received," said John-
son, " one morning, a message from
poor Goldsmith that he was in great
distress, and, as it was not in his power
to come to me, begging that I would
come to him as soon as possible. I
sent him a guinea, and promised to
come to him directly. I accordingly
went as soon as I was dressed, and
found that his landlady had arrested
him for his rent, at Avhich he was in a

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

violent passion. I perceived that he
had already changed my guinea, and
had got a bottle of Madeira and a
glass before him. I put the cork into
the bottle, desired he would be calm,
and began to talk to him of the means
by which he might be extricated. He
then told me that he had a work
ready for the press, which he produced
to ma I looked into it, and saw its
merit ; told the landlady I should soon
return ; and having gone to a booksel-
ler, sold it for sixty pounds. I brought
Goldsmith the money, and he dis-
charged his rent, not without rating
his landlady in a high tone for having
used him so ill." The bookseller to
whom Johnson sold the work was
Francis Newbery, nephew to the pub-
lisher of the " Citizen of the World,"
by whom it was kept more than a
year before it was issiied from the
press. Meanwhile, the elder Newbery
had issued " The Traveller ; or, a Pros-
pect of Society, a Poem by Oliver Gold-
smith, M. B.;" the first of his publica-
tions to which he had put his name on
the title-page. He felt, doubtless, that
it Avas a distinct personal revelation
of himself, something which he might
emphatically call his own, and leave
to the world as a representation of his
peculiar powers.

To point out the beauties of this
poem, would be to comment upon every
passage ; and, indeed, it may be safely
left to the admiration of its myriad
readers. Thougli praised by Johnson
and successful at the start, passing in
a few months through four editions, it
grew, by degrees, like all works of ge-
nius, in popular estimation. The best
test of its merit is that now, after the

extraordinary production of a new race
of poets of the highest powers in the
nineteenth century, it is as secure of ad-
miration as ever. And the same may
be said of the ever enduring "Vicar,"
which was less appreciated on its first
appearance than the poem. " The first
pure example in English literature,"
says Forster " of the simple domestic
novel," and in spite of all attempts
since, still the purest and brightest.
Every one knows and loves its exqui-
site grace and humor, its idyllic scenes,
its characters daily repeated in real life,
and ever new to us in the book ; the
jests which never tire, the moralities
which never grow stale, the tender hu-
manity which lurks in every sentence,
its cheerful gayeties and the darkening
shadows over the gentle picture, which
bring still stronger into relief, the ami-
ability and charity of the whole.

Whatever Goldsmith touched with
his pen he seemed to turn into an en-
during monument of himself. By two
brief productions he had now secured
lasting fame as poet and novelist ; his
next attempt was in the humorous
drama, and there, too, though his con-
temporaries failed fully to perceive the
fact, he again wrote his name high on
the lists of the genius of his country
men. Of his two comedies, "The
Good Natured Man," first produced
in 1768, and " She Stoops to Conquer,"
five years afterwards, the last has
proved the most successful. In their
own day they met with considerable
opposition, for they came to supplant
a school of sentimental comedy, if
comedy so tearful a business can be
properly called, which then held pos-
session of the stage. " During some

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

years," Macaulay tells us, " more tears
were shed at comedies than at trage-
dies; and a pleasantry wliicli roused
the audience to anything more than a
grave smile was reprobated as low. It
is not strange, therefore, that the very
best scene in the ' Good Natured
Man,' that in which Miss Richland
finds her lover attended by the bailiff
and the bailiff's folloAver in full court
dresses, should have been mercilessly
hissed, and should have been omitted
after the first night." It seems to have
been a hard struggle with the audi-
ence, but the humor of Goldsmith, se-
. conded by the irresistible powers of
Ned Shuter, the original Croaker, car-
ried the day. Johnson, who, whatever
liberties he may have taken with Gold-
smith in conversation, was always
strong in his favor on critical occa-
sions, stood firmly by his side at the
production of both his plays. He
furnished the Prologue to the " Good
Natured Man," and worthily received
the dedication of " She Stoops to Con-
quer." " It may do me some honour,"
writes Goldsmith, " to inform the pub-
lic that I have lived many years in in-
timacy with you. It may serve the
interest of mankind also to inform
them, that the greatest wit may be
found in a character, without impair-
ing the most unaffected piety." In the
later play, produced, like its prede-
cessor, at Covent Garden Theatre, un-
der the management of the elder Col-
man, Shuter was the Hardcastle and
Quick the Tony Lumpkin of the ori-
ginal cast. Mrs. Bulkley represented
the young lady heroine in both pieces.
Miss Richland in the one and Miss

Garrick, who

Hardcastle in the other.

had unluckily rejected the " Good Ma-
tured Man," when offered to him for
perfoiTuance at Drury Lane, disinterest-
edly furnished the prologue spoken by
Woodward to "She Stoops to Con-
quer."

Intermediate between the two plays,
in 1770, appeared Goldsmith's second
poem, a companion piece to " The Tra-
veller," "The Deserted Village." It
was dedicated to Sir Joshua Reynolds.
As its name imports, its design is to
contrast a picture of rural felicity,
with its loss in the abandonment of
home under the pressure of wealthy
oppression. In this respect, as Macau-
lay has remarked, " it is made up of
incongruous parts. The village in its
happy days is a true English village.
The village in its decay is an Irish vil-
lage. The felicity and the misery which
Goldsmith has brought close together
belong to two different countries, and
to two different stages in the prospect
of society. He had assuredly never
seen in his native island such a rural
paradise, such a seat of plenty, content
and tranquility, as his Auburn. He
had assuredly never seen in England
all the inhabitants of such a paradise
turned out of their homes in one day
and forced to emigrate in a body to
America. The hamlet he had probably
seen in Kent; the ejectment he had
probably seen in Munster; but by
joining the two, he has produced some-
thinor which never was and never will
be seen in any part of the world."
But, notwithstanding all its errors of
situation and political economy, the
poem will be read for its felicitous
scenes and imagery. " Sweet Aubui'n "
remains, and will still continue to be

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

the " loveliest village of the plain ;"
and though, as a fact, men do not decay
where "wealth accumulates," the se-
quel of the passage has a sterling ring
whenever and wherever it can be ap-
plied :

" Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;
A breath can malso them, as a breath has

made;
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
"When once destroyed, can never be suppUed."

No one knew better than Goldsmith
the truth in social economy, that lux-
ury, far from being the enemy, is the
friend of civilization, by creating new
wants and calling forth for their sup-
ply the higher arts of man. He had
advocated this idea in his Chinese
Letters in the " Public Ledger." " Ex-
amine," says he there, " the history of
any country remarkable for patience
and wisdom, you will find they would
never have been wise had they not
been first luxurious ; you Avill find poets,
philosophers, and even patriots, march-
ing in luxury's train." But the ex-
igencies of his poem led him appa-
rently to take another view of the
matter. However, few readers think
of the philosophy of the poem, or
judge it by the rules of Adam Smith,
while thousands admire its descrip-
tions of the Village Preacher, the
homely " splendors," a cabinet Dutch
picture, of the ale-house, and the sweet
rural scenery which surrounds it.

The works which we have described,
by which Goldsmith survives, the po-
ems, the novel, the plays, were written
for fame. There were a host of others,
of which Histories of Rome, England,
Greece, and a History of Animated
Nature, wi-itten by contract for the
6

booksellers, were to supply his imme-
diate necessities. They gave him a re-
venue which he freely expended upon
his friends, but any vanity of dress or
hospitality which they may have led
him to assume, cost him dear in the
constant drudgery to which they sub-
jected him. And yet mth all his ef-
forts he was constantly in pecuniary
embarrassment. It is painful to sur-
vey his life in the details of his petty
miseries as they have been disclosed to
view by his minute biographers. It is
still more painful to think what fine
powers were lost to the world by his
sudden death in the midst of his embar-
rassments, when the ink was hardly
dry on his splendid fragment " Retali-
ation," a poem, one of the happiest
of its kind, a series of living portraits,
literary companions to those of Rey-
nolds, of his eminent fellow-members
of the Club — Burke, Garrick, Cumber-
land and Reynolds among the num-
ber. What a sketch misht he have
written with equal candor, good na-
ture, and still more of feeling, of John-
son. But it was not so to be. There
is something very melancholy in the
history of this last exertion of Gold-
smith's poetical faculty. It was writ-
ten to meet a studied provocation by
the members of the old social Club.
In his absence it was proposed to -write
an epitaph upon him, Garrick ever
ready upon such occasions, and the in-
veterate punster, Caleb Whitefoord,
appearing as the leading instigators.
Garrick's has been preserved, and is
often quoted :

"Here lies Nolly Goldsmith, for shortness call'd
Noll,
Wlio wrote like an angel, but talk'd like poor
Poll. •'

OLIVEE GOLDSMITH.

The verses, whatever were written,
reached Goldsmith, who was called up-
on to "retaliate." And in how just
and kindly a manner, in a general way,
he set about the task, pointing his sen-
tences the most severe with wit with-
out malice, and tempering censure with
the most considerate of praise. Before
he had finished the poem, leaving a
line on Reynolds half ended, he was
taken ill of the fever, which after a
few days' illness carried him off on the
4th of April, 1774. He had only re-
cently completed his forty-fifth year.
He was buried in a gi-ave in the
churchyard of the Temple, near his
residence. No stone was placed there
at the time to mark the spot, and the
exact place where the poet was inter-
red cannot at the present day be de-
termined. A public funeral had been
proposed, but a private ceremony was
thoua;ht more in accordance with the
circumstances of his death. But on
the stairs which led to his chambers,
in Brick Court, was gathered, beside
the few family mourners, a number of
the homeless poor women whom he
had befriended. A monument, sug-
gested by Reynolds and sculptured by
NoUekens, Avas not long after erected

in Westminster Abbey, to which John-
son furnished the Latin inscription,
weighty with words of admiration for
his friend and his writings, which the
love of posterity daily confirms.

A portion of the lines are intelligi-
ble enough, even to persons unfamiliar
with the language, so often have they
been cited and admired. We allude
to the opening :

OlIVARII GOLBSMITn,

PoetEe, Physici, Historici,
qui nullum fere scribendi genus

non tetigit,
nullum quod tetigit non ornavit.

The whole has been literally and
elegantly rendered by Mr. Forster.
We give it entire, omitting the records

of the
close :

poet's birth and death at the

Of Oliver QoLDSMirn —

Poet, Naturalist, Historian,

■who left scarcely any kind of writing

untouclied,

and touched nothing that he did not adorn :

Whether smiles were to be stirred

or tears,

commanding our emotions, yet a gentle master

In genius lofty, lively, versatile,

in style, weighty, clear, engaging —

The memory in this monument is cherished

by the love of Companions,

the faithfulness of Friends,

the reverence of Readers.

<^yi..^

HANNAH MORE.

HANNAH MORE was born m
1745, at the village of Stapleton,
Gloucestershire, England, where lier
father, Jacob More, a man of a learned
education, was then, in charge of a char-
ity school. He was of a respectable
family and had been intended for the
church, but was led by want of means
to the inferior occupation of a country
schoolmaster. He was a tory and
high-churchman, though other mem-
bers of the family were Presbyterians.
He married a farmer's daughter, like
himself a person of sound intellect.
There were five daughers the issue of
this marriage, of whom Hannah was
the youngest but one. She exhibited
in her earliest childhood a remarkable
quickness of apprehension, learning to
read between her third and fourth
year, and before she had reached the
latter, recited her catechism in church
to the admiration of the village rector.
Her nurse, who is described as a pious
old woman, had a distant flavor of lit-
erature about her, having lived in the
family of the poet Dryden, and thus
early the name and fame of " glorious
John," became familiar to her infant
charge. "The inquisitive mind of the
little Hannah," says her biographer,

Roberts, " was continually prompting
her to ask for stories about the poet
Dryden." At the age of eight, the
child had developed an eager thirst for
learning, which her father was abun-
dantly able to gratify out of the stock
of his professional acquisitions. His
stock of books was scanty, the greater
part of them having been lost in his re-
moval from his birth-place in Norfolk-
shire to Stapleton ; but he supplied the
deficiency from his memory, taking his
daughter upon his knee and narrating
to her stories of the Greeks and Ro-
mans, " reciting to her the speeches of
his favorite heroes, first in their origi-
nal language to gratify her ear with
the sound, and afterwards translating
them into English ; particularly dwel-
ling on the parallels and wise sayings
of Phitarch; and these recollections
made her often afterward remark, that
the conversation of an enlightened pa-
rent or preceptor, constituted one of
the best parts of education."

In this, and in other particulars of
the mental growth and literary pro-
cess of Hannah More, we are remind-
ed of the similar intellectual develop-
ment of Maria Edgeworth. She also
was mainly taught in her childhood

(43)

HANNAH MOEE.

by her father, and constantly incul-
cates in her admirable writings for the
young, the advantage of this family
oral instruction. Indeed, Avith impor-
tant differences, there is a certain pa-
rallelism in the career of- the two per-
sonages. Both entered the literary
field early, were welcomed by the i:)ub-
lic at the start and continued to study
and wi'ite under favorable circum-
stances, through an imusually prolong-
ed term of life. Miss Edgeworth, in-
deed, was born twenty-two years later,
but the two were on the earth together
for sixty-six years, and, during the most
stirring events of that period circling
about the era of the French Revolu-
tion, were in their prime. Both Avere
favorites of society, and saw much of
the most cultivated people of their
times. The object of both, as authors,
was the improvement of their readers,
and there was a great resemblance in
the method of their labors in their
plain, practical instructions on educa-
tional topics, though one drew more
froln every-day experience and illus-
trated the lesson Avith gaiety and hu-
mor, while the other, as we shall see,
appealed constantly to the sanctions
of religion and Christianity. In this
respect, one, in fact, supplements the
other. Add Hannah More to Maria
EtlgcAvorth, and you have a perfect
whole.

Hannah More gained from her father
an early knoAvdedge of Latin, Avhich she
afterwards improved and constantly
maintained. She also gradually ac-
quired an intimate acquaintance Avith
French in reading and speaking. It
was her parents' design that the chil-
dren should be qualified to conduct a

lady's boarding school; and for this
purpose the eldest sister was sent to a
French school at Bristol. Returning
at the end of each week to pass the
Sunday at home, she communicated
what she had learned to Hannah, Avho
proved an apt pupil. This scheme
of education succeeded so well, that
about the year 1757, the eldest sisters
opened the projected boarding school
at Bristol, and prosecuted it from the
beginning Avith success. Hannah, then
at the age of tAvelve, Avas taken Avith
them and continued her studies with
the double incentive of the loA^e of
knowledge, and a maintenance for life
invoh^ed in its immediate acquisition.
Addison's "Spectator," the constant
companion of the generation in which
she Avas born, Avhich has lit the way
to so many youthful minds in the pur-
suit of letters and cheerful observation
of the world, Avas the first book, we
are told, which at this time engrossed
her attention. The arrival of the elder
Sheridan, the father of Richard Brins-
ley, who came to deliver his famous
lectures on oratory at Bristol, proA-ed
an interesting point in Miss More's
life. Sheridan had been on the boards
at Druiy Lane, a species of riA^al to
Garrick, and had for years been con-
nected Avith the theatre at Dublin.
When he left the stage, he devoted
himself to the cause of education. His
lectures, Ave may suppose, retained the
best part of his theatrical declamation.
They made a great impression on the
mind of Miss More, then in her six-
teenth j^ear. She addressed some
A'erses to Sheridan, AA'hich led to his
making her acquaintance. In all this,
her mind Avas doubtless directed or as-

HANliTAH MORE.

sisted in a tendency to dramatic com-
position wliicli soon manifested itself,
and, in no long time, resulted in lier
sharing the glories of the British
stage.

She was also benefited at this early-
period of her life hj her acquaintance
Avith Ferguson the astronomer, who
delivered a course of popular lectures
at Bristol ; and still more by the in-
sti'uctions of a Mr. Peach, a linen-dra-
per of the town, a man of cultivation
in English literature, who had been
the friend of Hume, and claimed the
credit of removing from his History
of England, more than two hundred
Scotticisms. Encouraged by such as-
sociations as these, and inspired by the
work of education in her sisters' school,
with Avhich she was connected, she,
now in her seventeenth year, executed
her first important literary work. It
grew out of the recitations in the
school, which she observed were often
drawn from plays, the moral character
of which would not bear too close an
inspection. In a minor way, as Racine
wrote his sacred dramas of " Esther "
and " Athalie," at the request of Ma-
dame de Maintenon in her religious
days, for performance before her young
ladies at St. Cyr, so Miss Hannah More
prepared her pastoral drama, '"The
Search After Happiness." It is in a
number of scenes in ten syllable rhym-
ed verse, interrupted by occasional
lyric effusions.

In accordance with its moral intent,
we have in the drama four ladies sev-
erally discontented with the world
meeting in a grove in search of the
happiness which they had not found
in fashion, a vain pursuit of science,

the seductions of imagination or the
languors of indifference, for in each of
these varieties have Eujihelia, Cleora,
Pastorella and Laurinda, been in turn
engrossed. Florella, a young, virtuous,
contented shejDherdess, does the honors
of the grove ; and Urania, an antique
maiden of greater authority, reviews
the passions of them all, shows their
inefficiency for beings of immortal
growth, and points the way to the
better life, bidding them :

" On holy faith's aspiring pinions rise,
Assert your birthright, and assume the skies."

The moral is a good one, the pictures
of life in a certain general way, accord-
ing to the fashion of the literature of
the time, are piquant and animated;
but we question whether young ladies
of the present era are often employed
in recitations from this elegant poem'.
Neither, on the other hand, do they
declaim passages from the wicked
plays it was intended to supersede.
The argument of Miss More, as it is
given in her prologue, is insufiicient.
It begs the whole question of dramatic
power and interest. People do not
necessarily become vicious by even the
ardent impersonation of such passions
as she would supersede by the utter-
ance of simple, moral and religious re-
flections, or ]\Ii's. Siddons, who bore a
most estimable character, would have
become from her performance of Lady
Macbeth, one of the most wicked per-
sons of her sex. Miss More, in truth,
concedes this by her lively jjictures of
the world in this very innocent pasto-
ral drama, and when she herself came
to write for the stage, she invoked the
passions she here laments.

From a very early period of her life,

HANNAH MOEE.

Miss More attached herself to persons
of eminence and distinction in the so-
ciety by which she was surrounded.
As she couhl have gained little from
the position in which she was placed,
one of a group of several maiden la-
dies earning their living by school-
teaching, the attentions which she re-
ceived must have been wholly owing
to her happy disposition and literary
acquirements. Besides Latin and
French, she cultivated the Spanish
and Italian tongues. From the latter
she translated and adapted some of
the dramatic works of Metastasio.
Most of these were destroyed. One of
them, based on the Opera of Kegulus,
she afterwards extended into a tragedy
in five acts, entitled "The Inflexible
Captain."

It Avas about the time Ave are vsriting
of, when she was at the age of tAventy-
tAvo, that a Mr. Turner, a gentleman of
wealth, living on a fine estate, and
nearly double her OAvn age, fascinated
by her agreeable qualities, proposed to
her in marriage and Avas accepted. The
thing got so far that she quitted the
school, and made some expensive pre-
parations for her neAv mode of life.
Mr. Turner, hoAvever, liesitated, and
the marriage Avas broken off. He,
hoAvever, settled an anniiity upon her,
to enable her to devote hei'self to her
literary pursuits, and on his death left
her a thousand pounds.

We now reach a memorable point in
Miss More's life, the year of her first
introduction to London society. In
the year 1774, Avhen she was approach-
ing the age of thirty, she A'isited the
metropolis Avith tAvo of her sisters, and
was introduced to David Garrick, Avho

had been enlisted in her favor by see-
ing a letter, shoAvn to him by a com-
mon friend, in which she described her
emotions on witnessing his perform-
ance of Lear. The great actor Avas a
very sociable and friendly man, highly
appreciative of literary excellence, and
doubtless thought not the less of it
Avhen it Avas displayed by an agreealjle
young lady in admiration of himself
The acquaintance soon rij^ened into an
intimacy, which remained unbroken
durinsj his life. The theatre Avas then
in the ascendant, and Miss More, spite
of her recommendations of the simple
moral drama in her pastoral play at
Bristol, entered heartily into its de-
lights. She Avas present at the perform-
ance of Sheridan's first dramatic pro-
duction, the "Rivals," of AA'hich she
says : — " On the Avhole I Avas tolerably
entertained." She also Avitnesses a re-
presentation of General Burgoyne's
" Maid of the Oaks." Garrick Avas for
the time unable from ill health to ap-
pear upon the stage. " If he does not
get Avell enough to act soon," Avrites
the enthusiastic Hannah, "I shall
break my heart."

Miss More had a very useful friend
in London in Miss Reynolds, the sister
of Sir Joshua, by whom also she was
much admired. Garrick and Reynolds
oj^ened to her an enti-ance to the fore-
most literary society. The former in-
troduced her to Mrs. Montagu, then
in the ascendant Avith all her charms
of Avit and cleA^erness, the presiding
deity of those Montagu House assem-
blies, Avhich gave a new and lasting
name to the female cultiA*ators of litera-
tiire, the " Blue Stockings." It ori-
ginated Avith Admiral BoscaAA'en, whose

HANNAH MORE.

wife was one of tlie most brilliant of
the set. Looking one evening at Dr.
Stillingfleet's gray stockings, wliick
were quite out of keeping with, the
fashionable requirements of the time,
he christened the free-and-easy com-
pany the " Blue Stocking Society." It
was a palpable hit. A name was
wanted for a new thing imder the sun
in England, a cultivated lady courting
society and challenging attention for
her literary attainments. In those gos-
siping days, so brightly reflected in the
letters of Walpole,i.he term was caught
up with avidity, and from that day to
this literary ladies have had to endure
this nonsensical appellation because slo-
venly Parson Stillingfleet appeared one
night at Mrs. Montagu's in blue wors-
ted stockings. A letter addressed by
Miss More to one of her sisters, to be
found in her published correspondence,
gves us an interesting view of this learn-
ed society. It would appear from a sub-
sequent letter of Miss More, that this
party at Mi-s. Montagu's was on a
Sunday evening, a fact of which she
was reminded by a letter from home
containing a clerical admonition from
Dr. Stonehouse. She received it in
good part, and acknowledged the de-
linquency. " Conscience," she writes,
" had done its office before ; nay, was
busy at the time ; and if it did not
dash the cup of pleasure to the ground,
infused at least a tincture of worm-
wood into it." The thought recurs to
her again at a Sunday's dinner at Mrs.
Boscawen's ; but as she reflects she
finds there is preaching and solemnity
in life everywhere, even in its gayest
moments — a truth worth remembering
by a certain class", of moralists — very

touching in its expression by Miss
More. After her return at night from
this Sunday dinner, she Avrites, " One
need go no further than the company
I have just left, to be convinced that
'pain is for man,' and that fortune,
talents, and science are no exemption
from the universal lot. Mrs. Montagu,
eminently distinguished for wit and
virtue, the wisest where all are wise,
is hastening to insensible decay by a
slow but sure hectic. Mrs. Chapman
has experienced the severest reverses
of fortune, and Mrs. Boscawens' life
has been a continued series of afflic-
tions, that may almost bear a parallel
■with those of the righteous man of
Uz."

Hannah More's acquaintance with
Dr. Johnson deserves a separate para-
graph. She came up to London with
a desire of all things to see the great
Doctor, for whom she had always a
sincere admiration and respect. His
moral writings in the " Eambler,"
greatly influenced her thought and
style. The attentions paid to John-
son strike readers of the present day
with surprise. A first interview ^vith
him was looked forward to w^ith the
greatest anxiety, and, when accom-
plished, was frequently recorded as
a prominent event in life. The
honors paid to literature and art in
the high social importance and esti-
mation of Johnson, Reynolds, Garrick
and Biu'ke and their fellows, are cer-
tainly to the credit of English life in
that much abused eighteenth century.
The world has since grown more de-
mocratic, and literature, perhaps,
through the press, more powerful, but
the republic of letters would then ap-

HANNAH MORE.

pear to have been more fully recog-
nized as a social institution than at
present. Miss More first met Johnson
at the house of Sir Joshua Reynolds.
It was frequently a matter of uncer-
tainty whether a new comer would be
received by the learned Doctor with a
growl or a smile. It depended very
much upon his physical condition, and
that often influenced his mind, when
he became moody and sj)lenetic. On
handing Miss More up-stairs to the
drawing-room where Johnson had al-
ready arrived, Reynolds advised Miss
More of the risk she was running. The
more pleasant was consequently her
surprise when the dreaded Leviathan
came forward to meet her, as described
by her biographer, " with good humor
in his countenance, and a macaw of
Sir Joshua's in his hand, and still more,
at his accosting her with a verse fi'om
a Morning Hymn which she had 'SATit-
ten at the desire of Sir James Stone-
house," They were soon on a most
excellent footing. Miss More was pre-
sently taken by Miss Reynolds to
Johnson's house. " Can you picture
to yourselves," writes one of Hannah's
sisters who was with her, to the family
at home, "the palpitation of our
hearts as we approached his mansion ?"
They talked with the Doctor about his
"Tour to the Hebrides," which was
just coming out, and were introduced
to the Doctor's protege, Mrs. Williams,
the blind poet, whose conversation they
found lively and entertaining. The
Doctor was told how Miss Hannah on
coming in, before he made his appear-
ance, had seated herself in his great
chair with the hope of catching a little
ray of his genius, which he, of course.

laughed at, saying that he never sat in
that chair, and that it reminded him
of an adventure of Boswell and him-
self in the Highlands ; how, when they
were stopping a night at an inn at the
place where they imagined the weird
sisters had appeared to Macbeth, they
were quite deprived of rest at the idea,
and how, the next morning, they were
informed that all this happened in
quite another part of the country.
Miss Reynolds also told the Doctor of
the raptures the ladies were in as they
rode along in the carriage at the pros-
pect of visiting him, when he shook
his head at Hannah, and said " she
was a silly thing ! "

At tea, one evening at Sir Joshua's,
she was placed next to Johnson and
had him entirely to herself. "They
were both," ■«Tites her sister Sarah,
" in remarkably high spirits ; it was
certainly her lucky night ! I never
heard her say so many good things.
The old genius was extremely jocular,
and the young one very pleasant. You
would have imagined we had been at
some comedy, had you heard our peals
of laughter. They, indeed, tried which
could 'pepper the highest,' and it is
not clear to me that the lexicographer
was really the highest seasoner."

The record of another visit to John-
son is of interest, for its reference to
the personal history of the Mores. It
occurs in a letter of one of the sisters
in 1776. "If a wedding," she writes
from London to the family at Bristol,
" should take place before our return,
don't be surprised, — ^between the mo-
ther of Sir Eldred and the father of
my much-loved Irene ; nay, Mrs. Mon-
tagu says, if tender words are the pre-

HANI^AH MORE.

cursors of connubial engagements, we
may expect great things ; for it is no-
thing but ' chihl,' ' little fool, ' love,'
and ' dearest.' After much critical dis-
course, he turns round to me, and with
one of his most amiable looks, which
must be seen to form the least idea of
it, he says : ' I have heard that you are
encraored in the useful and honorable
employment of teaching young ladies,'
upon which, with all the same ease,
familiarity and confidence we should
have done had only our own dear Dr.
Stonehouse been present, we entered
upon the history of our birth, parent-
age and education ; showing how we
were born Avith more desires than gui-
neas ; and how, as years increased our
appetites, the cupboard at home began
to grow too small to gratifythem ; and
how, Avith a bottle of watei", a bed, and
a blanket, we set out to seek our for-
tunes; and how we found a great
house, with nothing in it ; and how it
was likely to remain so, till looking
into our knowledge-boxes, we haj)pen-
ed to find a little laming, a good
thing when land is gone, or rather
none : and so at last, by giving a little
of this laming to those who had less
we got a good store of gold in return ;
but how, alas ! we wanted the wit to
keep it. 'I love you both,' said the
inamorato — ' I love you all five — I
never was at Bristol — I will come on
purpose to see you — what ! five wo-
men live happily together ! — I Avill
come and see you — I have sjjent a hap-
py evening — I am glad I came — God
for ever bless you, you live to shame
duchesses.' lie took his leave with
so much warmth and tenderness, we
were quite affected at his manners."
7

The " Sir Eldred " alluded to at the
beginning of the letter, was the hero
of a legendary tale, entitled, " Sir El-
dred of the Bower," Avhich Hannah
More had shortly before published in
London — a ballad of the modern school
of Goldsmith's Edwin and Angelina,
in the same easy, gentle measure. A
faultless hero marries the blameless
daughter of a neio-hborins: knight, all
in the 2:)rettiest rural scenery and sur-
roundings, when the lady's long lost
brother returns from the wars to clasp
her in his arms. Sir Eldi'ed, who is
passionate, finds them in this attitude
and slays the stranger on the spot, the
wife dies on the instant in sympathy
with her brother, and Eldred lives a
little longer in too wretched a condi-
tion for the muse to describe. The
poem was accepted as a certificate of
the talents of the author by the lite-
rary world of the day. Johnson ad-
mired it, recited its best passages from
memory, and contributed a stanza of
his own to the poem, and Garrick, at
a little party at her house, gave the
finest pathetic expression to its tender
melancholy. "I think," writes Han-
nah, " I never was so ashamed in my
life; but he read it so superlatively,
that I cried like a child. Only think
what a scandalous thing, to cry at the
reading of one's own poetry ! I could
have beaten myself ; for it looked as
if I thought it very moving, which, I
can truly say, is far from being the
case. But the beauty of the jest lies
in this : Mrs. Garrick twinkled as well
as I, and made as many apologies for
crying at her husband's reading, as I
did for crying at my own verses. She
got out of the scrape by pretending

HANNAH MOEE.

she was touched at the story, and I^
by saying the same thing of the read-
ing. It furnished us witli a great laugh
at the catastrophe, when it woukl really
have been decent to have been a little
sorroAvful." Garrick, who was a mas-
ter of courtly compliment, in occasional
society verses, wrote a few stanzas on
"Sir Eldred," signed, "Roscius," in
which he celebrates the triumph of a
female genius over the wits of the other
sex. Miss More was not behind the
versatile David in these poetical atten-
tions. She addressed a tame sonnet
to the river Thames, on Mr. and Mrs.
Garrlek's birthday, and wrote a rather
clever ode to Dragon, his housedog, at
Hampton, in which she introduces some
pretty compliments to Roscius on his
retirement from the stasje.

No inamorato was ever more devoted
to a lover than Miss More to Garrick,
in attendance upon his last perform-
ances at Drury Lane. Her devotion
was paid not less to his kindly qualities
as a man, than to his genius as an actor.
He was one of the first to give her a
helping hand on her ai-rival in London.
He welcomed her to his seat on the
Thames at Hampton, where she passed
many days and weeks, domesticated as
a member of the family while he read
to her, she tells us, " all the Avhimsical
correspondence, in prose and verse,
which for many years, he had carried
on with the first geniuses of the age " —
the very letters, Ave presume, which are
now gathered in the two ample qiiartos
of the " Garrick Correspondence," to
which the epistles of Hannah herself
contributed not the least delightful
pages. We may follow her in her
charming letters, through her visits to

Drury Lane during Garrick's last sea-
sons on the stage. "Let the Muses shed
tears," she writes in 1776, "for Garrick
has this day sold the patent of Drury
Lane Theatre, and will never act after
this winter. Sic transit gloria mundi ?
He retires with all his blushing honors
thick about him, his laurels as green as
in their early spring. Wlio shall supply
his loss to the staa:e ? Who shall now
hold the master-key of the human heart ?
Who direct the passions with more than
magic jDower ? Who purify the stage ?
and who, in short, direct and nurse my
dramatic muse ? " Of the last anon.

On the very day that Garrick took
his leave of the stage, after he had intro-
duced the whole series of his perform-
ances in London, Miss More wrote from
Bristol to the departing Eoscius — " I
think by the time this reaches you I
may congratulate you on the end of
your labors and the completion of
your fame — a fame Avhich has had no
parallel, and will have no end. Surely,
to have suppressed your talents in the
moment of your highest capacity for
exerting them, does as much honour to
your heart as the exertion itself did to
your dramatic character ; but I cannot
trust mj'self on this subject, because,
as Sterne says, ' I am Avriting to the
man himself;' yet I ought to be in-
dulged, for, is not the recollection of
my pleasures all that is left to me of
them ? Have I not seen in one season
that man act seven and twenty times,
and rise each time in excellence, and
shall I be silent ? Have I not spent
three month under the roof of that
man and his dear, charming lady, and
received from them favors that would
take me another three months to tell

HANNAH MORE.

over, and shall I be silent ? " In tlie
distribution of souvenirs of the last
performance of Garrick, Miss More re-
ceived from him the shoe buckles which
he wore in Don Felix, upon which Mrs.
Barbauld wrote a doggrel epigram : —

"Thy buckles, O Garrick, thy friend may now
use,
But no mortal hereafter shall tread In thy
shoes."

Miss More's intimacy ^viih. Garrick was
continued after his retirement from the
stage, when, though he jjlayed no more,
he still, like Pope's departed lady of
fashion, " o'erlooked the cards." She
sends him from time to time various
little items of theatrical gossip fi'om
the provincial stage at Bungay, where
she is on a visit, and Avhere the Nor-
wich tragedians play several of his
pieces — " Cymon," " Bon-Ton," and
" The Clandestine Marriage," which
he wi'ote with Colman. " A certain
Mi's. Ibbott plays Mrs. Heidleburg
more than tolerably, and a pretty-look-
ing Mrs. Simpson was very pleasing in
Fanny ;" and at Bristol, how Reddish
was there with an extempore Mrs.
Reddish, which excited much scandal
and opposition, " this being the second
or third wife he had produced at Bris-
tol : in a short time we have had a
whole bundle of Reddishes, and all re-
markably impungent ;" and how Red-
dish was pelted at his benefit, " but
didn't mind that, for he had a great
house." But the most important topic
of the correspondence, at least for the
gentle Hannah, was the prej^aration of
a certain tragedy of " Percy," which
she had under way with an eye to the
stao-e. The first two acts were c;ot off
in August, 1777, to Garrick, who ac-

knowledges their receipt, addressing
Miss More as "My dear Nine" — all
the Muses rolled into one. He talks
of a visit to Bath and Bristol. " Mrs.
Garrick," he says, "is studying your
two acts. "VVe shall bring them with
us, and she will criticise you to the
bone. A German commentator (Mon-
taigne says) will suck an author dry-
She is resolved to dry you up to a
slender shape, and has all her wits at
work upon you." Presently she sends
the third and fourth acts. "I shall
leave the fifth unfinished till I am so
happy as to be indulged with your in-
structions. I am at a loss how to man-
age it. As to madness, it is a rock on
which even good poets split ; — what,
then, will become of me ? It is so
difiicult and so dangerous, I am afraid
of it." Meantime Garrick is stimu-
lating her anxieties, " I hope you will
consider your dramatic matter with all
your wit and feeling. Let your fifth act
be worthy of you, and tear the heart to
pieces, or wo betide you ! I shall not
pass over any scenes or parts of scenes
that are merely written to make up a
certain number of lines. Such doino^s,
Madam Nine, will neither do for j'ou
nor for me." At last the play, dry-
nursed by Garrick, was, through his
agency, accepted by Harris, the man-
ager of Covent Garden, and brought
upon the stage. Garrick wrote both
prologue and epilogue, in the former
Avittily stii'ring up that anomalous per-
sonage the Chevalier D'Eon. Hannah
pronounced both excellent, and had
an amusing altercation, which she de-
scribes, over the price with the author,
who, of course, would receive nothing.
" Dryden," he said, " used to have five

HANNAH MOEE.

guineas apiece, but as lie was a riclier
man lie would he content if I Avould
treat him witli a handsome supper
and a Lottie of claret. We haggled
sadly about the price, I insisting that
I could only aiford to give him a beef-
steak and a pot of porter; and at
about twelve we sat do^vn to some
toast and honey, with which the tem-
perate bard contented himself." The
play under Garrick's auspices proved a
decided success. Both Mr. and Mrs.
Garrick were present with her at its
first j)erf oi'mance, when it was brought
out in December, It had a run of
seventeen nights, and that, too, while
the School for Scandal was in its first
season. It was published with a dedi-
cation to Earl Percy, for which she re-
ceived the thanks of that noble house,
communicated to her by Dr. Percy.
Home, the author of Douglas, was
then in London to witness the produc-
tion of his new play of Alfred, which
proved a failure. This did not, hoAV-
ever, prevent his complimenting his
rival on her success. Mrs. Montagu
and her blue stocking friends Avere, of
course, on hand with their applause.
"VYe get in the author's letters a
glimpse or tAvo of the acting. " One
tear is worth a thousand hands," she
Avrites ; " and I had the satisfaction to
see even the men shed them in abun-
dance." " Mrs. Barry is so very fine in
the mad scene, in the last act," Avrites
Miss More, " that though it is my OAvn
nonsense, I ahvays see that scene with
pleasure." LeaAdng Sir Joshua's one
evening after dinner, when the com-
pany had sat doAA^n to cards, to Avitness
that particular act, she is shocked at
entering the theatre to see " a A'ery in-

different house. I looked (she adds) on
the stage and saAv the scene was the
inside of a prison, and that the hero-
ine, AA^ho Avas then speaking, had on a
linen goAATi. I Avas quite stunned, and
really thought I had lost my senses,
when a smart man, in regimentals, be-
gan to sing, ' HoAV happy could I be
with either.' " LeAvis had been taken
ill, and the " Beggar's Opera " substi-
tuted for " Percy." The pecuniary re-
sults were very gratifying, the author's
nights, sale of the copy, etc., amount-
ing to near six hundred pounds, Avhich
Garrick 'invested for her on the best
security at five per cent. A first im-
pression of the play of four thousand
copies Avas sold at once, and a second
went off rapidly. Some forty years
after this first success, " Percy " was re-
vived at the same theatre, with Miss
O'Neil for the heroine.

About a year after the production
of " Percy," Miss More was summoned
to London by the death of Garrick.
She joined Mrs. Garrick at her express
desire, Avas with her Avhile prepara-
tions Avere being made for the public
funeral in Westminster Abbey, and
witnessed the ceremony from a gallery
overlooking the grave. Her descrip-
tion of the scene is full of feeling.
" We Avere no sooner recoA^ered from
the fresh burst of grief on taking our
places, than I east my eyes the first
thino; on Handel's monument, and read
the scroll in his hand — 'I know that
my Redeemer liA'eth.' Just at three,
the great doors burst open, Avith a
noise that shook the roof; the organ
struck up, and the Avhole choir, in
strains only less solemn than the ' arch-
angel's trump,' began Handel's fine

HANNAH MOKE.

anthem. The Avhole choir advanced
to the grave, in hoods and surplices,
singing all the way ; then Sheridan, as
chief mourner ; then the body, (alas !
whose body !) Avith ten noblemen and
gentlemen, pall-bearers ; then the rest
of the friends and mourners ; hardly a
dry eye — the very players, bred to the
trade of counterfeiting, shed genuine
tears." The friendship formed with
Mrs. Garriek in the life-time of her
husband remained unbroken during
their long subsequent career. Miss
More was for several years her con-
stant guest. She was with her in her
first season of bereavement, and, in her
correspondence, gives several touching
anecdotes of her conduct during: the
early period of her affliction.

At the time of Garrick's death. Miss
More had a second play Avhich had
partly undergone his revision, ready
for the stage. It Avas entitled " The
Fatal Falsehood," and Avas brought out
the same year Avith some success,
though inferior to that Avhich had at-
tended " Percy." Miss Young played
in it Avith much effect. The prologue
Avas AATitten ])y the author ; the ejiilo-
gue, by Sheridan, a fine piece of Avit in
an amusing picture of lady authorship,
delivered in the character of an envi-
ous poetaster.

The remainder of the year 1779 Avas
mostly passed by Miss ]\Iore Avith Mrs.
Garriek at Hampton in close retire-
ment, but, she Avrites, " I am never
dull, because I am not reduced to the
fatigue of entertaining dunces, or of
beins: obliged to listen to them. We
dress like a couple of scaramouches,
dispute like a couple of Jesuits, eat like
a couple of aldeiTaen, Avalk like a couple

of porters, and read as much as any tAvo
doctors of either university." One day
came " the gentlemen of the Museum
to fetch poor Mr. Garrick's legacy of
the old plays and cui'ious black-letter
books, tJwugh they loere not things to he
read, and are only A^aluable to anti-
quaries for their age and scarcity ; yet
I could not see them carried ofE Avith-
out a pang." The Avords AA^hich Ave haA-e
marked in italics are noticeable, show-
ing the neglect into Avhich the early
English literature about the time of
Shakespeare had fallen. These are the
very plays from Avhich Charles Lamb
gathered his choice volume of Drama-
tic Specimens. Had Miss More fully
entered into their sj^irit, her OAvn tra-
gedies might have been improA^ed by
the acquaintance, Avith a better chance
than they are having of being read by
her posterity. The old intercourse Avas
still and for several years after kept up
Avith the literary society of London
which met at Sir Joshua's, Mrs.Vesey's,
Mrs. Boscawen's, aged Mrs. Delany's
and the rest ; but Ave hear less and less
of fashionable gaieties at the theatre or
elseAA'here. A groAving seriousness Avas
at Avork in the mind of the fair author,
Avhich was leading her to ncAV schemes
of moral improvement. In the mean
time, she summed up her observations
rather than experiences of the Avorldly
life of the day in tAvo sprightly poems,
first printed together in 1780, and pub-
lished Avith additions in 1786. In one
of these, entitled " The Bas Bleu ; or.
Conversation," she celebrated the in-
tellectual social intercourse which ani-
mated the i^arties of Mrs. Montagu
and Mrs. Vesey, and sighed for the de-
parted days when the winged Avords

HANNAH MORE.

of Garrick, Jolinson and Burke gave
flight to the friendly hours.

" And Lyttleton's accomplished name,
And witty Pulteney shared the fame ;
The men, not bound by pedant rules.
Nor ladies precieuses ridieides :
For polished Walpole showed the way.
How wits may be both learned and gay ;
And Carter taught the female train.
The deeply wise are never vain.

*****

Here rigid Cato, awful sage !
Bold censor of a thoughtless age,
Once dealt his pointed moral round,
And not unheeded fell the sound ;
The muse his honored memory weeps.
For Cato now with Roscius sleeps 1 "

"Cato," Miss Seward thought Avas
an odd " whig-title " for the tory John-
son. " I could fancy him," she writes
to her friend, Court Dewes, " saying to
the fair author, ' You had better have
called me the first Whig, Madam, the
father of the tribe, who got kicked
out of Heaven for his republican prin-
ciples.' "

" Florio ; a Tale for Fine Gentlemen
and Ladies," was appropriately dedi-
cated to Horace Walpole, not, we can
hardly imagine, without a tinge of co-
vert satire, though the terms in which
she proj)itiates the wit are highly flat-
tering. The story is well told in octo-
syllabic verse, bearing a general resem-
blance in its moral to Dryden's " Cy-
mon and Iphigeneia," though the cir-
cumstances are quite different, — in the
one case a youth being rescued from
clownishness and neglect, in the other
from foppery and licentiousness. In
both, the motive power is a charming
woman. Florio, the spoilt child of
fortune ; passing his life in fashionable
frivolities, a smatterer in literature, a
free-thinker, or rather no-thinker in re-
ligion, is brought to a knowledge of

himself by the simple attractions of a
country Celia, for whom at first he has
a great contempt ; but he carries back
with him to London a spark of love
and nature's fire in his breast, and by
the light which this kindles, all the
meritricious attractions of the metrop-
olis which had formerly fascinated him
grow pale and worthless. He hurries
back to the country and the poem con-
cludes with the triumph of virtue in a
marriage with the pious Celia. The
sketch of Florio in his days of worldli-
ness is much the best of the poem.

Miss More's acquaintance with Ho-
race Walpole began in the literary
soirees at Mrs. Vesey's and was per-
petuated in visits to Strawberry Hill,
and a correspondence which was con-
tinued through the life of its noble
owner. There is a great deal of com-
pliment in the letters on both sides ;
Walpole was always fond of ladies'
society, and gratefully recij)rocated the
attentions of a lady who might have
been his satirist. Miss More, on the
other hand, was attracted to him by
his kind attentions to Mrs. Vesey in
her failing health, "my dear, infirm,
broken-spirited, Mrs. Vesey," as she
calls her in one of her letters.

The home life of the five sisters at
Bristol was, in the meanwhile under-
going a change. Hannah, enriched by
her literary pursuits, bought a small
country residence near Bristol, which
had acquired the name of " Cowslip
Green," and spent more of her time in
rural occupations. In 1789 her sisters
having acquired sufiicient property by
their labors retired from the charge of
the school to pass their time between a
town residence which, with the aid of

HANNAH MORE.

Hannali, they had erected for them-
selves at Bath and the retreat at Cow-
slip Green. They now began to em-
ploy themselves in what became the
serious occupation of their lives, the
establishment of schools for the educa-
tion of the neglected poor in their
neighborhood. The first of these was
started at Chedder, in the vicinity of
Bristol. In setting this on foot, Miss
More had to encounter a redoubtable
giant of the old tory breed, in a person
whom she describes as " the chief des-
pot of the village, very rich and very
brutal ; " but she was not to be deter-
red by any such lions in the way, " so,"
says she, " I ventured to the den of this
monster, in a country as savage as him-
self, near Bridgewater." She was met
by an argument which Avas very com-
mon in those days in England, and
which she had often practically to re-
fute, that " religion was the worst thing
for the poor, for it made them lazy and
useless." It was in vain that she rep-
resented to these country landowners
that men would become more industri-
ous as they were better principled, and
that she had no selfish ends in her un-
dertakings. It was, however, by ap-
pealing to their selfish interests that
she was at last permitted to proceed.
" I made," says she, " eleven of these
agreeable visits ; and as I improved in
the art of canvassing, had better suc-
cess. Miss Wilberforce would have
been shocked, had she seen the petty
tyi-ants whose insolence I stroked and
tamed, the ugly children I praised, the
pointers and spaniels I caressed, the
cider I commended, and the wine I
swallowed. After these irresistible
flatteries, I inquired of each if he could

recommend me to a house; and said
that I had a little j^lan which I hoped
would secure their orchards from being
robbed, their rabbits from being shot,
their game from being stolen, and
which might lower the poor-rates."
The squirearchy upon this relented
and soon the benevolent Miss More had
nearly three hundred children in the
school learning the elements of a reli-
gious education. While this work was
going on in the country. Miss More
was appealing to the world in' her
-wi-itings, which were now assuming a
direct reformatoiy tone with an earnest
inculcation of religious principle as the
governing motive of life. Her first as-
sault was directed against fashionable
follies and vices which she had hitherto
tickled in verse. She now resumed the
argument in prose with a heavier em-
phasis. Her " Thoughts on the Impor-
tance of the Manners of the Great to
General Society," first printed anony-
mously in 1798, as a sequel or aid to
a royal proclamation Avhich had just
been issued against irreligion and im-
morality, was a bombshell thrown into
the ranks, not of the grossly wicked,
but of those who were considered good
sort of people, whom she desired to
bring to a higher standard of justice
and morality. It was a vigorous pro-
test against luxury and extravagance,
pointing out the selfishness and conse-
quent hard-heartedness of indulgence,
with a special effort to correct the
evils arising from the ill ol)servance of
Sunday, and the prevalent passion for
play. In the course of her remarks, the
author speaks of a singular custom
which then prevailed, " the petty mis-
chief of what is called card money','' in

HANl^AH MORE.

the exaction of a part of tlieir wages
from servants to pay for the playing
cards furnished to the guests ! She
denounces this as " a worm which is
feedino: on the vitals of domestic vir-
tue." She argues too the old social
question of " the daily and hourly lie
of Not at Home^'' for which she wonld
provide some suitable phrase for the
necessary denial to a visitor, in prefer-
ence to the education of the servant in
the art of lying. She makes an appeal
also for " hair-dressers," as a peculiarly
oppressed class of Sunday laborers.

Not long after, in 1791, this pro-
duction was followed by an elaborate
prose composition of a similar charac-
ter, " An Estimate of the Religion of
the Fashionable World," in which the
general neglect of Christianity by
leading men of the time was compared
with its open avowal by the Sidneys,
Hales and Clarendons of a former age;
the benevolence of the day was tested
in its motives; Christian education
shown to be neglected, and a revival
of its vital spirit declared to l)e a ne-
cessity of the period. A copy of the
work reached Horace Walpole, who
speaks of it in a letter to Miss Berry :
" Good Hannah More is laboring to
amend our religion, and has just pub-
lished a book called ' An Estimate of
the Religion of the Fashionable World.'
It is prettily written, but her enthu-
siasm increases ; and when she comes
to to-svn, I shall tell her that if she
preaches to people of fashion, she will
be a bishoj) in imrtibus infideliumr

In pursuing her labors in the instruc-
tion and amelioration of the condition
of the poor. Miss More began the issue
of a series of popular tracts, Avritten in

a i^lain attractive style, suited to the
comprehension of the peasant class for
which they were intended. They were
written with such marked ability that
they soon took a wider range and were
largely circulated throughout Great
Britain and America. It is sufficient
to allude to such nan-atives among
them as "The Shepherd of Salisbuiy
Plain," and such allegories as "Parley
the Porter," to remind the reader of
their scoj^e and spii-it. The foiTner has
passages Avorthy of De Foe ; the latter
might have been Avritten liy Bunyan.
The theory of the author's religious
teaching of the poor, Avas in general
very simple. In one of her letters
published in the " Whalley Corres-
pondence," referring more particularly
to the conduct of her charity schools,
she says, "My grand principle is, to
infuse into the minds of the young
people as much Scriptural knowledge
as possible. Setting them to get by
heart such portions of the Bible as
shall take in the general scheme of
doctrine and practice, then bringing
that knoAvledge ■ out, by easy, simple
and intelligilile conversation, and then
grafting it into their minds as a prin
ciple of action, and making all they
learn practical and of j^ersonal appli-
cation, seems the best method. I am
extremely limited in my ideas of in-
structing the poor. I would confine it
entirely to the Bible, Liturgy and Ca-
techism, Avhich, indeed, includes the
Avhole of my notion of instruction.
To teach them to read, Avithout gi\dng
them principles, seems dangerous ; and
I do not teach them to Avrite, CA^en in
my weekly schools. Almost all I do
is done by conversation, by a simple

HANNAH MOEE.

exposition of texts, whicli I endeavor
to make as lively and interesting as I
can, often illustrating what is difficult
by instances drawn from common life.
To those who attend four Sundays
without intermission, I give a penny,
provided they are at school by prayer-
time ; this promotes regularity of at-
tendance more than anything. Tarts
and gingerbread occasionally are a
pleasant reward. Clothing I cannot
afford to such multitudes as my differ-
ent schools consist of, but at "Whitsun-
tide, I give them all some one article
of dress. If there is a large family of
boys, for Instance, I give to one a jacket,
to another a shirt, to a third shoes, to
a fourth a hat, according to their re-
spective wants; to the girls, a white
calico apron, and muslin cap and tip-
pet, of which I will send you one for a
pattern if you wish it."

Strange that in the carrying out such
simple works of benevolence as this,
Miss More should have been thwarted
and even persecuted. Though as con-
servative as any person in the kingdom,
she was charged Avith undermining the
British constitution and encouraffinsr
French revolutionary propagandism
with her nefarious proceedings; with
unsettling the established order of
British society ; with assisting " Me-
thodism," as if that were an unpardon-
able sin. The curate of Blaydon who
presided over her district was especially
unfriendly, and at one time succeeded
in closing the school which was for a
time re-opened. The controversy on
the subject became fierce and lasting.
Various meetings were held, numerous
pamphlets were written. No less than
thirty-four distinguished persons, most
. 8

of them of the clerical order, took part
in the discussion. Miss More was fairly
distracted by the agitation, and fell sick
in consequence. Meanwhile, she was
continuing the series of her didactic
writings, by the publication in 1799 of
one of the largest and most elaborate
of her works, entitled " Strictures on
the Modern System of Female Educa-
tion." The book abounds with sound
practical suggestions on subjects of
every-day life. Though earnest in the
ultimate reference of all to the sanc-
tions of Christian precept, it is marked
by a general moderation of thought.

About the year 1802, Miss More left
her residence at Cowslip Green for one
more convenient in the vicinity, which
proved so attractive, that the town
house at Bath was also relinquished
for it. This new situation, known by
the name of Barley Wood, became
thenceforward identified with the fam-
ily, continuing their home till Miss Han-
nah More became the sole survivor, and
finally quitted it for another residence
after a sojourn of fully a quarter of a
century. From this spot her frequent
correspondence Avith Wilberforce was
dated, and thence went forth several
of her most important books to the
world. In 1805, she published the
work entitled " Hints Towards Form-
ing the Character of a Young Princess,"
written at the earnest request of Bishop
Porteus, who, it is said, favored the
design of placing the education of the
young Princess Charlotte, for whom it
was intended, under her care.

The next important publication by
Miss More is that, Avith the exception
perhaps of her more popular tracts,
by Avhich she is best known at present,

HANNAH MOEE.

— tlie novel, if it may he so called, en-
titled " Ccelebs in Searcli of a Wife."
Immediately popular at the time when
it was first issued — it ran through
eleven editions Avithin nine months —
it is still the most read of its author's
productions. A simple test is at hand.
The seven volumes of the American
edition of her complete works belong-
ing to a large city circulating library
are before us. Six are clean and un-
injured by use ; the remaining one con-
taininor " Ccelebs " is worn with hand-
ling, and ready to fall in pieces. The
poems and the moral essays, the in-
struction for peasants and princesses,
the lay sermons, worthy of Dr. Blair,
and with something of his style, are
forgotten : the novel, lightly as it
touches the heart and life, is remem-
bered and read. It is hardly fair, how-
ever, to regard it simply as a novel. It
is in reality, as its second title imports,
a series of observations on domestic
habits and manners, religion and mo-
rals. " Love itself," as the author re-
marks in the preface, " appears in these
pages, not as an ungovernable impulse,
but as a sentiment arising out of qual-
ities calculated to inspire attachment
of persons under the dominion of reason
and religion, brought together by the
ordinary course of occurrences in a
private family party." With this un-
derstanding the work may be read
without disappointment ; otherwise, it
misrht be thouiiiht to lack invention and
interest in the plot, which is of the sim-
plest. It certainly, with all its sermon-
izing, has many entertaining sketches of
society and lively exhibitions of char-
acter. There is nothing very extrava-
gant or any way impossible in the model

young lady of the writer's imagination,
who is brought forward to engage the
affection of the scrutinizing and ex-
acting young bachelor. The key-note
of the book is struck in the first chap-
ter, which is devoted to the perfections
of Mother Eve, as exhibited by John
Milton, in his immortal epic. Lucilla,
the irresistible heroine of the book, is
the daughter of most exemplary par-
ents, a pious, practical and literary
father, a graceful and elegant hostess
her mother. She herself has all the
domestic and a proper share of the
philanthropic virtues. "Fresh as a
rose and gay as a lark," she rises at six
in the morning in summer, gives two
hours to reading in her closet, has an
interview with the housekeeper on the
state of the larder, and enters the break-
fast room, a charming spectacle of
health, cheerfulness and culinary ac-
complishments. " Her conversation,
like her countenance, is compounded of
liveliness, sensibility and delicacy."
She teaches her little sisters, is modest
and engaging, visits the poor and reads
Latin with her father every day. Cce-
lebs, with credit to himself, is smitten
through and through by the archer
god at the first sight of her in the four-
teenth chapter. Twenty-five more are
occupied before the wedding comes on,
in playing her off through a series of
important discussions on social and ed-
ucational topics by persons of the most
decisive ways of thinking. The con-
versations are always sensible and in-
structive, sometimes amusing. The
book is the gathering up on the part of
the author — it was published when she
was sixty-four — of a cheerful lifetime
of thought and experience.

HANNAH MORE.

"We have still to record several
other of her books : " Practical Piety,"
published in 1811 ; and the collection
of essays entitled " Christian Morals,"
put forth the next year; "An Essay
on the Character and Practical Writ-
ings of Saint Paul," in 1815; and
" Moral Sketches of Prevailing Opin-
ions and Manners', Foreign and Domes-
tic," in 1819, A month after the pub-
lication of this last work, Miss More's
sole surviving sister Martha died ; the
others had Leen called away within a
few preceding years. In 1S22 she no-
tices in one of her letters from Barley
Wood, the death of " my ancient and
valued friend, Mrs. Garrick. I spent
above twenty winters under her roof,
and gratefully rememl)er not only their
personal kindness, but my first intro-
duction through them into a society re-
markable for rank, literature and tal-
ents. Whatever was most distinguished
in either was to be found at their table."
It was a backward glance through near-
ly fifty years by a venerable lady at
seventy-seven. Though visited by fre-
quent and severe illness, she was to
survive ten years longer. In 1828, she
finally left her home at Barley Wood,
a name endeared to the Christian world,
for a new residence at Clifton, where
on the 7tli of September, 1833, she
placidly closed a life which must ever
be regarded with admiration and afl^ec-
tion. A letter from one of the wor-
thiest of her friends. Sir Robert Inglis,
to the Rev. Dr. McVickar, in New
York, records her Christian departure,
" Though her mind has been eclipsed
by her advancing years, — for she was

in the eighty-ninth year of her life, —
and though there was no longer any
continuous flow of wisdom and of pie-
ty from her lips, yet the devotional
habit of her days of health, gave even
to the weakness of decay a sacred char-
acter, and her affections remained strong
to the last. On Thursday (two days
before she expired) she became more
evidently dying, her eyes closed, she
made an effort to stretch forth her
hands, and exclaimed to her favorite
sister, now for many years departed,
'Patty — joy.' And when she could no
longer articulate, her hands remained
clasped as in 2:)rayer."

The five sisters lie interred within a
plain enclosure in Wrington church-
yard, a large stone slab recording their
names, the dates of their birth and of
their deaths.

The portrait of Hannah More was
painted in her early days by Sir Joshua
Reynolds. As described by a recent
English writer, " it represents hei
small and slender figure gracefully at-
tired; the hands and arms delicately
fine, the eyes, large, dark and lus-
trous ; the eyebrows well marked and
softly arched ; the countenance beam-
ing with benevolence and intelligence."
Mr. S. C. Hall, who visited her at Bar-
ley Wood about 1825, thus decribes
her appearance : — " Her form was
small and slight, her features wrin-
kled with age ; but the burden of eighty
years had not impaired her gracious
smile, nor lessened the fire of her
dark eyes, the clearest, the brightest
and the most searching I have ever
seen."

FREDERIC II.

THE celebrated King of Prussia
was in no respect indebted for his
personal greatness to the virtues or ex-
ample of his immediate progenitors.
His grandfather Frederic I., the first
of the House of Brandenburg who as-
sumed the title of hing, was a weak
and empty prince, whose character was
taken by his own wife to exemplify
the idea of infinite littleness. His
father, Frederic William, was a man
of a violent and brutal disposition, ec-
centric and intemperate, whose princi-
pal, and almost sole pleasure and pur-
suit, was the training and daily super-
intendence of an army disproportion-
ately greater than the extent of his do-
minions seemed to warrant. It is how-
ever to the credit of Frederic William
as a ruler, that, notwitstanding this
expensive taste, his finances on the
whole Avere well and economically ad-
ministered ; so that on his death he left
a quiet and happy, though not wealthy
country, a treasui'e of nine millions of
crowns, amounting to more than a
year's revenue, and a well-disciplin-
ed army of 76,000 men. Thus on
his accession, Frederic II. (or as, in
consequence of the ambiguity of his
father's name, he is sometimes call-

(CO)

ed, Frederic III.) found, ready prepar-
ed, men and money, the instruments
of war; and for this alone was he in-
debted to his father. He was bom
January 24th, 1712. From Frederic
William, parental tenderness was not
to be expected. His treatment of his
whole family, wife and children, was
brutal: but he showed a particular
antipathy to his eldest son, from the
age of fourteen upwards, for which no
reason can be assigned, except that the
young prince manifested a taste for lit-
erature, and preferred books and music
to the routine of military exercises.
From this age, his life was embittered
by continual contradiction, insult, and
even personal violence. In 1730, he
endeavored to escape by flight from
his father's control ; but this intention
being revealed, he was arrested, tried
as a deserter, and condemned to death
by an obedient court-martial ; and the
sentence, to all appearance, would have
been carried into effect, had it not been
for the interference of the Emperor of
Germany, Charles VI. of Austria. The
king yielded to his urgent entreaties,
but with much reluctance, saying,
" Austria will some day perceive what
a serpent she warms in her bosom."

FEEDEKIC II.

In 1732, Frederic procured a remission
of this ill treatment by contracting,
much against his will, a marriage with
Elizabeth Christina, a j^rincess of the
house of Brunswick. Domestic hap-
piness he neither sought nor found;
for it appears that he never lived Avith
his wife. Her endowments, mental and
personal, were not such as to win the
affections of so fastidious a man, but
her moral qualities and conduct are
highly commended ; and, excej^t in the
resolute avoidance of her society, her
husband through life treated her with
high respect. From the time of his
marriage to his succession, Frederic
resided at Eheiusberg, a village some
leagues north-east of Berlin. In 17 3i,
he made his first campaign with Prince
Eugene, but without displaying, or
finding opportunity to display, the
military talents by which he was dis-
tinguished in after-life. From 1732,
however, to 1740, his time was princi-
pally devoted to literary amusements
and society. Several of his published
works were written during this period,
and among them the " Anti-Machiavel,"
and " Considerations on the Character
of Charles XII. ;" he also devoted some
jDortion of his time to the study of
tactics. His favorite companions were
chiefly Frenchmen: and for French
manners, language, cookery and philo-
sophy, he displayed through life a very
decided preference.

The early part of Frederic's life gave
little promise of his future energy as a
soldier and statesman. The flute, em-
broidered clothes, and the composition
of indifferent French verses, seemed to
occupy the attention of the young di-
lettante. His accession to the throne,

May 31, 1740, called his dormant ener-
gies at once into action. He assumed
the entire direction of government,
charging himself with those minute
and daily duties which princes gene-
rally commit to their ministers. To
discharge the multiplicity of business
which thus devolved on him, he laid
down strict rules for the regulation of
his time and employments, to which,
except when on active service, he scru-
pulously adhered. Until an advanced
period of life he always rose at four
o'clock in the morning; and he be-
stowed but a few minutes on his di'ess,
in respect of which he was careless,
even to slovenliness. But peaceful
employments did not satisfy his active
mind. His father, content with the
possession of a powerful army, had
never used it as an instrument of con-
quest : Frederic, in the first year of his
reign, undertook to wrest from Aus-
tria the province of Silesia, On that
country, which, from its adjoining sit-
uation, was a most desirable acquisi-
tion to the Prussian dominions, it ap-
pears that he had some hereditary
claims, to the assertion of which the
time was favorable. At the death of
Charles VI., in October, 1740, the here-
ditary dominions of Austria devolved
on a young female, the afterwards cele-
brated Maria Theresa. Trusting to
her weakness, Frederic at once marched
an army into Silesia. The peojjle, being
chiefly Protestants, were ill affected to
theii" Austrian rulers, and the greater
part of the country, except the for-
tresses, fell without a battle into the
King of Prussia's possession. In the
following campaign, April 10th, 1741,
was fou2;ht the battle of Molwitz,

FEEDEEIO II.

wliicli requires raention, because in this
engagement, tlie first in wliicli he com-
manded, Frederic displayed neither the
skill nor the courage which the whole
of his subsequent life proved him really
to possess. It was said that he took
shelter in a windmill, and this gave
rise to the sarcasm, that at Molwitz
the King of Prussia had covered him-
self with glory and with flour. The
Prussians however remained masters
of the field. In the autumn of the
same year they advanced within two
days' march of Vienna ; and it was in
this extremity of distress, that Maria
Theresa made her cslebrated and af-
fecting appeal to the Diet of Hungary.
A train of reverses, summed up by the
decisive battle of Czaslaw, fought May
17th, 1742, in which Frederic display-
ed both courage and conduct, induced
Austria to consent to the treaty of
Breslaw, concluded in the same sum-
mer, by which Silesia, with the excep-
tion of a small district, was ceded to
Prussia, of which kingdom it has ever
since continued to form a part.

But though Prussia for a time en-
Joyed peace, the state of European
politics was far from settled, and
Frederic's time was much occupied by
foreign diplomacy, as well as by the
internal improvements which always
were the favorite objects of his solici-
tude. The rapid rise of Prussia was
not regarded with indifference by
other powers. The Austrian govern-
ment was inveterately hostile, from
offended pride, as well as from a sense
of injury ; Saxony took part with
Austria ; Bussia, if not an open en-
emy, was always a suspicious and un-
friendly neighbor ; and George II. of

England, the King of Prussia's uncle,
both feared and disliked his nephew.
Under these circumstances, upon the
formation of the triple alliance be-
tween Austria, England, and Sardinia,
Frederic concluded a treaty with
France and the Elector of Bavaria,
who had succeeded Charles VI. as
Emperor of Germany ; and antici-
pated the designs of Austria upon
Silesia, by marching into Bohemia in
August, 1744. Diu'ing two campaigns
the war was continued to the advan-
tage of the Prussians, who, under the
command of Frederic in person, gained
two signal victories with inferior num-
bers, at Ilohenfriedberg and Soor.
At the end of December, 1745, he
found himself in possession of Dres-
den, the capital of Saxony, and in a
condition to dictate terms of peace to
Austria and Saxony, 1)y which Silesia
was again recognized as jDart of the
Prussian dominions.

Five years were thus spent in ac-
quiring and maintaining possession of
this important province. The next
ten years of Frederic II.'s life passed
in profound peace. During this jieriod
he applied himself diligently and suc-
cessfully to recruit his army, and reno-
vate the drained resources of Prussia.
His habits of life were singularly
uniform. He resided chiefly at Pots-
dam, apportioning his time and his
employments with methodical exact-
ness; and, by this strict attention to
method, he was enabled to exercise a
minute superintendence oyer every
branch of government, without es-
tranging himself from social pleasures,
or abandoning his literary pursuits.
After the peace of Dresden he com-

FKEDERIC II.

menced his " Histoire de mon Temps,"
which, iu jiddition to the history of
his own wars in Silesia, contains a
general account of European politics.
About the same period he wi'ote his
"Memoirs of the House of Branden-
burg," the best of his historical works.
He maintained an active correspond-
ence with Voltaire, and other of the
most distinguished men of Europe.
He established, or rather restored, the
Academy of Sciences of Berlin, and
was eager to enrol eminent foreigners
among its members, and to induce
them to resort to his capital ; and the
names of Yoltaire, Euler, Maupertuis,
La Grange, and others of less note,
testify his success. But his avowed
contempt for the German, and admira-
tion of the French literature and lan-
guage, in which all the transactions of
the Society were carried on, gave an
exotic character to the institution, and
crippled the national benefits which
might have been expected to arise
from it.

The story of Fredei'ic's association
with Voltaire, as narrated in his usual
vivid manner by Macaulay, is worthy
of being given in detail, for its illus-
tration of the characters of both these
extraordinary personages. It may
fairly be prefaced Avith the same WTit-
er's account of the king's entertain-
ment of his literary friends at Potsdam.

" It was the just boast of Schiller,
that in his country no Augustus, no
Lorenzo, had watched over the infancy
of art. The rich and energetic lan-
guage of Luther, driven by the Latin
from the schools of pedants, and by
the French from the palaces of kings,
had taken refuge among the pcojile.

Of the powers of that language, Fre-
deric had no notion. He generally
spoke of it, and of those who used it,
with the contempt of ignorance. His
libraiy consisted of French books ; at
his table nothing was heard but
French conversation. The associates
of his hours of relaxation Avere, for the
most part, foreigners. Britain fur-
nished to the royal cii'cle two distin-
guished men, born in the highest rank,
and driven by civil dissensions from
the land to which, under happier
circumstances, their talents and virtues
might have been a source of strength
and glory. George Keith, Earl Mar-
ischal of Scotland, had taken arms for
the house of Stuart in 1715, and his
younger brother James, then only sev-
enteen years old, had fought gallantly
by his side. "When all was lost they
retired together to the Continent, roved
from country to country, served under
many standards, and so bore themselves
as to win the respect and good-will of
many who had no love for the Jacobite
cause. Their long wanderings termin-
ated at Potsdam ; nor had Frederic any
associates who deserved or obtained so
large a share of his esteem. They were
not only accomplished men, but nobles
and warriors, capable of serving him
in war and diplomacy, as well as of
amusing him at supper. Alone of all
his companions they apjiear never to
have had reason to complain of his
demeanor towards them. Some of
those who knew the palace best pro-
nounced that the Lord Marischal was
the only human l)eing whom Frederic
over really loved.

" Italy sent to the parties at Pots-
dam the ingenious and amiable Alga-

FREDEEIC II.

rotti, and Bastiani, the most crafty,
cautious, and servile of Abbes. But
the greater part of the society which
Frederic had assembled round him,
was di'awn from France. Maupertuis
had acquired some celebrity by the
journey which he made to Lapland,
for the purpose of ascertaining, by
actual measurement, the shape of our
planet. He was placed in the chair
of the Academy of Berlin, a humble
imitation of the renowned Academy of
Paris. Baculard D'Arnaud, a young
poet, who was thought to have given
promise of great things, had been in-
duced to quit his country, and to reside
at the Prussian Court. The Marquess
D'Argens was among the king's favor-
ite companions, on account, as it should
seem, of the strong opposition between
their characters. The parts of D'Ar-
gens were good, and his manners those
of a finished French gentleman ; but
his whole soul was dissolved in sloth,
timidity, and self-indulgence. His was
one of that abject class of minds which
are superstitious without being reli-
gious. Hating Christianity with a
rancor which made him incapable of
rational inquiry : unable to see in the
harmony and beauty of the universe
the traces of divine power and wisdom,
he was the slave of dreams and omens ;
— would not sit down to table with
thirteen in company ; turned pale if
the salt fell towards him ; begged his
guests not to cross their knives and
forks on their plates ; and would not
for the world commence a journey on
Friday. His health was a subject of
constant anxiety to him. Whenever
his head ached, or his pulse beat quick,
his dastardly fears and effeminate j)re-

cautions Avere the jest of all Berlin.
All this suited the king's purpose ad-
mirably. He wanted somebody by
whom he might be amused, and whom
he might desjiise. When he wished to
pass half-an-hour in easy polished con-
versation, D'Argens was an excellent
companion ; when he wanted to vent
his spleen and contempt, D'Argens was
an excellent butt.

" With these associates, and others
of the same class, Frederic loved to
spend the time which he could steal
fi-om public cares. He wished his sup-
per-parties to be gay and easy ; and
invited his guests to lay aside all re-
straint, and to forget that he was at
the head of a hundred and sixty thou-
sand soldiers, and was absolute master
of the life and liberty of all who sat
at meat with him. There was, therefore,
at these meetings the outward show of
ease. The wit and learning of the
company were ostentatiously displayed.
The discussions on history and litera-
ture were often highly interesting.
But the absurdity of all the religions
known among men was the chief topic
of conversation ; and the audacity with
which doctrines and names venerated
throughout Christendom were treated
on these occasions, startled even per-
sons accustomed to the society of
French and English free-thinkers.
But real liberty, or real affection, was
in this brilliant society not to be found.
Absolute kings seldom have friends :
and Frederic's faults were such as, even
where perfect equality exists, make
friendship exceedingly precarious. He
had indeed many qualities, which, on
a fii'st acquaintance, were captivating.
His conversation was lively ; his man

FEEDERIC II.

ners to tliose wliom he desired to please
were even caressing. No man could
flatter with more delicacy. No man
succeeded more completely in inspiring
those who aj)proached him with vague
hopes of some great advantage from
his kindness. But under this fair ex-
terior he was a tyrant — suspicious,
disdainful, and malevolent.

" Potsdam was, in truth, what it was
called liy one of its most illustrious
inmates, the Palace of Alcina. At the
first glance it seemed to be a delightful
spot, where every intellectual and phy-
sical enjoyment awaited the happy
adventurer. Every new comer was
received with eager hospitality, intoxi-
cated with flattery, encouraged to ex-
pect prosperity and greatness. It was
in vain that a long succession of favor-
ites who had entered that abode with
delight and hope, and who, after a
short term of delusive happiness, had
been doomed to expiate their folly by
years of wretchedness and degradation,
raised their voices to warn the aspirant
who approached the charmed threshold.
Some had wisdom enough to discover
the truth early, and spirit enough to
fly without looking back ; others lin-
gered on to a cheerless and unhonored
old age. We have no hesitation in
saying that the poorest author of that
time in London, sleeping on a bulk,
dining in a cellar, with a cravat of
paper, and a skewer for a shirt-pin,
was a happier man than any of the
literary inmates of Frederic's court.

" But of all who entered the en-
chanted garden in the inebriation of
delight, and quitted it in agonies of
rage and shame, the most remarkable

was Voltaire.

To Berlin he was in-
9

vited by a series of letters, couched in
terms of the most enthusiastic friend-
ship and admiration. For once the
rigid parsimony of Frederic seemed to
have relaxed. Orders, honorable of-
fices, a liberal pension, a well-served
table, stately apartments under a royal
roof, were offered in return for the
pleasure and honor which were expect-
ed from the society of the first wit of
the age. A thousand louis were re-
mitted for the charges of the journey.
No ambassador setting out from Berlin
for a court of the first rank, had ever
been more amply supplied. But Vol-
taire was not satisfied. At a later
period, when he possessed an ample for-
tune, he was one of the most liberal of
men ; but till his means had become
equal to his wishes, his greediness for
lucre was unrestrained either by jus-
tice or by shame. He had the effron-
tery to ask for a thousand louis more,
in order to enable him to bring his
niece, Madame Denis, the ugliest of co-
quettes, in his company. The indeli-
cate rapacity of the poet produced its
natural effect on the severe and frueal
king. The answer was a dry refusal,
'I did not,' said his majesty, 'solicit
the honor of a lady's society.' On this,
Voltaire went off into a jjaroxysm of
childish rage. ' Was there ever such
avarice ? He has hundreds of tubs
full of dollars in his vaults^ and hag-
gles with me aboiit a poor thousand
louis.' It seemed that the nesjotiation
would be broken oft'; but Frederic,
with great dexterity, affected indiffer-
ence, and seemed inclined to transfer
his idolatry to Baculard d'Arnaud.
His majesty even wrote some bad
verses, of which the sense was, that

FKEDEEIC II.

Voltaire was a setting sun, and that
Arnaud was rising. Good-natured
friends soon carried the lines to Vol-
taire. He was in his bed. He jumped
out in his shirt, danced about the room
Avith rage, and sent for his passjDort
and his post-horses. It was not diffi-
cult to foresee the end of a connection
which had such a beginning.

"It was in the year 1750 that Vol-
taire left the great capital, which he
was not to see again till, after the lapse
of nearly thirty years, he returned, bow-
ed down by extreme old age, to die in
the midst of a splendid and ghastly
triumph. His reception in Prussia was
such as might well have elated a less
vain and excitable mind. He wi'ote to
his friends at Paris, that the kindness
and the attention with which he had
been welcomed surpassed description
- — that the hing was the most amiable
of men — that Potsdam was the para-
dise of philosophers. He was created
chamberlain, and received, together
with his gold key, the cross of an order,
and a patent ensuring to him a pen-
sion of eight hundred pounds sterling
a-year for life. A hundred and sixty
pounds a-year were promised to his
niece if she survived him. The royal
cooks and coachmen were put at his
disposal. He was lodged in the same
apartments in which Saxe had lived,
when, at the height of power and glory,
he visited Prussia. Frederic, indeed,
stooped for a time even to use the lan-
guage of adulation. He pressed to his
lips the meagre hand of the little grin-
ning skeleton, whom he regarded as
the dispenser of immortal renown. He
would add, he said, to the titles which
he owed to his ancestors and his sword,

another title, derived from his last and
proudest acquisition. His style should
run thus : — Frederic, King of Prussia,
Margrave of Brandenburg, Sovereign
Duke of Silesia, Possessor of Voltaire.
But even amidst the delights of the
honey -moon, Voltaire's sensitive vanity
began to take alarm. A few days after
his arrival, he could not help telling
his niece, that the amiable king had a
trick of giving a sly scratch with one
haud while patting and stroking with
the other. Soon came hints not the
less alarming because mysterious. ' The
supper parties are delicious. The king
is the life of the company. But — I
have operas and comedies, reviews and
concerts, my studies and books. But —
but — Berlin is fine, the princess charm-
ing, the maids of honor handsome.

But, '

" This eccentric friendship was fast
cooling. Never had there met two per-
sons so exquisitely fitted to plague each
other. Each of them had exactly the
fault of which the other was most im-
patient; and they were, in different
ways, the most impatient of mankind.
Frederic was frugal, almost niggardly.
When he had secured his plaything,
he began to think that he had bought
it too dear. Voltaire, on the other hand,
was greedy, even to the extent of im-
pudence and knavery; and conceived
that the favorite of a monarch who
had barrels full of gold and silver laid
up in cellars, ought to make a fortune,
which a receiver-general might envy.
They soon discovered each other's feel-
ings. Both were angry, and a war be-
gan, in which Frederic stooped to the
part of Harpagon, and Voltaire to that
of Scapin. It is humiliating to relate.

FEEDEEIC II.

that the great warrior and statesman
gave orders that his guest's allowance
of sugar and chocolate should be cur-
tailed. It is, if possible, a still more
humiliating fact, that Voltaire indem-
nified himself by pocketing the wax-
candles in the royal ante-chamber.
Disputes about money, however, were
not the most serious disputes of these
extraordinary associates. The sarcasms
of the king soon galled the sensitive
temper of the poet. D'Arnaud and
D'Argens, Guichard and La Metric,
might, for the sake of a morsel of bread,
be willing to bear the insolence of a
master; but Voltaire was of another
order. He knew that he was a poten-
tate as well as Frederic ; that his Eu-
ropean reputation, and his incompara-
ble power of covering whatever he
hated with ridicule, made him an ob-
ject of dread even to the leaders of
armies and the rulers of nations. In
truth, of all the intellectual weapons
which have ever been wielded by man,
the most terrible was the mockery of
Voltaire. Bigots and tyrants who had
never been moved by the wailing and
cursing of millions, turned pale at his
name. Principles unassailable by rea-
son, i^rinciples which had withstood
the fiercest attacks of power, the most
valuable truths, the most generous sen-
timents, the noblest and most graceful
images, the purest reputations, the
most august institutions, began to look
mean and loathsome as soon as that
withering smile was turned upon
them. To every opponent, how-
ever strons; in his cause and his tal-
ents, in his station and his character,
who ventured to encounter the great
scoffer, might be addressed the caution

which was given of old to the Arch-
angel :

' I forewarn thee, shun
His deadly arrow ; neither vainly liope
To be invulnerable in those bright arms,
Though temper'd heavenly; for that fatal dint,
Save Him who reigns above, none can resist.'

" We cannot pause to recount how
often that rare talent was exercised
against rivals worthy of esteem — how
often it was used to crush and torture
enemies worthy only of silent disdain
— hoAv often it Avas perverted to the
more noxious purpose of destroying
the last solace of earthly misery, and
the last restraint on earthly power.
Neither can we jiause to tell how often
it was used to vindicate justice, hu-
manity, and toleration — the principles
of sound philosojihy, the principles of
fi'ee government. Causes of quaiTel
multiplied fast. Voltaire, who, partly
from love of money, and partly from
love of excitement, was always fond of
stock-jobbing, became implicated in
transactions of at least a dubious char-
acter. The king was delighted at hav-
ing such an opportunity to humble
his guest; and bitter reproaches and
complaints were exchanged. Voltaire,
too, was soon at war with the other
men of letters who surrounded the
king ; and this irritated Frederic, who,
however, had himself chiefly to blame :
for, fi'om that love of tormenting which
was in him a ruling passion, he per-
petually lavished extravagant praises
on small men and bad books, merely
in order that he might enjoy the mor-
tification and rage which on such oc-
casions Voltaire took no pains to con-
ceal. His majesty, however, soon had
reason to regret the pains which he

FEEDERIC II.

had taken to kindle jealousy among
tke members of his household. The
whole palace was in a ferment with
literary intrigues and cabals. It was
to no purpose that the imperial voice,
which kept a hundred and sixty thou-
sand soldiers in order, was raised to
quiet the contention of the exasperated
wits. It was far easier to stir up such
a storm than to lull it. Nor was Fred-
eric, in his capacity of wit, by any means
without his own share of vexations.
He had sent a large quantity of verses
to Voltaire, and requested that they
might be returned, with remarks and
correction. ' See,' exclaimed Voltaire,
' what a quantity of his dirty linen the
kino- has sent me to wash ! ' Talebear-
ers were not wanting to carry the sar-
casm to the royal ear; and Frederic
was as much incensed as a Grub Street
writer who had found his name in the
' Dunciad.'

" This could not last. A circumstance
which, when the mutual regard of the
friends was in its first glow, would
merely have been matter for laughter,
produced a violent explosion. Mau-
pertuis enjoyed as much of Frederic's
good- will as any man of letters. He
was president of the Academy of Ber-
lin; and stood second to Voltaire,
though at an immense distance, in the
literary society which had been assem-
bled at the Prussian court. Frederic
had, by playing for his own amusement
on the feelings of the two jealous and
vainglorious Frenchmen, succeeded in
producing a bitter enmity between
them. Voltaire resolved to set his
mark, a mark never to be eflTaced, on
the forehead of Maupertuis ; and wrote
the exquisitely ludicrous diatribe of

"Doctor Akakia." He showed this
little piece to Frederick, who had too
much taste and too much malice not
to relish such delicious pleasantry. In
truth, even at this time of day, it is
not easy for any person who has the
least perception of the ridiculous to
read the jokes on the Latin city, the
Patagonians, and the hole to the centre
of the earth, without laughing till he
cries. But though Frederic was di-
verted by this charming j^asquinade,
he was unwilling that it should get
abroad. His self-love was interested.
He had selected Maupertuis to fill the
chair of his Academy. If all Europe
were taught to laugh at Maupertuis,
would not the reputation of the Aca-
demy, would not even the dignity of
its royal patron, be in some degree
compromised? The king, therefore,
begged Voltaire to suppress his per-
formance. Voltaire promised to do so,
and broke his word. The diatribe was
published, and received with shouts
of merriment and applause by all who
could read the French language. The
king stormed. Voltaire, Avith his
usual disregard of truth, protested his
innocence, and made up some lie about
a printer or an amanuensis. The king
was not to be so imposed upon. He
ordered the pamphlet to be burned by
the common hangman, and insisted
upon having an apology from Voltaire,
couched in the most abject terms.
Voltaire sent back to the king his
cross, his key, and the patent of his
pension. After this burst of rage, the
strange pair began to be ashamed of
their violence, and went through the
forms of reconciliation. But the
breach was irreparable ; and Voltaire

FRE13EEIC II.

took liis leave of Frederic for ever.
They parted with cold civility; but
their hearts were big with resentment.
Voltaire had in his keeping a volume
of the king's poetry, and forgot to re-
turn it. This was, we believe, merely
one of the oversights which men set-
ting out upon a Journey often commit.
That Voltaire could have meditated
plagiarism is quite incredible. He
would not, we are confident, for the
half of Frederic's kingdom, have con-
sented to father Frederic's verses. The
king, however, who rated his own
writings much above their value, and
who was inclined to see all Voltaire's
actions in the worst light, was enraged
to think that his favorite compositions
were in the hands of an enemy, as
thievish as a daw and as mischievous
as a monkey. In the anger excited by
this thought, he lost sight of reason
and decency, and determined on com-
mitting an outrage at once odious and
ridiculous.

"Voltaire had reached Frankfort.
His niece. Madam Denis, came thither
to meet him. He conceived himself
secure from the power of his late
master, when he was arrested by order
of the Prussian resident. The pre-
cious volume was delivered up. But
the Prussian agents had, no doubt,
been instructed not to let Voltaire
escape without some gross indignity.
He was confined twelve days in a
wretched hovel. Sentinels with fixed
bayonets kept guard over him. His
niece was dragged through the mire
by the soldiers. Sixteen hundred dol-
lars were extorted from him by his
insolent Jailers. It is absurd to say
that this outrage is not to be attri-

buted to the king. "Was anybody
punished for it ? Was anybody called
in question for it ? Was it not consist-
ent with Frederic's character ? Was it
not of a piece with his conduct on
other similar occasions ? Is it not no-
torious that he repeatedly gave private
dii'ections to his officers to pillage and
demolish the houses of pei'sons against
whom he had a grudge — charging them
at the same time to take their meas-
ures in such a way that his name might
not be compromised? He acted thus
towards Count Buhl in the Seven
Years' War. Why should Ave believe
that he would have been more scru-
pulous with regard to Voltaire ? "

Turning from this exhibition of dis-
creditable royal vanity and meanness,
we may with more satisfaction look
upon the service of Frederic to the
state in its civil as well as military
development, and study the real great-
ness of this extraordinary man. In
the cause of education he was active,
both by favoring the universities, to
which he sought to secure the services
of the best professors, and by the es-
tablishment of schools wherever the
circumstances of the neighborhood
rendered it desirable. It is said
that he sometimes founded as many
as sixty schools in a single year.
This period of his reign is also
marked by the commencement of that
revision of the Prussian law (a con-
fused and corrupt mixture of Roman
and Saxon Jm-isprudence) which led
to the substitution of an entirely new
code. In this important business the
Chancellor Cocceii took the lead ; but
the system established by him under-
went considerable alterations from

FEEDEEIC 11.

time to time, and at last was remodel-
led in 1781. For the particular merits
or imperfections of the code, the law-
yers who drew it up are answerable,
rather than the monarch ; but the lat-
ter possesses the high honor of ha\dng
proved himself, in this and other in-
stances, sincerely desirous to assure to
his subjects a pure and ready admiais-
tration of justice. Sometimes this de-
sire joined to a certain love and habit
of personal inquiry into all things, led
the kino; to a meddling and mischiev-
ous interference with the course of jus-
tice ; but in all cases his intention seems
to have been pure, and his conduct
proves him sincere in the injunction to
his judges : — " If a suit arises between
me and one of my subjects, and the
case is a doubtful one, you should al-
ways decide against me." If, as in the
celebrated imprisonment of Baron
Trenck, he chose to perform an arbi-
trary action, he did it openly, not by
tampering with courts of justice: but
these despotic measures were not fre-
quent, and few countries have ever
enjoyed a fuller practical license of
speech and printing, than Prussia un-
der a simply despotic form of govern-
ment, administered by a prince natu-
rally of impetuous passions and stern
and unforgiving temper. That temper,
however, was kept admirably within
bounds, and seldom suffered to appear
in civil aft'airs. His code is remark-
able for the abolition of torture, and
the toleration granted to all religions.
The latter enactment, however, re-
quired no great share of liberality
from Frederic, who avowed his indif-
ference to all religions alike. In crim-
inal cases he was opposed to severe

punishments, and was always strongly
averse to shedding blood. To his sub-
jects, both in person and by letter, he
was always accessible, and to the peas-
antry in j^articular he displayed pater-
nal kindness, patience, and condescen-
sion. But, on the other hand, his mili-
tary system was frightfully severe,
both in its usual discipline and in its
punishments. Numbers of soldiers de-
serted, or put an end to their lives, or
committed crimes that they might be
given up to justice. Yet his kindness
and familiarity in the field, and his
fearless exposure of his own person,
endeared him exceedingly to his sol-
diers, and many pleasing anecdotes,
honorable to both parties, are pre-
served, especially during the cam-
paigns of the Seven Years' War.

During this peace Austria had re-
cruited her strength, and with it her
inveterate hostility to Prussia ; and it
became known to Frederic that a se-
cret agreement for the conquest and
partition of his territories existed be-
tween Austria, Kussia, and Saxony.
The circumstances of the times were
such that, though neither France nor
England were cordially disposed to-
wards him, it was yet open to him to
negotiate an alliance with either.
Frederic chose that of England ; and
France, forgetting ancient enmities,
and her obvious political interest, im-
mediately took part with Austria.
The odds of force apparently were
overwhelming; but, having made up
his mind, the King of Prussia dis-
played his usual promptitude. He
demanded an explanation of the views
of the court of Vienna, and, on receiv-
ing an unsatisfactory answer, signified

FREDERIC II.

that lie considered it a declaration of
war. Knowing tliat tlie court of
Saxony, contrary to existing treaties,
Avas secretly engaged in the league
against him, he marched an army into
the electorate in August, 1756, and,
almost unopposed, took military pos-
session of it. He thus turned the
enemy's resources against himself, and
drew from that unfortunate country
continual supplies of men and money,
without which he could scarcely have
supjjorted the protracted struggle
which ensued, and which is celebrated
under the title of the Seven Years'
War. The events of this war, how-
ever interesting to a military student,
are singularly unfit for concise narra-
tion, and that from the very circum-
stances which displayed the King of
Prussia's talents to most advantao-e.
Attacked on eveiy side, compelled to
hasten from the pursuit of a beaten,
to make head in some other quarter
against a threatening enemy, the ac-
tivity, vigilance, and indomitable reso-
lution of Frederic must strike all
those who read these campaigns at
length, and with the necessary helj) of
maps and plans, though his profound
tactical skill and readiness in emersjen-
cies may be fully appreciable only by
the learned. But when these compli-
cated events are reduced to a bare list
of marches and countermarches, vic-
tories and defeats, the spirit vanishes,
and a mere caput mortuum remains.
The war being necessarily defensive,
Frederic could seldom carry the seat
of action into an enemy's country.
The Prussian dominions were sulgect
to continual ravage, and that country,
as well as Saxony, paid a heavy price

that the possession of Silesia might be
decided between two rival sovereisjns.
Upon the whole, the first campaigns
were favorable to Prussia; but the
confessed superiority of that power in
respect of generals (for the king Avas
admirably supported by Prince Fer-
dinand of Brunswick, Prince Henry of
Prussia, Schwerin, Keith, and others)
could not always countervail the great
superiority of force Avith Avhich it had
to contend. The celel>rated A'ictoiy
won by the Prussians at Prague, May
6th, 1757, was balanced by a severe de-
feat at Kolin, the result, as Frederic
confesses, of his own rashness ; but, at
the end of autumn, he retrieved the
rcA^erses of the summer, by the bril-
liant A'ictories of Eosbach, and Leu-
then or Lissa. In 1758, Frederic's
contempt of his enemy lulled him into
a false security, in consequence of
AA'hich he Avas surprised and defeated
at Hochkirchen. But the campaigns
of 1759 and 17G0 Avere a succession of
disasters by which Prussia Avas reduced
to the A'erge of ruin ; and it appears,
fi'om Frederic's correspondence, that,
in the autiimn of the latter year, his
reverses led him to contemplate sui-
cide, in preference to consenting to
what he thousrht dishonorable terms
of peace. The next campaign Avas
bloody and indecisive ; and in the fol-
lowing year the secei^sioii of Eussia
and France induced Austria, then
much exhausted, to consent to a peace,
by which Silesia and the o'her posses-
sions of Frederic Avere secured to him
as he possessed them before the Avar.
So that this enormous expense of blood
and treasure produced no result what-
ever, except that of establishing the

FEEDEEIC II.

King of Prussia's reputation as tlie
first living general of Europe. Peace
was signed at the castle of Huberts-
burg, near Dresden, Feb. loth, 1763.

The brilliant military reputation
which Frederic had acquired in this
arduous contest did not tempt him to
pursue the career of a conqueror. Pie
had risked everything to maintain pos-
session of Silesia ; but if his writings
speak the real feelings of his mind, he
was deeply sensible to the sufferings
and evils which attend upon war.
"The state of Prussia," he himself
says, in the " Histoire de mon Temps,"
" can only be comj^ared to that of a
man riddled with wounds, weakened
by loss of blood, and ready to sink
under the weight of his misfortunes.
The nobility was exhausted, the com-
mons ruined, numbers of villages were
burnt, of towns ruined. Civil order
was lost in a total anarchy : in a word,
the desolation was universal." To cure
these evils Frederic applied his earn-
est attention ; and by grants of money
to those towns which had suft'ered
most ; by the commencement and con-
tinuation of various great works of
public utility ; by attention to agricul-
ture ; by draining marshes, and settling
colonists in the barren, or ruined por-
tions of his country; by cherishing
manufactures (though not always with
a useful or judicious zeal), he succeed-
ed in repairing the exhausted popula-
tion and resources of Prussia with a
rapidity the more wonderful, because
his military establishment was at the
same time recruited and maintained
at the enormous number, considering
the size and wealth of the kingdom,
of 200,000 men. One of his measures

deserves especial notice, the emancipa-
tion of the peasants from hereditary
servitude. This great undertaking he
commenced at an early period of his
reign, by giving up his own seignioral
rights over the serfs on the crown do-
mains : he completed it in the year
1766, by an edict abolishing servitude
throughout his dominions. In 1765,
he commenced a gradual alteration in
the fiscal system of Prussia, suggested
in part by the celebrated Helvetius.
In the department of finance, though
all his experiments did not succeed, he
was very successful. He is said, in the
course of his reign, to have raised the
annual revenue to nearly double what
it had been in his father's time, and
that without increasing the pressure
of the people.

In such cares and in his literary
pursuits, among which we may espe-
cially mention his "History of the
Seven Years' War," passed the time of
Frederic for ten years. In 1772, he
engaged in the nefarious project for
the first partition of Poland. It does
not seem, however, that the scheme
originated, as has been said, with
Frederic: on the contrary, it appears
to have been conceived by Catherine
II., and matured in conversations with
Prince Henry, the King of Prussia's
brother, during a visit to St. Peters-
burg. By the treaty of pai"tition,
which was not finally arranged till
1777, Prussia gained a territory of no
great extent, but of importance from
its connecting Prussia Proper with the
electoral dominions of Brandenburg
and Silesia, and giving a compactness
to the kingdom, of which it stood
greatly in need. Frederic made some

FREDEEIC II.

amends for liis conduct in tliis matter,
by the diligence Avith Avhicli he labored
to improve his acquisition. In this,
as in most circumstances of internal
administration, he Avas very successful ;
and the country, ruined by war, mis-
government, and the Lrutal sloth of
its inhabitants, soon assumed the as-
pect of cheerful industry.

The Kin2: of Prussia once more led
an army into the field, when, on the
death of the Elector of Bavaria, child-
less, in 1778, Joseph II. of Austria
conceived the plan of re-annexing to
his own crown, under the j^lea of vari-
ous antiquated feudal rights, the great-
er part of the Bavarian territories.
Stimulated quite as much by jealousy
of Austria, as by a sense of the injus-
tice of this act, Frederic stood out as
the assertor of the liberties of Ger-
many, and proceeding with the utmost
23oliteness from explanation to expla-
nation, he marched an army into Bo-
hemia in July, 1778. The war, how-
ever, which was terminated in the fol-
lowing S2:>riug by the peace of Teschen,
was one of manoeuvres, and partial en-
gagements ; in Avhich Frederic's skill
in strategy shone Avith its usual lustre,
and success, on the Avhole, rested Avith
the Prussians. By the terms of the
treaty, the Bavarian dominions Avere
secured, nearly entire, to the rightful
collateral heirs, Avhose scA'cral claims
were settled, while certain minor stip-
ulations were made in faA'or of Prussia.

A fcAV years later, in 1785, Frederic
again found occasion to oppose Aus-
tria, in defence of the integrity of the
Germanic constitution. The Emperor
Joseph, in prosecution of his designs
on Bav^aria, had formed a contract
10

Avith the reigning elector, to exchange
the Austrian proA^inces in the Nether-
lands for the Electorate. Dissenting
from this arrangement, the heir to the
succession entrusted the advocacy of
his rights to Frederic, AA'ho lost no
time in negotiating a confederation
among the chief powers of Germany,
(knoAvn by the name of the Germanic
League,) to support the constitution
of the empire, and the rights of its
seA^eral princes. By this timely step
Austria Avas compelled to forego the
desired acqiiisition.

At this time Frederic's constitution
had begun to decay. He had long
been a sufferer from gout, the natural
consequence of indulgence in good eat-
ing and rich cookery, to Avhicli through-
out his life he Avas addicted. Towards
the end of the year he began to experi-
ence great difficulty of breathing. His
complaints, aggravated by total neglect
of medical adA^ce, and an extravagant
appetite, Avhich he gratified by eating
to excess of the most highly seasoned
and uuAvholesome food, terminated in
a confirmed dropsy. During the lat-
ter months of his life he suffered griev-
ously from this complication of disor-
ders ; and through this period he dis-
displayed remarkable patience, and
consideration for the feelings of those
around him. No expression of suffer-
ing Avas alloAved to pass his lips ; and
up to the last day of his life he con-
tinued to discharge Avith punctuality
those political duties which he had im-
posed upon himself in youth and
strength. Strange to say, Avhile he ex-
hibited this extraordinary self-control
in some respects, he Avould not abstain
from the most extravagant excesses in

FEEDERIC II.

diet, though they were almost always
followed by a severe aggravation of his
sufferings. Up to August 15th, 1786,
he continued, as usual, to receive and
answer all communications, and to des-
patch the usual routine of civil and
military business. On the following
day he fell into a lethargy, from which
he only partially recovered. He died
in the course of the night of August 16.

The published works of the King of
Prussia were collected in twenty-three
volumes, 8vo. Amsterdam, 1790. We
shall here mention, as completing the
body of his historical works, ihe " Me-
moires depuis la Paix de Huberts-
bourg," and " Memoires de la Guerre
de 1778." Among his poems, the most
remarkable is the " Art de la Guerre ; "
but these, as happens in most cases,
where the writer has thought fit to em-
ploy a foreign language, have been lit-
tle known or esteemed, since their au-
thor ceased to rivet the attention of
the world by the brilliance of his ac-
tions, and the singularity of his char-
acter.

Of the personal appearance of the
king. Old Fritz, as he was familiarly
called by the people, we have this
graphic sketch by his latest biographer,
Carlyle : " A king every inch of him,
though without the trappings of a king.
Presents himself in a Spartan simplicity
of vesture ; no crown but an old mili-
tary cocked-hat; no sceptre but one
like Agamemnon's, a walking-stick out
of the woods, which serves also as a
riding-stick; and for royal robes, a
mere soldier's blue coat with red fa-
cings, coat likely to be old, and sure to

have a great deal of Spanish snuff on
the breast of it; rest of the apparel
dim, unobtrusive in color or cut, end-
ing in high, over-knee, military boots,
which may be brushed, but ai"e not
permitted to be blackened or varnish-
ed. The man is not of godlike phy-
siognomy, any more than of imposing
stature or costume : close shut mouth
with thin lips,- prominent jaws and
nose, receding brow, by no means of
Olympian height; head, however, is
of long form and has superlative gray
eyes in it. Not what is called a beau-
tiful man, nor yet, by all appearance
what is called a happy one. On the
contrary, the face bears evidence of
many sorrows, as they are termed, of
much hard labor done in this world ;
and seems to anticipate nothing but
more still coming. Quiet stoicism, ca-
pable enough of what Joy there were,
but not expecting any worth mention ;
great unconscious and some conscious
pride, well tempered with a cheery
mockery of humor, — are Avritten on
that old face ; which carries its chin
well forward, in spite of the slight
stoop about the neck ; snuffy nose ra-
ther flung into the air, under its old
cocked-hat, — like an old snuffy lion
on the watch ; and such a pair of eyes
as no man or lion or lynx of that cen-
tury bore elsewhere, according to all
the testimony we have."*

* The main portion of this narrative is from
the "Gallery of Portraits and Memoirs," pub-
lished under the superintendence of the "So-
ciety for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge."
The episode on the intimacy of tlie sovereign
■with Voltaire is from Macaulay's article on
Frederic in the Edinburgh Review.

EDWARD GIBBON

alBBON has so well told the story
of his life in his memorable Auto-
biography, that subsequent writers in
their account of the man, including his
editor, the persevering Milman, have
had no other course to pursue than to
follow closely the details of his narra-
tive. The Autobiography is indeed an
extraordinary production among the
works of its class. Its style is charm-
ing, with just enough of that elevation
which gives such peculiar emphasis to
the author's great work to impart to or-
dinary incidents a certain indescribable
animation which we can find nowhere
more agreeably displayed. Written evi-
dently with the consciousness of the
value of his " History " to the world,
it unfolds to us the processes of acci-
dent or study by which he gradually
reached that great work. It was not
till he felt that he had some claims
upon the attention of the world by the
completion of the History that he un-
dertook the preparation of his personal
memoir ; and he proceeded in it with
so much care that he left for his friend
and literary executor, Lord Sheffield,
no less than six different sketches of
the work, all in his own handwriting.
From all of these, the " Memoirs," as

they now stand, were constructed.
Their motive is expressed in a few
opening sentences, revealing at the
start a certain pride of authorship and
sense of the importance of the task ;
egotistical, of course, for to be success-
ful in literary compositions one must
be in love with his subject, so that a
man who undertakes to write his au-
tobiography should he first assured
that he is in love with himself If
this were the only qualification, how-
ever, it must be admitted there would
be few failures in productions of
this class. " In the fifty-second year of
my age," Gibbon commences, " after
the completion of an arduous and suc-
cessful work, I now jiropose to employ
some moments of my leisure in review-
ing the simple transactions of a private
and literary life. Truth, naked, un-
blushing truth, the first virtue of more
serious history, must be the sole re-
commendation of this personal narra-
tive. The style shall be simple and
familiar: but style is the image of
character; and the habits of correct
■\vi'iting may produce, without labor or
design, the appearance of art and study.
My own amusement is my motive, and
will be my reward : and if these sheets

(75)

EDWAKD GIBBOE".

are communicated to some discreet and
indulgent friends, tliey will be secreted
from the public eye till the author shall
be removed beyond the reach of criti-
cism or ridicule."

Following then this best authority,
the historian himself, we ascend with
him in the records of his ancestry to
the eleventh century, when the Gib-
bons of Kent flourished in that old
English county. One of the family
was architect or castle-builder of King
Edward III. ; another, was captain of
the Eno-lish militia in the reio-n of Eli-
zabeth. An alliance by marriage con-
nected the. historian, in the eleventh
degree, with a Lord High Treasurer of
England of the days of Henry VI., the
historic Baron Say and Scale who was
beheaded by the insurgents in the
Kentish Rebellion, and who, in Shahe-
speare's play is reproached by Jack
Cade with erecting a grammar school,
setting printers at work, building a
paper mill, and having men about him
" who usually talk with a noun and a
verb, and such abominable words as
no Christian ear can endure to hear."
" Our dramatic poet," writes the his-
torian of the Roman Empire " is gene-
rally more attentive to character than
to history ; and I much fear that the
art of jDrinting was not introduced into
England till several years after Lord
Say's death : but of some of these me-
ritorious crimes I should hope to find
my ancestors guilty; and a man of
letters may be proud of his descent
from a patron and martyr of learning."

At the beginning of the seventeenth
century a branch of the family settled
in London in mercantile life and pros-
pered, Edward, the grandfather of the

historian, acquiring wealth as a draper
and rising to a government appoint-
ment as one of the commissioners of
the customs. Unhappily he became a
director of the South Sea Company,
and his previous fortune of sixty thou-
sand pounds was lost in the wreck of
that extraordinary speculation. Es-
caping from his creditors with a small
allowance, he was however enabled by
his energy to repair his losses and be-
come again a man of consideration for
his property. His son Edward was
educated at Westminster School and
at Cambridge, enjoyed the advantages
of foreign travel, and on his retui'n
represented the tory interest in parlia-
ment as a borough member. He mar-
ried the daughter of James Porten, a
London merchant, and of this union,
the first child, Edward, the subject of
this notice, was born at the family es-
tate at Putney, in the County of Surry,
on the 27th of April, old style, 1737.
So weak appeared the constitution of
the child, that his father, to preserve
the family designation, thought fit to
call each of his five brothers who suc-
ceeded him by the name of Edward ;
yet they all died in their infancy, leav-
ing;: the first-born to maintain the hon-
ors of the title. The care of Edward
in his feeble childhood fell to his aunt,
Mrs. Catharine Porten, who watched
over him with the greatest assiduity,
and to whose kind care he attributed
the preservation of his life. At the
age of seven he was jjrovided with a
domestic tutor named Kirkby, a man
of some ingenuity as an author and
grammarian, from whose hands, at the
end of eighteen months, he was sent to
a school at Kingston, where, as he tells

EDWAKD GIBBON.

us, " by the common methods of disci-
pline, at the expense of many tears and
some blood, I purchased the knowledge
of the Latin syntax." The authors
which he studied at this time, or, as
he expresses it, "painfully construed
and darkly understood," were the lives
of Cornelius Nepos and the fables of
Phsedrus. The one gave him his first
glimpses of the history of Greece and
Rome ; the other taught him in an at-
tractive form " the truths of morality
and prudence." After two years' study
at the school, frequently interrupted
by sickness, he Avas recalled by his
mother's death, which brought him
again within the attentions of his aunt,
a lady of cultivated understanding,
who encouraged his mental develop-
ment and inspired him with an ar-
dent pursuit of knowledge. " To her
kind lessons," he says, " I ascribe my
early and invincible love of reading,
which I would not exchano^e for the
treasures of India." Owing to her fa-
ther's losses in business, Mrs. Porten,
in u spirit of independence, in keeping
with her high character, opened a
boarding-house for the scholars of
"Westminster School. Her nephew,
Edward, now at the age of twelve,
joined her in this neAv residence and
was immediately entered at the school,
which, as we have seen, his father had
attended before him. The boy still
needed the care of his devoted aunt;
his studies were still broken in uj^on
by his maladies, while " in the space of
two years, interrupted by danger and
debility," as he informs us, he "pain-
fully climbed into the third form."
All this while his lessons were of the
elementary character, leaving him to

" acquire in a riper age the beauties of
the Latin and the rudiments of the
Greek tona:ue." Unable to miusle in
the sports of the school, his leisure with
his aunt was doubtless largely given
to reading. Pie was already familiar
with Pope's Homer, Dryden's Vii'gil,
Ovid's Metamorphoses and the Arabian
Nights' Entertainments, and had "turn-
ed over many English pages of poetry
and romance, of history and travels,"
in his maternal grandfather's library.
A severe nervous affection now led to
his withdi'awal from Westminster to
seek relief from the mineral waters at
Bath, and some time was passed at vari-
ous residences, his education being car-
ried on in the most desultory manner,
till at about sixteen his constitution
unexpectedly developing ncAv powers
and throwing off his former complaints,
after an unprofitable attempt to pursue
his studies with Francis, the translator
of Horace, who proved too careless for
the duty which he assumed, the young
Gibbon, ~n'ithout further preparation,
before he had accomj^lished his fifteenth
year, was entered by his father as a
student at Magdalen College, Oxford.

Imperfectly trained in the regular
academic studies in consequence of his
frequent attacks of illness, the youth
carried Avith him to the University an
extraordinary stock of miscellaneous
reading, which had already been con-
centrated iipon history, especially in
reference to Gi-eece and Rome. He
had eagerly perused all that he could
lay his hands upon relating to these
subjects in translations of the ancient
authors, and had penetrated beyond
the classic period into the later Byzan-
tine period and the outlying history

EDWAED GIBBON.

of the East. " Before I was sixteen,"
says he, " I Lad exhausted all that could
be learned in English of the Arabs and
Persians, the Tartars and Tm'ks ; and
the same ardor urged me to guess at
the French of D'Herbelot, and to con-
strue the barbarous Latin of Pocock's
Albufaragius." Nor was this merely
the gratification of an idle curiosity.
The historic passion was already de-
veloped within him, as is shown by his
careful study of geography and chro-
nology. He sought order and accuracy
in the confusion of the early dates, and
perplexed himself with the systems of
rival authorities. His sleep was dis-
turbed by the difficulty of reconciling
the Septuagint with the Hebrew com-
putation. With such acquirements,
" I arrived at Oxford," says he, " with
a stock of erudition that might have
puzzled a doctor, and a degree of ig-
norance, of which a school-boy would
have been ashamed."

The transition to the University
was well calculated to make a mark-
ed impression on a youth whose intel-
lectual faculties were thus alive for
wonder and admiration. Entering
with all the privileges of wealth, " I
felt myself suddenly raised from a boy
to a man ; the persons, whom I respect-
ed as my superiors in age and acade-
mical rank, entertained me with every
mark of attention and civility; and
my vanity was flattered by the velvet
cap and silk gown which distinguished
a gentleman-commoner from a plebeian
student. A decent allowance, more
money than a school-boy had ever
seen, was at my o^vn disposal ; and I
might command, among the tradesmen
at Oxford, an indefinite and dangerous

latitude of credit. A key was deliv-
ered into my hands, which gave iue
the free use of a numerous and learn-
ed library: my apartment consisted
of three elea:ant and well furnished
rooms in the new building, a stately
pile, of Magdalen College; and the
adjacent walks, had they been fre-
quented by Plato's disciples, might
have been compared to the Attic shade
on the banks of the Ilissus." With
such advantages shielding the student
so effectually in his defects of special
preparation, one would have thought
the course of an ingenuous youth would
have been steadily onward without in-
terruption. Every opportunity was in
his way to amend his deficiencies, with
a large liberty for the prosecution of
his favorite studies. But too much
appears to have been left to his choice ;
his tutors were compliant and indiffer-
ent, and he took advantage of their
neglect, giving himself freely to the
amusements and dissipations of the
place. He needed restraint and pre-
scribed duties, and from both he was
exempt in the privileged ease of the
college. But though he was acquiring
little in exact learning or mental disci-
pline, his mind was not inactive. In
his first long vacation he was intent
upon writing a book which involved
much learned reading, on "The Age
of Sesostris," and actually accomplish-
ed a portion of it. On his return to
the University, he engaged in a course
of religious reading, excited by the pe-
rusal of Dr. Middleton's " Free Inquiry
into the Miraculous Powers possessed
by the Church in the Early Ages," a
work so consonant with Gibbon's later
habits of thought, that it is surprising

EDWAED GIBBOK

that lie did not then accept its skepti-
cism in relation to the pretensions iip-
on which the Romanists relied. But
his prejudices were then enlisted on
the side of what he considered author-
ity, and with the wholesale ardor of
youth, accepting as an inference from
the miraculous claims of the Church
of Rome, its whole series of doctrines,
having finished his conversion by him-
self chiefly from the writings of Bos-
suet, he got access to a Jesuit priest
in London, and " at his feet solemnly,
though privately, abjured the errors
of heresy." As the act of a youth of
sixteen, in the situation of life in which
Gibbon Avas placed, it exhibits a cer-
tain courao-eous enthusiasm of charac-
ter, not less than the vanity or indis-
cretion to which it might be readily
assigned. Looking back upon it in af-
ter life, he writes, "To my present
feelings, it seems incredible that I
should ever believe that I believed in
trausubstantiation."

This boyish freak cost the convert his
luxurious abode in Magdalen and trans-
ferred him accordina; to an arrans-ement
made by his father to the care of Mr.
Pavilliard, a Calvinist minister at
Lausanne, in Switzerland, who was
now charged with the continuance of
his studies with the view of disengao;-
ing his mind from his new ecclesiasti-
cal opinions. A better choice of a
preceptor could hardly have been made
than this calm, clear-headed, mode-
rate, benevolent M. Pavilliard, a man
of learning and information, who
speedily acquired an influence over
his pupil, and in no long time, " the
various articles of the Romish creed
disappearing like a di'cam," brought

him into full communion with the
Protestant Church of Lausanne. "It
was here," writes the mature Gibbon,
"that I suspended my religious in-
quiries, acqixiescing with imjilicit be-
lief in the tenets and mysteries, which
are adopted by the general consent of
Catholics and Protestants."

But it was not only in his amended
religious creed that Gibbon profited
by the instructions of his new teacher.
The whole current of his life was
changed by this transfer to Switzer-
land. In place of the luxurious quar-
ters of the fellow commoner at Ma2;da-
len, he was now, with a tightened
purse, submitting to the small econo-
mies of a mea2;re residence in a dull
street of an unhandsome town, with
his studies to begin anew in the ele-
ments of a foreign language. It was
much to his credit that he accepted
the new conditions with equanimity.
Here, indeed, at Lausanne, his educa-
tion as a source of power and strength
may fairly l)e said to have begun. He
not only became thoroughly acquaint-
ed with French and accustomed to
write and speak it, but he thought
in it and incorjiorated its finer spirit
with his mental processes. His Eng-
lish prejudices disajipeared under this
foreign culture, and the sphere of his
criticism on history and its methods
were greatly enlarged. He made
himself also a master of the Latin and
acquired a knowledge of the Greek,
which he afterwards perfected. Choos-
ing some classic Latin or French au-
thor, he would translate from' one
tongue into the other, and when the
phrases had passed from his memory,
would re-translate his work into the

EDWAED GIBBOlSr.

otlier language and compare tlie result
witL. the original from whicli he had
started. In this way he became ac-
complished in two foreign tongues.
An intimate knowledge of Cicero led
the way to his acquaintance with the
whole series of the Latin classics, of
which he made abstracts in French.
A close study of logic gave dexterity
to his critical faculties, which were set
in motion and sharpened by the delight
with which he perused the Provincial
Letters of Pascal, from which he learn-
ed the art of which he so often availed
himself in his " History," of " manag-
ing the weapon of grave and temperate
irony, even on subjects of ecclesiasti-
ca solemnity." The confidence and ac-
tivity of his mind were shown in his
opening a correspondence on points of
learned inquiry with various distin-
guished professors of Europe, in which
he sustained his part with credit. Al-
together, the five years of his novitiate
at Lausanne, were well spent, and
when, at the end of this time, he was
recalled by his father to England, the
foundation of his future literary great-
ness may be said to have been already
laid. An episode of his career as a
student at Lausanne should not be
forgotten. While there he fell in love
with a learned and accomplished young
lady, JNIademoiselle Curchod, the daugh-
ter of a Swiss rural pastor, and would,
if his father had not forbidden the un-
ion, have made her his wife. " I sigh-
ed," says he, with a philosophical equi-
librium Avhich had now become his
characteristic, " as a lover, I obeyed
as a son; my wound was insensibly
healed by time, absence and the hab-
its of a new life." The lady was after-

wards married to a native of Geneva,
a rich banker of Paris, M. Necker,
who as the minister of finance of the
dying French monarchy, acquired an
historic fame. Nor are the pair less
known as the parents of that remarka-
ble phenomenon in female intellect,
the celebrated Madame De Stael.

On his return to England Gibbon
was greeted with all the warmth of
her former affection by the kind aunt
to whom he owed so much ; while his
father, who had jiarted with him with
an air of severity, was conciliated
by the evident good effects of the
pupilage to Avhich he had consigned
him at Lausanne. In his mother-in-
law, whom he had not before seen, he
found a lady of understanding and
esprit Avho appreciated his various ac-
complishments. Under these auspices
he was fi-ee to pursue with every ad-
vantage of fortune, his own tastes and
inclinations. The first employment
which was thought of for him was that
of secretary to a foreign embassy, if such
a place could be found ; and it was
partly to advance his pretensions to an
api^ointment of the kind that he set
about the completion of his first pub-
lication, an " Essay on the Study of
Literature," written in the French
language, in which it was now easier
for him to compose than in his own
tongue. After a deal of preparation
and revision it was issued in London
in 1761, when its author was at the
age of twenty-four. In the autobio-
graphy will be found a retrospective
criticism of the work, the candor of
which, in its administration of praise
and censure, is not without a certain
kind of humor. While condemning its

confusion and occasional obscurity he
looks back upon it with, pride as the
creditable production of a young
"\\Titer of two-and-twenty, "who had
read with taste, who thinks with free-
dom, and who writes in a foreign lan-
guage with spirit and elegance." The
" Essay" also appeared in English, but
the author speaks slightingly of the
translation. The work, as might have
been expected, was better received on
the continent than in England. It at-
tracted the attention of the savans of
France, Holland and Switzerland, and
paved the way for the writer's early
admission into their ranks.

While this Avork was in progress,
Gibljou had been pursuing his studies
with a diligence and zeal which had
already become habitual to him and
which not even the dissipations of
a London season could effectually im-
pair. On the receipt of the first quar-
terly payment of a liberal allowance
from his father, a large share of it was
apj^ropriated to his literary wants. " I
cannot forget," says he, "the joy with
which I eschano-ed a bank-note of
twenty pounds for the twenty volumes
of the Memoirs of the Academy of In-
scriptions ; nor would it have been
easy, by any other expenditure of the
same sum, to have procured so large
and lasting a fund of rational amuse-
ment." The choice indicates the scholar
and the future historian. His readins:
of the classic authors and their com-
mentators was continued, and by a
judicious method he fully incorporated
what he read with his own reflections.
" After glancing my eye," he tells us,
" over the design and order of a new
book, I susDended the jierusal till I
11

had finished the task of self-examina-
tion, till I had revolved, in a solitary
walk, all that I knew or believed, or
had thought on the siTl^ject of the
whole work, or of some particular
chapter: I was then qualified to dis-
cern how much the author added to
my original stock ; and if I was some-
times satisfied by the agreement, I was
sometimes armed by the opposition of
our ideas."

His studies were however broken in
upon by what to a person of his tastes
was a novel sort of life. It was the
period of the Seven Years' War, in
which England participated, and the
old chronic alarm of an invasion of
the country had stirred up the enlist-
ment of a local militia. The patriot-
ism of the Gibbons was aroused in
their residence in Hampshire, and in
the battalion which was raised in the
county the father was commissioned
as major, and the son as captain. The
work once undertaken, there was no
easy or honorable mode of abandoning
it, so that our embryo historian for
two years and a-half was actively en-
gaged in furthering and superintend-
ing the various encampments of his
restless regiment throu2;h the southern
counties from Winchester to South-
ampton. During these movements, in
which his time was much engrossed
by the bustling importance of the
camp, there was, of course, little time
for systematic reading, though that
was not wholly resigned, while, as he
fondly narrates, " on every march, in
every joiu'ney, Horace was always in
my pocket and often in my hand."
Meanwhile, as his diary shows, he was
j)lanning futui'c historical undertak-

EDWAED GIBBON.

ings, meditating first the expedition of
Charles VIII. of France into Italy ;
then topics of English history, as the
crusade of Richard I., the Barons' wars
against John and Henry III., the His-
tory of Edward the Black Prince, and
settling down for a time, after a glance
at Sir Philip Sidney, upon a kindred
subject of mixed biography and his-
tory, the life of Sir Walter Ealeigh.
After extensive readin<>: reg:ardino^ this
hero, finding, among other difiSculties,
" his fame confined to the narrow lim-
its of our language and our island,"
he looked abroad for a wider subject
in the History of the Liberty of the
Swiss and the Republic of Florence
under the Medici. All these show his
passion for history, to which he was
turning even his military occupation
to account. "The discipline and evo-
lutions of a modern battalion," he
writes, " gave me a clearer notion of
the phalanx and the legion ; and the
captain of the Hampshire grenadiers
(the reader may smile) has not been
usdess to the historian of the Roman
Empire."

When the war was ended by the
treaty of Paris, in 1763, the militia
was disbanded and Giljbon was once
more free to pursue his own inclina-
tions. A month had hardly passed
when he was again on the continent
engaged in the round of foreign travel
which Avas thou2:ht essential to com-
plete the education of an English gen-
tleman. Three or four months were
passed in Paris in the study of its
antiquities and literary resources, and
in friendly communication with its
men of letters, Avhen the journey was
pursued to Switzerland and his now

beloved Lausanne, where he was wel-
comed with enthusiasm by his tutor
Pavilliard, and lingered eleven months
before he advanced into Italy. His
classical studies had prepared him for
the full appreciation of the latter
country. He followed up its antiqui-
ties with his usual energy, was im-
pressed by all its Avonders with some-
thing of a poetical imagination, and
when he reached Rome, the literary
dreams of his life were ready to be
concentrated upon one endiiring vision,
the realization of which in a perma-
nent work was to give employment to
the best years of his life. " It was at
Rome," says he, " on the 1 5th of Oc-
tober, 1764, as I sat musing amidst the
ruins of the Capitol, while the bare-
footed friars were singing vespers in
the temple of Jupiter, that the idea of
writing the decline and fall of the city
first started to my mind. But my
original plan was circumscribed to the
decay of the city rather than of the
empire; and though my reading and
reflections began to point towards that
object, some years elapsed and several
avocations intervened, before I was
seriously engaged in the execution of
that laborious woi"k."

Returning to England in the sum-
mer of 1765, he resumed for a time his
engagements in the militia service with
the rank of major and lieutenant colo-
nel commandant ; and being joined by
his friend M. Deyverdun, an accom-
plished gentleman with whom he had
become intimate in Switzerland, he en-
gaged with him in 1767, in the publi-
cation of a species of review or critical
journal entitled, "Memoires Litteraires
de la Grand Bretagne," which reached

EDWAKD GIBBON.

a second volume the following year.
To this miscellany Gibbon contributed
among other papers a trenchant review
of Lord Littelton's History of Henry
H. The work, composed in French^
was not likely to meet with a large
circulation ; but it gained reputation
for the writers and introduced them to
the acquaintance of David Hume, who
was much admired as an historian by
Gibbon, and who lived to enjoy with
great unction the perusal of the first
volume of his friend's Roman history.
In his next publication, issued anony-
mously in 1770, Gibbon entered the
field in opposition to Warburton, in an
attack upon that prelate's hj^othesis,
in his " Divine Legation of Moses," of a
revelation of the Eleusinian Mysteries
by Virgil, in the sixth book of the
^neid. This Essay was our author's
first publication in English. After this
his studies were steadily directed to
the work of preparation for his great
work on the history of Rome. By the
death of his father he came into pos-
session of a moderate fortune, and was
free to pursue his own plans in life.
His time was divided between city and
country. At the residence of his inti-
mate friend and constant correspond-
ent Mr. Holroyd, afterwards Lord
Sheffield, in Sussex, he found a home
where he was always aiDpreciated. In
town he mingled freely in the fashion-
able society of the metropolis, and in the
literary clubs formed the acquaintance
of the eminent wits of the time, John-
son, Burke, Garrick, Goldsmith and
the rest. Gathering his books about
him in his house in London, he set
seriously to work at the composition
of the " Decline and Fall of the Roman

Empire." Much of the learning re-
quisite for his purpose he had already
accumulated ; l:)ut a style was yet to
be formed. "Many experiments," he
tells us, " were made before I could
hit the middle tone between a dull
chronicle and a rhetorical declamation :
three times did I compose the first
chapter, and twice the second and third,
before I was tolerably satisfied "svith
their effect." " Style," Buffon says,
"is the man," and that of Gibbon
truly represents his character — a com-
posite union of his French and Eng-
lish education, self-conscious, animat-
ed and important. Language grew
in his hands to be the most apt
and forcible means for the adequate
presentation of his subject, cover-
ing the events of many centuries
in the records of divers nations in
every degree of culture from the most
refined civilization to the rudest bar-
barism, and producing a living picture
of the whole, which moves and breathes
in eveiy page. There is indeed a cer-
tain mannerism in the language ; but
this is common to the style of great
authors and marks its individuality.
It is cei-taiuly not a model for imita-
tion on ordinary subjects; but in the
privileged hands of Gibbon it is an
instrument of great power, capable of
conveying the finest meanings, distin-
guished by its philosophical acumen,
which has frequently the force of wit,
and, above all, to be admired for its
march to "the Dorian sound of flutes
and, soft recorders," in the imposing
progress of a grand historic narrative.
Its condensation is wonderful. The
most interostino; details feed the curi-
osity of the reader while they are

never suffered to fatigue his attention.
The work in its thousands of pages
glitters with perpetual novelty. Fact
and philosophy are blended in happy
union. It is one musical incantation
from beginning to end. The industry
of the author never flags; his literary
genius is never at fault.

In our author's previous studies we
have seen something of his half con-
scious preparation for this work. As
he approached his task more closely
he applied himself with greater devo-
tion to its special requirements. Geo-
graphy, chronology, the study of medals
and anticjuities no less than the ordi-
nary historic authorities were his con-
stant care. His reading was indefati-
gible ; so that when he began to write,
his mind being fully charged with the
sultject, the most costly materials were
on every side at hand for the construc-
tion of his edifice. Two things are
particularly noticeable in his language :
one, the constant presentation of the
object in the foreground of his sen-
tences ; the other, the choice of motives
which he steadily presents to the
reader in his balancing of opinions.

While engaged in the composition
of the early portions of the history,
Gibbon by family influence was re-
turned to parliament for a borough.
He sat in the House of Commons for
several years, supporting steadily by
his vote through the progress of the
American question, the tory adminis-
tration of Lord North, for whose per-
sonal qualities he had the highest
admiration. As usual, he was turning
his experience to account for the great
work of his life. " The eight sessions,"
says he, " that I sat in parliament were

a school of civil prudence, the first and
most essential virtue of an historian."
A more immediately practical result
was his appointment at the instance of
Lord Loughborough as one of the Lords
of Trade, which brought an addition
to his income of between seven and
eight hundred pounds per annum.
This was continued for three years,
when it was brought to an end by the
fall of Lord North's administration,
which closed Gibbon's parliamentary
career. The reception of his history
was, however, now making him amends
for his losses. The first volume, pub-
lished in 1770, was succeeded by the
second and third in 1781, bringing the
work to the fall of the Western Em-
pire. Its success was immediate. " I
am at a loss to describe it," wiites
Gibbon, " without betraying the vanity
of the writer. The first impression (of
the first volume) was exhausted in a
few days ; a second and third edition
were scarcely adequate to the demand ;
and the bookseller's property was
twice invaded by the pirates of Dub-
lin. My book was on every table, and
almost on every toilette ; the historian
was crowned by the taste or fashion
of the day ; nor was the general voice
disturbed by the barking of any ^?/'o-
fane critic." The word " profane " is
marked by the author's italics and re-
fers to the storm of censure Avith which
the chapters on the Early Progress of
Christianity were greeted by the critics
of a more sacred order, at the head of
Avhom may be ranked Bishop Watson,
whose reply was entitled " An Apology
for Christianity." While allowing
Gibbon every latitude for his criticism
of the historical conditions of his theme.

EDWARD GIBBO^^.

exceptions may certainly be taken to
the contemptuous spirit with wliich he
often approached the subject ; his lack
of sympathy Avith its higher elements,
and his departure in this instance from
the usual course of his philosophical
fairness. Nor less is to be censured a
certain pruriency in his treatment of
the relations of the sexes, which occa-
sionally mars his work. Setting aside
these defects, liis general accuracy has
been admitted Ijy the most learned in-
vestigators of his theme, and in the
library of every scholar his work will
Ije found by the side of the great
classic historians of the world.

Gibbon remained in England till
1783, when he removed to Lausanne,
his old retreat, with the intention of
making the place his permanent re-
sidence. The motives which led to
this chano-e were varied. Much was
to he gained on the score of leisure
and independence ; he would be free
from the jjolitical and other distrac-
tions of London, and at liberty to de-
vote his best powers to the completion
of his literary task ; while, on the score
of economy, the income, which was
hardly sufficient for the claims of so-
ciety in England, more than met every
liberal requisition in Switzerland. The
companionship of his friend Mr. Dey-
verdun, who had invited him to share
his habitation in Lausanne, offered to
him the comforts and resoui'ces of a
home. Gibbon undertook to support
the expenses of the house, Avhich was
situated in one of the finest parts of
the town, overlooking the Lake of
Geneva and the mountains beyond.
Here he brought his books and added
to their number ; a picked collection

of some six or seven thousand volumes.
It was a full twelvemonth, however,
as he informs us, before he " could re-
sume the thread of regular and daily
industry." Then, with all his re-
sources at command, his work proceed-
ed apace. The morning hours were
regularly given to it, and he seldom
allowed it to exceed the day, only at
the last, when he Avas anxious for its
completion, permitting it to trespass
upon the evening. At the end of
three years, the great labor was accom-
plished. " I have presumed," says he
in his Memoir, in allusion to a passage
already cited, " to mark the moment
of conception : I shall now commem-
orate the hour of my final deliver-
ance. It was on the day, or rather
night, of the 27th of June, 1787, be-
tween the hours of eleven and twelve,
that I Avrote the last lines of the last
page in a summer-house in my garden.
After laying down my pen, I took
several turns in a herceau or covered
walk of acacias, which commands a
prospect of the country, the lake and
the mountains. The air was tempe-
rate, the sky Avas serene, the silver orb
of the moon was reflected from the
waters, and all nature was silent. I
Avill not dissemble the first emotions
of Joy on recovery of my freedom, and
perhaps, the establishment of my fame.
But my pride was soon humbled, and,
a sober melancholy was spread over
my mind, by the idea that I had taken
an everlastintr leave of an old and
agreeable companion, and that whatso-
ever might be the future date of my
History, the life of the historian must
l)e short and precarious."

Thus was brought to a close this

EDWAED GIBBON.

noljle work, embracing a period of
thirteen centuries, and connecting the
e-reat eras of ancient and modern civili-
zation. It begins with a review of the
prosperity of the Eoman Empire in
the age of the Antonines, and ends
with a picture of the renewed glories
of the imjjerial city in its present as-
pect, when its " footsteps of heroes, the
relics, not of superstition, but of
empire, are devoutly visited by a
new race of pilgrims from the remote
and once savage countries of the north.
Of these pilgrims," he says in conclu-
sion in a retrospective glance at the
entire work, " the attention will be
excited by a history of the decline and
fall of the Roman Empire ; the great-
est, perhaps, and most awful scene, in
the history of mankind. The various
causes and progressive effects are con-
nected with many of the events most
interesting in human annals : the art-
ful policy of the Ctesars, who long
maintained the name and imaore of a
free republic ; the disorders of military
despotism ; the rise, establishment and
sects of Christianity; the foundation
of Constantinople ; the division of the
monarchy ; the invasion and settle-
ments of the barbarians of Germany
and Scythia ; the institutions of the
civil law ; the character and religion |
of Mahomet; the temporal sovereignty j
of the Popes ; the restoration and de-
cay of the Western Empire of Charle-
magne ; the crusades of the Latins in

the East ; the conquest of the Saracens
and Turks ; the ruin of the Greek
Empire ; the state and revolutions of
Rome in the middle age."

Having finished his work, Gibbon
proceeded to England to superintend
its issue fi'om the press. The new por-
tion, equal in extent to the old, formed
three quarto volumes. It was given
to the public on the fifty-first anniver-
sary of the author's birthday, the fes-
tival being celebrated by a literary
dinner at the publisher's, Mr. Cadell's,
at which a poem by Hayley was read,
in which the historian was vaguely
complimented Ijy association with
Newton and Shakespeare. A better
tribute to his fame is the silent and
enduring admiration of successive
generations of readers and the zeal of
able translators and editors like Guizot
and Milman, in assisting their compre-
hension of his work.

Returning to Lausanne, Gibbon re-
mained there till 1793, when he again
visited his friend Lord Shefiield in
England. He was now afilicted with
a troublesome dropsical affection,
Avhich he had long neglected, and
which he was at length compelled to
submit to medical treatment. The
surgeons gave him some relief, but
were unable to cure the malady, ixnder
the eft'ects of which he sunk rapidly at
last, closing his days at his temporary
lodgings in London on the 16th of
January, 1704.

^narcc anfonuftt

MARIE ANTOINETTE.

MARIE ANTOINETTE was boru
at Vienna, November 2d, 1753,
the (lavghter of Francis of Lorraine,
Emperor of Germany, and of Maria
Theresa, Archduchess of Austria,
Queen of Hungary and Bohemia, and
Empress of Germany, Persons whose
curiosity or credulity may incline them
to regard Avhat, after the event, are
brought up as ominous coincidences,
may be struck with the circumstance
noticed by her biographers, that the
birth of the ill-fated Queen of France
occurred on the same day with that
which is darkly marked in the calen-
dar as that of the destruction of Lis-
bon by the earthquake, an event which
Ions: excited a fearful interest in the
European community. It was indeed
a troubled world into which Marie
Antoinette was born. After unprece-
dented queenly eftbrts which have
gained her a distinguished name among
the royal heroines of the Avorld, Maria
Theresa, having vigorously defended
her Austrian dominions and maintain-
ed a resolute struggle with Frederic
the Great, had seen her husband raised
to the rank of Emperor, and the long
European contest in which she had
been engaged terminated by the treaty

of Aix La Chapelle recognizing her
succession and leaving her Avith the ex-
ception of Silesia in enjoyment of her
coveted territories. After a brief in-
terval, the Seven Years' War, in which
Austria was associated with France
and Russia against Prussia, had fol-
lowed, closing in 1763, and two years
later, by the death of her husband
Francis I., her son Joseph succeeding
him as Emperor, she was left during
the life-time of the latter free to repair
the injuries of war by devoting herself
to the peaceful welfare of her legiti-
mate subjects, a task, with the bold
work of reform which it required,
hardly less hazardous as to its results
than the contests of the battle-field.
If Austria had gained nothing by the
wars just concluded, France had lost
much in the cession to England of
Canada and her other North American
colonies. To regain the lost prestige
of France her minister for foreign af-
fairs, the Duke de Choiseul, clung all
the closer to his favorite policy, the
alliance with Austria, and to advance
the interests of the nation in this direc-
tion, early jorojected a marriage be-
tween Louis, the grandson of Louis
XV., and heir to the French throne,

(87)

MARIE ANTOINETTE.

and Marie Antoinette, the daughter of
Maria Theresa. When this affair was
brought about by negotiation, Louis
was a youth of fifteen, and his intend-
ed bride a year younger, and the mar-
riage had been contemplated for some
time before, as we learn from a letter
written by the Empress Queen to her
young son-in-law just before the nup-
tials, in which she says, " I have
brought her up with this design ; for
I have loner foreseen that she would
share your destiny."

AVhat that education had been we
may gather from the revelations in the
Memoirs of the Queen by her intimate
friend Madame Campan. According
to her account it had been much neg-
lected. She tells of the pretences put
forth in the Austrian court of the
princesses answering addresses in
Latin, when in reality they did not
understand a single word of the lan-
guage, and of a drawing being shown
as the work of Marie Antoinette to
the French Ambassador sent to draw
up the articles for her marriage con-
tract, when she had not put a pencil
to it. She had acquired in her youth,
however — no mean attainment — a
good knowledge of Italian, having
been taught by no less a person than
the Al:)be Metastasio, many of Avhose
great works were produced during his
prolonged residence at Vienna. Of
masic, that necessary accomplishment
of a court, she appears before her
arrival in France to have learnt little.
French, she spoke fluently without
writing it correctly, though some ex-
ti'aordinary means had been taken to
secure this branch of her education.
Her mother, the Emj^ress Queen, had

provided for her two French actors as
teachers, one for pronunciation, the
other for taste in singing ; but as ob-
jection was made in France to the lat-
ter on account of his bad character, an
ecclesiastic, the Abbe de Vermoud,
was chosen, whose influence over his
pupil is described as unfavorable in
subsequently leading her to treat with
contempt the requirements of the
French court.

The preliminary arrangements of
betrothal, involving -a great deal of
state ceremony having been duly gone
through with, the time came to con-
duct the archduchess to Paris to accom-
plish the marriage. The journey took
place early in May, 1770. Leaving Vi-
enna in an imposing procession, with
loud expressions of regret on the part
of the populace, she was received on
the frontier of France near Kehl, in a
splendid pavilion erected for the occa-
sion, on a small island in the Rhine.
The building consisted of a large
saloon Avith two inner rooms, one of
which was assigned to the princess
and her companions from Vienna, the
other to the titled personages \vho
were to compose her court attendants
in Paris, the Countess de Noailles, her
lady of honor ; the Duchess de Cosse,
her tire woman ; four ladies of the bed-
chamber; a gentleman usher, and
among others, the Bishop of Chartres,
her chief almoner. Here a peculiar cere-
mony was observed. The princess, ac- '
cording to prescribed etiquette was dis-
robed of all that she had worn on the
journey, that on entering the new
kingdom she might retain nothing be-
longing to a foreign court. When par-
tially undressed she came forward and

MARIE ANTOINETTE.

threw herself into the arms of the
Countess de Noailles, soliciting in the
most aflectionate manner her guidance
and support. She was then invested
in the brilliant paraphernalia becom-
ing her position at the French court.
Among the witnesses of these festivi-
ties on the Khine was one observer,
whose record of the scene, from the
part he was afterwards to play in the
world, is one of the memoral>le inci-
dents of history. This was the poet
Goethe, then a youth of twenty who
had recently come to pursue his uni-
versity studies at Strasburg. Sensi-
tive then as ever to the claims and as-
sociations of art, he tells us how he
was shocked to see in the costly deco-
rations of the pavilion, the cartoons of
Raphael, woi'ked in tapestry, thrust
into the side chambers while the main
saloon was hung with tajiestries
worked after pictures of modern
French artists. Nor was this all. The
subjects of the latter struck him as sin-
gularly incongruous. " These pictures
were the history of Jason, Medea and
Creusa — consequently a story of a
most wretched marrias-e. To the left
of the throne was seen the bride
striiggling against a horrible death,
surrounded by persons full of sympa-
thetic grief; to the right stood the
father, horror-struck at the murdered
babes at his feet ; whilst the fury in
lier dragon car, drove through the air.
' What ! ' I exclaimed, regardless of
bystanders ; ' can they so thoughtlessly
place before the eyes of a young queen,
on her first setting foot in her domin-
ions, the representation of the most
horrible marriage perhajDS that ever
was consummated ! Is there amonc; the
12

architects and decorators no one man
who understands that pictures repre-
sent something — that they work upon
the mind and feelings — that they pro-
duce impressions and excite forebod-
ings? It is as if they had sent a
ghastly spectre to meet this lovely, and
as Ave hear most joyous, lady at the
very frontiers ! ' "* At that time there
was in the gayety of the scene and the
French court little encouragment for
foreboding, and if any attention was
paid to the remonstrances of Goethe,
it was jjrobably only to smile at the
eagerness of the youthful dilettante
art student. He was a thinker, how-
ever, accustomed to penetrate beneath
the surface and not be imposed uj^on
by the shows of things. He yielded
willingly everything of admiration
which could be demanded for the in-
teresting sight of the young princess
whose "beauteous and lofty mien, as
charming as it was dignified," he after-
wards recalled, but he could not fail
to brand in his satiric verse the artifice
by which a show of prosperity was
kej^t up in the removing far from sight
of the gay company, the halt, the lame
and the blind, who might have
thronged the way. In some lines writ-
ten in French he contrasted the advent
of our Saviour, who came relieving
the sick and deformed, with that of
the princess at which the unfortunate
sufi:erers were made to disappear.

Journeying towards the capital the
princess was met at Compiegne by the
reigning monarch with his grandson,
the dauphin to whom she was betroth-
ed, and ])y Avhom she was conducted
to Versailles, where the marrias'e took
* Life of Goethe, by Lewes, Am. £d.,Yol. I., p. 97.

place on the 16th of May, amidst the
most imposing festivities. An ill-
omened accident however marred the
rejoicings in Paris. A brilliant display
of fireworks Avas to be exhibited on
the Place Louis Quinze, in the centre
of the city, and a huge scaffold had
been erected for the purpose. On the
night of the expected display the vast
crowd of the great city were thronged
round the spot to witness the brilliant
show, when suddenly the platfoiTU was
discovered to be on fire, and the flames
spread with rapidity, setting off the
fireworks in all directions, scattering
death and terror through the masses.
The injury directly inflicted by the fly-
ing bolts was terrific, and the masses
were trampled down in vain efforts to
escape. More than fifty were killed, and
over three hundred severely wounded
in this disaster. The newly married
dauphiness was at this moment ap-
proaching the scene to share in the en-
joyments of the people. She showed
her feeling for the calamity by joining
with her husband in sending their
whole income for the year to the fami-
lies of the sufferers. Moved to tears
by the disaster, one of the ladies her
attendants, to relieve her thoughts by
substitutina: another emotion than that
of pity, remarked that among the dead
there had been found a number of
thieves with their pockets filled with
watches and other valuables which
they had stolen in the crowd, adding
that they had been well punished.
" Ah, no ! " was the reply of the dau-
phiness, "they died by the side of
honest people."

The impression made upon the court
and people hj the dauphiness was

highly favorable. She caiTied herself,
e\"en at this early period, with an air
of grace and nobility. Louis XV.,
who had miserably spent his life in
devotion to beauty was enchanted with
her. " All his conversation," we are
told' by Madame Campan, "was about
her graces, her vivacity, and the apt-
ness of her repartees. She was yet
more successful with the royal family
when they beheld her shorn of the
splendor of the diamonds with which
she had been adorned during the ear-
liest days of her marriage. When
clothed in a light dress of gauze or
taff'ety, she Avas compared to the Ve-
nus de Medici and the Atalanta of the
Marly gardens. Poets sang her charms,
painters attempted to copy her features.
An ingenious idea of one of the latter
was rewarded by Louis XV. The pain-
ter's fancy had led him to place the
portrait of Marie Antoinette in the
heart of a full-blown rose. This ad-
miration naturally excited the jealousy
of the profligate court favorite, Madame
du Barry, whose political influence with
the king was still powerful. She was
opposed to the minister, the Duke of
Choiseul, and with his fall a few months
after the wedding of the dauphiness,
the latter lost a much needed friendly
supporter and guide to her inexperi-
ence. Her chief adviser was now the
Abbe de Vermond, who, having been
her tutor before marriage, became her
private secretary and confldant after.
" Intoxicated," Avrites Madame Cam-
pan, " Avitli the reception he had met
with at the Court of Vienna, and hav-
ing till then seen nothing of grandeur,
the Al^be de Vermond admired and
valued no other customs than those of

MAEIE ANTOUSTETTE.

tlie imperial family ; he ridiculed tlie
etiquette of the house of Bourbon in-
cessantly; the young dauphiness was
constantly invited by his sarcasms to
get rid of it, and it was he who first
induced her to suppress an infinity of
practices of which he could discern
neither the prudence nor the political
aim." The court was ruled by eti-
quette, and that of the most tedious
and oppressive character. Nothing
was to be done except in a prescribed
way with the most rigid formalities.
The dauphiness, gay and impulsive,
and natural in her actions, was per-
petually rebuked by the chief lady of
her attendants, or rather the leading
person appointed to guard her move-
ments, the virtuous and ever punctili-
ous Countess de Noailles, a dueana
worthy of the- old court of Spain,
where these personal restrictions were
can'ied to their utmost possible excess.
The lively dauphiness gave this lady
the title of Madame V Jitiqitette,
and whenever opportunity presented,
sought relief from her oppressive cere-
monial. Her life was really an im-
prisonment governed by oppressive
court usages, which all, in a certain
way, the king and his mistresses in-
cluded, submitted to, while they were
avowedly violating every law of pro-
priety and morality on which the cus-
toms were founded. It is pleasing to
read, as we often may, in the accounts
of the early life of Marie Antoinette,
how her generous nature at times found
vent for itself in extraordinary acts of
kindness and charity. Once, when she
Avas hunting in the forest of Fontaine-
bleau, an old peasant was wounded by
the stag. On the instant, jumping from

her open carriage, she placed the injured
man in it with his wife and children and
had the family taken back to their cot-
tage. Some little time after she was
found in her room with this old man,
in the humblest manner staunching the
blood which issued from a wound in his
hand with her handkerchief, which she
had torn up for the purpose. He had
received some hurt in moving a heavy-
piece of furniture at her request. On
another later occasion, a little country
boy, four or five years old, of a pleas-
ing appearance, with large blue eyes
and fine light hair, narrowly escaped
being tramped upon by getting under
the feet of her horses, as she was
di'iven out for an airing. The child
Avas saved, and its grandmother came
out of her cottage by the roadside to
receive it ; when the queen — for the
incident occurred after she had come
to the throne — stood up in the carriage
and claimed the boy as her own, put
in her way by Providence. Finding
his mother was not alive, she under-
took to provide for him herself, and
bore him home on her knees, the boy
violently kicking and screaming the
whole time. A few days afterAvards
he AA^as to be seen in the palace, his
Avoollen cap and Avooden shoes ex-
changed for the court finery of a frock
trimmed Avith lace, a rose-colored sash
with silver fringe, and a hat decorated
Avith feathers. He Avas looked affcei
till he grcAV up and displayed some
character, joining the rejiuljlican army
to obviate any prejudice Avhich might
exist against him as the queen's favor
ite, and meeting his death at the bat-
tle of Jemappes.

Acts like these show the impulses of

MAKie ANTOINETTE.

the woman. Thoiigli in her early years,
while she was simply the dauphiness, she
had for companions the two brothers
of her husband with their princesses,
they were compelled to maintain the
utmost secrecy in so simple a matter
as enoraariner in the amusements of a
theatrical entertainment among them-
selves, in which they acted the chief
parts, the dauphin being the only spec-
tator. The performance had at least
one good effect, if, as is stated, it awak-
ened the dauphin to a proper appre-
ciation of the charming qualities of his
bride, to which he appeared for some
time after their marriage to have been
insensible.

Now came the event which was to
mark an era in the breaking up of the
old system. Louis XV., in his long
reign of fifty years, commencing with
the honorable administration of Fleury,
had as he. advanced plunged the nation
deeper and deeper in financial embar-
rassments, while in his surrender to his
discreditable court favorites and mis-
tresses, the Marchioness de Pompadour
and Madame du Barry, and other
intri2;ues of the vilest character, he
had set the nation the example of the
grossest licentiousness. The vices, hand-
ed dovrn in a long succession of royal
immoralities, tolerated in history by a
certain outward brilliancy, had culmi-
nated in the utter degradation of the
court. The country was on the verge
of bankruptcy, the oppression of the
privileged classes had reached its
height; the whole system of govern-
ment was rotten ; and if the nation was
to be preserved, it could only be by
the casting oft of the old, and the infu-
sion of new life into every department

of the administration. At this crisis,
at the age of twenty, Louis XVL, a
pedantic youth, with little capacity of
insight to supply the lack of experi-
ence, came to the throne. ' His op-
portunity consisted solely in his free-
dom from the vices of his grandfather.
For an old worn-out debauchee the
nation was to receive as its Lead an
uncorrupted well-meaning youth ; who
also brought to the throne in exchange
for the evil influences, of an unprinci-
pled courtesan, Avho had been elevated
from the 'dregs of society, the hopes
and prestige of the daughter of a noble
house in a queen, whose beauty and
brilliant bearing might well have warm-
ed the heart of the most gallant country
in Europe. In other times they miglit
have passed through this exalted life
with credit to themselves and glory to
the nation. In the age in which their
lot was cast, two things were wanting
to them, a thorough comprehension of
the needs of the period, with ability to
direct its issues. Failing in these, their
course was uncertain, shifting, insin-
cere, and though not without a pro-
found pathetic interest, inevitably
leadins: to the most io-nominious disas-
ter. " Beautiful Highborn," chants
the prose lyrist of our modern histori-
cal literature, Thomas Carlyle, when
writing of Marie Antoinette, " that
wert so foully hurled low. Thy fault
in the French Revolution, was that
thou wert the symbol of the sin and
misery of a thousand years ; that with
Saint Bartholomews and Jacqueiies,
with Gabelles and Dragonades and
Parcs-aux-cerfs, the heart of mankind
was filled full, — and foamed over into
all-involving madness. To no Napo-

MAEIE ANTOINETTE.

leon, to no Cromwell wert thou wed-
ded : STicli sit not in the highest rank of
themselves ; are raised on high by the
shaking and confounding of all ranks !
As poor peasants, how happy, worthy
had ye two been ! But by evil desti-
ny ye were made a King and Queen
of; and so are become an astonish-
ment and a by-word to all times."

The same vivid pen has pictured in
words of fire the horrors of the death-
bed of the departing king, and the
greedy haste of the courtiers in usher-
ing in his successor. " Yes, poor Louis,
Death has found thee. No palace walls
or life-guards, gorgeous tapestries or
gilt buckram of stiffest ceremonial could
keep him out ; but he is here, here at
thy very life-breatli, and will extin-
guish it. Thou, whose whole existence
hitherto was a chimera and scenic
show, at length becomest a reality;
sumptuous Versailles bursts asunder,
like a dream, into void immensity;
time is done and all the scaffolding of
time falls wrecked with hideous clan-
gor round thy soul : the pale kingdoms
yawn open ; there must thou enter,
naked, all unking'd, and await what is
appointed thee ! Unhappy man, there
as thou turnest, in dull agony, on this
bed of weariness, what a thought is
thine ! Purgatory and Ilell-fire, now
all too possible, in the prospect ; in the
retrospect, — alas, what thing dids't
thou do that were not better undone ;
what mortal didst thou generously
help ; what sorrow hadst thou mercy
on ? Do the ' five hundred thousand'
ghosts, who sank shamefully on so
many battle-fields, from Rossbach to
Quebec, that thy Harlot might take
revenge for an epigram, — crowd

round thee in this hoxu-? Thy foul
Harem; the curses of mothers, the
tears and infamy of daughters ? Miser-
able man! thou 'hast done evil as
thou couldst : ' thy whole existence
seems one hideous abortion and mis-
take of nature, the use and meaning of
thee not yet known. Wert thou a
fabulous Griflin devouring the works
of men ; daily dragging virgins to thy
cave ; — clad also in scales that no spear
would pierce ; no spear but Death's ?
A grifiin not fabulous but real !
Frightful, O Louis, seem these moments
for thee. * * * It is now the 10th
of May, 1774. He will soon have done
now. This tenth May-day falls into
the loathsome sick-bed ; but dull, un-
noticed there : for they that look out
of the windows are quite darkened ;
the cistern-wheel moves discordant on
its axis ; Life, like a spent steed, is
panting towards the goah In their
remote apartments Dauphin and Dau-
phiness stand road-ready ; all grooms
and equerries booted and spurred :
waiting for some signal to escape the
house of pestilence. And hark ! across
the Qj^il-de-Beuf, what sound is that ;
sound ' terribly, and absolutely like
thunder ? ' It is the rush of the whole
court, rushing as in Avager, to salute
the new Sovereigns. Hail to your
Majesties ! The Dauphin and Dau-
phiness are King and Queen ! Over-
powered Avith many emotions, they
two fall on their knees together, and,
with streaming tears, exclaim : ' O God,
guide us, protect us, Ave are too young
to reign.' " *

So Marie Antoinette became the
Queen of France. The new reign Avas

* The French KeA-olution, Book I., Ch. iv.

91-

MAKIE A^^TOINETTE.

hailed with acclamations by the people.
The king was at least free from the
gross vices of his predecessor, and the
miserable influence of such creatures
as Du Barry was at an end. The
government, however, could not as
easily throw off the encumbi'ance of
the vast debt which the preceding pro-
fligacy and corruption had heaped upon
it. Monopoly and restriction every-
where prevailed; the demands upon
the people in one form or another of
taxation were every day becoming
greater, while the means of paying
them were less. Every department of
the administration was encumbered
with privileged abuses. With all his
insensibility, the new sovereign could
not fail to j^erceive these evils, and in
the appointment of the experienced
and j)hilosophic Turgot, an economist
in advance of the times, to the high
oflSce of comptroller general of finance,
he gave a pledge to the people that
their interests would not be disregard-
ed. The difficulties and embarrass-
ments, ending in his overthrow, which
the minister experienced in carrying
out his work of reform, which con-
sisted simply in abolishing odious re-
strictions fettering the industry of the
country, and reducing the expenditure,
to avoid bankruptcy, disclosed the
evils under which the nation was suf-
fering from the oppression of the
yjrivileged classes, and the little hope
there was of effecting any improve-
ment with their concurrence. They
were unwilling to yield anything.
The court also was embarrassed by its
old traditions and cumbrous machinery
of ceremonial, which, outliving its
uses, became an encouragement of the

very evils it was originally contrived
to prevent. If its various social con-
trivances had one object to secure more
than another, it was the protection of
the character of those within their
sphere ; but the whole system had now
degenerated according to its necessary
tendencies into a vexatious, burden-
some formalism, inviting suspicion,
detraction and slander. In the open
life of most court circles of the present
day the character of Marie Antoinette
would be understood and appreciated,
her vivacity or folly would be taken
at their proper value, and her harmless
freedoms, though they might subject
her to the charge of levity and
thoughtlessness unbecoming the re-
sponsibility of her station, could not,
however misrepresented, long be mis-
taken for vice and criminality. It is
singular, showing the hold the court
traditions had upon the mind of the
French people, that, while they were
sighing for freedom and entertaining
the wildest dreams of natural liberty,
they were holding the queen to the
strictest requirements of an artificial
court, and condemning her for the most
innocent actions. On one occasion,
early in her reign, she expressed a de-
sire to see the sun rise, a phenomenon
which she had never before witnessed,
and a party was arranged for the
purpose, in which she took the precau-
tion to include the ladies attending on
her person to accompany her, at three
o'clock in the morning to the heights of
the gardens of Marly — a simple enough
proceeding, which was travestied in a
wicked and licentious ballad, attri-
buting to her the ^s•orst motives.
This was circulated by her enemies,

MARIE AINTOINETTE.

wlio never lost an opportunity of ca-
lumniatino: her. Instances of this kind
might be multiplied from her Memoirs.
The motive of such hostilities appears
to have been supplied in the jealousies
of various ladies about the court whom
she had taken little pains to conciliate,
in the general dislike to the Austrian
alliance, and, when the question of
political liberty was fully before the
people, her natural and irrepressible
leaning to the cause of the aristocracy
and monarchy.

It is curious to note the etiquette
Avhich was practised at the French
court in the days immediately preced-
ins; the Ilevolution. One of the cus-
toms which Marie Antoinette abolish-
ed in coming to the throne was that of
dining every day in public, Avheu, ac-
cording to ancient usage, the queen
was waited upon only by persons of
her own sex, titled ladies, who j^re-
sented the jolates kneeling — a sjiectacle
highly attractive to country people,
who had thronged to see the dau-
phiness undergoing this ceremony.
There were others of a more private
nature which she could not so well
escape. ]\Iadam Campan gives an
amusing account of the absurd pro-
ceedings attending tlie queen's toilette.
" It Avas a master-piece of etiquette ;
every thing done on the occasion was
in a prescribed form. Both the lady of
honor and the tire-woman usually at-
tended and officiated, assisted by the
first femme de chavihre and tAvo in-
ferior attendants. The tire- woman put
on the petticoat, and handed the gown
to the queen. The lady of honor
poured out the water for her hands,
and put on her body linen. When a

princess of the royal family happened
to be present while the queen was
dressing, the lady of honor yielded to
her the latter act of office, but still did
not yield it directly to the princess of
the blood ; in such a case, the lady of
honor Avas accustomed to present the
linen to the chief lady in waiting, Avho,
in her turn, handed it to the princess
of the blood. Each of these ladies
observed these rules scrupulously, as
affecting her rights. One Avinter's day
it happened that the queen, Avho AA'as
entirely undressed, was just going to
put on her body linen ; I held it ready
unfolded for her ; the lady of honor
came in, slipped off her gloA^es, and
took it. A rustling Avas heard at the
door ; it Avas opened : and in came the
Duchess d'Orleans ; she took her gloves
off, and came forAvard to take the gar-
ment ; but as it Avould have been wrong
in the lady of honor to hand it to her,
she gave it to me, and I handed it to
the princess : a further noise — it Avas
the Countess de Provence ; the Duchess
d'Orleans handed her the linen. All this
while the queen kept her arms crossed
upon her bosom, and appeared to feel
cold : Madame obserA-ed her uncom-
fortable situation, and merely laying
doAATi her handkerchief, Avithout taking
off her gloA'es, she put on the linen, and
in doing so knocked the queen's cap
off. The queen laughed to conceal her
impatience, but not until she had mut-
tered several times : ' Hoav disagree-
able ! hoAV tiresome ! ' "

It is not surprising that the queen
uttered this exclamation, for the pecu-
liar incident just related Avas but one
of a series of similar annoyances, which
in one relation or another might "hap-

MAKIE ANTOINETTE.

pen any hour of the clay. From niorn-
ine: till nin^lit, before she arose and after
she was installed in her royal bed, eti-
quette was continually at her elbow.
The manoeuvres of the toilet were more
circumstantial than the rites of an an-
cient Roman sacrifice, and quite as sa-
cred and obligatory. This matter of
dress was an affair of the highest mo-
ment, a sort of public transaction taking
place at high noon, a state performance
to be witnessed in due order and se-
quence by princes of the blood, cap-
tains of the guards and other great
officers. The king's brothers, the Count
de Provence and the Count d' Artois,
we read, came very generally to pay
their respects while the queen's hair
was dressing, and if these princes had
any sense of humor, it must have been
something amazing to them to witness
the erection on the human head of that
proud edifice, puffed up by hidden
contrivances and decorated by such su-
perb millinery and flower and feather-
work beyond the art of any painted
savage. The queen, it must l)e ac-
knowledged, took kindly to this species
of manufacture. Early in her reign,
by the kind intervention of the Duchess
de Chartres, contrary to all precedent,
a famous milliner from the outer world
of the great city. Mademoiselle Bertin,
was introduced into the royal house-
hold, with whom the queen planned an
infinity of new dresses, — a new fashion
every day, to the equal delight and
distraction of the fashionable society
of Paris. " Every one," we are told,
" wished to have the same dress as the
queen, and to Avear the feathers and
flowers to which her beauty, then in
its brilliancy, lent an indescribable

charm. The expenditure of young
women was necessarily much increased ;
mothers and husbands murmured at it ;
some giddy women contracted debts;
unpleasant domestic scenes occurred;
in many families quarrels arose; in
others, affection was extinguished ; and
the general report was, that the queen
would be the ruin of all the French
ladies."

Connected with this extravacrance
of dress there arose a great scandal,
much to the detriment of the queen,
though, in reality, she was not at all
responsible for it. This was the com-
plicated affair, famous in law and his-
tory, of The Diamond Necklace, a curi-
ous embroglio of roguery, imj^licating
various notable personages, and for a
time apparently the queen, Avhile she
suffered not for any act of her own but
for being involved in an evil system
of things which rendered so stvipen-
dous a fraud a possible achievement.
The story at every turn of its many
involutions, throws a wondrous light
upon the state of society in France at
the period. "VVe can but indicate its
general outline, referring the reader
for the entire plot to the energetic dra-
matic dithyrambic narrative of Car-
lyle. The main agent in the plot,
though not the prime mover, was that
strange personage, of the dying mon-
archy. Prince Louis de Rohan, a profli-
gate nobleman who had by family in-
fluence and intrigue gathered to him-
self a great many extraordinary honors
and distinctions with splendid emolu-
ments. Archbishop of Strasbourg,Grand
Almoner of France, Commander of the
Holy Ghost, Cardinal, Commendatorof
St. Wast d' Arras, " one of the fattest

MARIE ANTOINETTE.

benefices," says Carlyle, " here below.'''
In the early part of his cai'eer he had
been remarkable for his dissipation;
as lie advanced in life, he j^layed the
courtier and became ambitious. At
the age of thirty-six he had the honor
on behalf of the nation of receiving
Marie Antoinette on her first arrival
in France, and subsequently, while she
remained the dauphiuess, was sent am-
bassador to Vienna, where he main-
tained an amazing style of pomp and
disj)lay, till his extravagance brought
him deeply in debt. He was no favor-
ite with the empress queen, who de-
spised his profligacy, so unbecoming
his sacred character, and would have
had him recalled. He moreover of-
fended the dauphiness by a witticism
in one of his dispatches reflecting on
her mother in relation to one of the
least defensible acts of her reign, de-
scribing Maria Theresa standing with
the handkerchief in one hand weeping
for the woes of Poland, and with the
sword in the other ready to divide the
land and take her share. This was sent
to the last minister of Louis XV., D'
Aiguillon, who communicated it to the
king and he to Du Barry, when it
became the jest of the day among the
courtiers. Marie Antoinette, it is said,
never forgave this. She may very Avell,
too, have had a natural dislike to the
perpetrator of the sarcasm. However
this may be, Avhen she became queen,
De Rohan, greatly to his chagrin, was
refused admittance at court. To be
compelled to remain outside of that
charmed circle was a perpetual torment
to a man of his tastes and dispositions.
His rapid preferments and rise to the
dignity of Lord Cardinal would seem
13

to have made him little auiends for the
exclusion.

We are now to be introduced to an
other personage, more remarkaljle in
her way than the cardinal in his, a
bold adventuress, one of the boldest
who e^'er displayed the arts and capa-
city of uusexed womanhood. This was
the Countess Lamotte, as she was call-
ed, with royal blood in her veins, in an
illegitimate way, a descendant of one
of the numerous mistresses of Henry IL
of France. Her ancestor. Saint Eemi,
had been enriched and the family had
kept up its state for several genera-
tions till it had fallen into utter worth-
lessness and bankruptcy, and its latest
representative, Jeanne, a little girl, is
one day picked up, a beggar on the
highway, by the Countess Boulainvil-
liers, and under lier patronage becomes,
to quote the nomenclature of Carlyle,
" a nondescript of mantua-maker, sou-
brette, court beggar, fine lady, abigail,
and scion-of-royalty," — a person, in fine,
with natural and acquired tastes, pas-
sions and propensities, needing of all
things money for their support. As a
compliment to her royal ancestry, the
court, grovvTi economical or indifferent,
after so many generations, grants her a
poor thirty pounds a-year. Looking
round for ways and means, her first
thought is to visit the place of the
alienated possessions of her family, in
hopes to discover possible flaws in the
title, which comes to nothing. All that
she gains there is a husband, a private
in the army, and thus she becomes
Madame Lamotte, or, as she styles her-
self, dignifying her plebeian help-mate,
the Countess Lamotte. A few years
pass, Lamotte is no longer a soldier,

MARIE ANTOINETTE.

his wife's patroness, tlie Countess, is
dead, and with her pension about dou-
bled, all insufficient for her wants, Ma-
dame, or the Countess Lamotte is living
in humble quarters on the edge of the
court in the to^vn of Versailles. Still,
with an eye to her family deserts or
pretensions, she one day goes to his
eminence, the Cardinal Rohan, a proper
person as she thinks, in his capacity of
Grand Almoner to gain her some more
adeqnat(3 allowance from the royal
treasury. The cardinal, affected doubt-
less by lier piquant address, — for, with-
out being beautiful, she had a coun-
tenance which her intellect or artful
manners could make attractive, — was
moved to reply, not by an advance of
money, of which, with all his revenues,
he appears never to have had any sur-
plus, but with the advice to appeal to
the queen. In recommending this re-
source, he expressed his great disap-
pointment that he had not access to her
presence to assist in the application.
Lamotte, whose natural keenness ad-
versity had sharpened, saw thoroughly
into the character of the cardinal, and
gigantic as the game was, quite unap-
proachable to a meaner intellect, resolv-
ed in the consciousness of her strength
to malce him her dupe. Her knowledge
of the court and her means of access to
several of its inferior servants, with
the occurrence at this time of an extra-
ordinary opportunity, were the means,
to her, all things considered, of one of
the boldest and most successful at-
tempts ever made on human credulity.
The opportunity was the chance in
some dexterous way of getting posses-
sion of a necklace of diamonds, quite
capable of being converted into the

handsome sum of about four hundred
thousand dollars in gold, for such a
thing is not to be profared by estima-
ting it in a paper currency. AlloAving
for the difference of values, it might
probably be estimated in this year,
1872, at about half a million. The
preparation of this magnificent work
had been the one idea, to surpass all
others of his princely constructions of
this sort, of tlie court jeweler, M. Boch-
mer. He had held that position in the
days of Louis XV., and the necklace
was his clief d^euvre^ not too expensive
for the enormous waste of that era, or
for the revenues lavished upon the
court mistress Du Barry, for Avhose or-
namentation it had been intended. As
pictui'ed in an ordinary representation
before us in common printers' ink from
a wood-cut, it quite glorifies the page
with its sparkling drops of light. It
must have been indeed a brilliant ob-
ject to look upon. Here is Carlyle's
description of it from the engraving.
" A row of seventeen glorious dia-
monds, as large almost as filberts, en-
circle, not too tightly, the neck, a first
time. Looser, gracefully fastened thrice
to these, a three-wreathed festoon, and
pendants enough (simple pear-shaped,
multiple star-shaped, or clustering am-
orphous) encircle it, enwreath it, a sec-
ond time. Loosest of all, softly flowing
round from behind, in priceless cate-
nary, rush down two broad threefold
rows ; seem to knot themselves round
a very queen of diamonds on the bo
som ; then rush on, again separated, as
if there were length in plenty ; the very
tassels of them were a fortune for some
men. And now lastly, two other in-
expressible threefold rows, also with

MAEIE ANTOINETTE.

tlieir tassels, will, wLen the necklace is
on and clasped, unite themselves be-
hind into a doubly inexpressible six-
fold row ; and so stream down, together
or asunder, over the hind-neck, — we
may fancy, like lambent Zodiacal or
Aurora-Borealis fire."

A work like this, in tradesman's
phrase, was locking up a great deal of
money, and its owner, a tradesman,
must needs be anxious for its sale. It
was naturally offered at the new court
■ — something worthy the attire of the
youthful brilliant Austrian queen, but
though there were vanity and expense
enouo'h left, retrenchment was the
order of the day, and, in comparison
with previous reigns, royalty was poor
and parsimonious. Earlier ministers
of finance mio'ht have manas-ed it, but
the budgets of Turgot and Necker had
no place for such an item, and the
people Avere on the track of these ex-
travagances with a fearful vengeance
in store. To the credit of Marie An-
toinette, she gave no countenance to
its acceptance, remarking, on the pro-
ject being brought before her, that
" we have more need of seventy-fours
than of necklaces." She advised its
being broken up ; but this was to sac-
rifice the idea of its constructor. He
was not yet ready to abandon the
greatest achievement of his career. He
would not, or could not, solve the pro-
blem for himself. There was one, how-
ever, at hand ready enough to do it —
the Countess Lamotte, both able and
willing. A necessary preliminary, the
cardinal, was already in her toils. Re-
turning to De Rohan a few days after
the interview in which he had advised
her to have recourse to the queen, she

informs him that she had obtained ad-
mittance to her, been favorably re-
ceived, and taken the opportunity to
sj)eak of the grief of the cardinal in
his exclusion from the royal favor, and
obtain permission to j^resent his vindi-
cation. The cardinal accordingly
made her the medium of his aj)ology,
and received in return a note, appa-
rently in the queen's writing, expres-
sinsc her satisfaction at learniuo- that
he was innocent, and promising at
some indefinite future time the
audience he solicited, in the mean
time enjoining him to be discreet.
The bait was swallowed, and hence-
forth the cardinal, who of all men on
earth should have had the best eye for
trickery, was but a puppet in the
hands of this intriguing woman. The
correspondence was continued ad libi-
tum^ the artful messenger, from her
ready resources, having a supply of
sufficiently specious answers ready on
demand. Presently, in judicious se-
quence, the money card is played and
wins. The queen commissions the
Grand Almoner to borrow for her sixty
thousand francs for a charitable object,
and the sum is paid, as requested, into
the hands of Lamotte. A second ap-
plication for a like sum succeeds
equally well — payments for the time
being made in royal letters of thanks.
The Lamottes, thus handsomely pro-
vided with the means, set up an es-
tablishment at Versailles, and, that the
cardinal mioht not observe it, and thus
have his suspicions aroused, he is saga-
ciously advised by a letter fi-om the
queen to visit his diocese in Alsace,
which he does.

Successful negotiations like these

100

MARIE ANTOIISrETTE.

encouraged a move to get possession
of the necklace, a fascinating object
sufficient to call forth the Lest poAvers
of the most consummate roguery.
Her show of living at Versailles l>eiLg
attributed to favors received from the
queen, Lamotte, through an emissary,
began to approach the jeweler Boch-
mer on the subject of the diamonds,
and gets him to think she might assist
in the negotiation at court. Presently
she announces to him that an eminent
personage has been commissioned to
purchase on behalf of the crown. The
cardinal is sent for, and on his arrival
in Paris is told that the queen wishes
him, as a special mark of her favor, to
buy the necklace for her without the
knowledge of her husband, and that
she will pay for it out of her income.
He receives an authorization from her,
pledges himself for the whole amount,
promises quarterly payments, and the
jewelers seeing the queen's authority,
and understanding that he is acting
confidentially for her, place the neck-
lace in his hands. Arrangements are
now made for the delivery of the jewel.
This Lamotte contrives shall take place
at her hoiise at Versailles, to be there
given by her to a messenger of the
queen, the cardinal being present to
witness the transaction. He arrives at
dusk with a valet bearing the casket
containing the necklace; it is placed
in her hands, and the confidential valet
of the queen arriving, receives it and
bears it away — the cardinal looking
through the glazed window of an al-
cove in the apartment, satisfying him-
self of the identity of the receiver. It
is high time for some recognition from
the queen. This is prettily prepared

by Lamotte in evasive aj)proaches tc
an interview. On a previous occasion
the cardinal had accompanied her in a
midnight visit to the gardens of Ver-
sailles — there being much talk and
idle scandal of the queen's summer
Avalks and musical parties there at that
hour, and as he apjieared to l)e near
j the royal person in the obscurity, she
hurries away seemingly frightened at
the approach of some members of the
court, dropping, however a rose for his
eminence, with the cheering words :
" You know what that means." This,
though evasive as the pursuit of the
unapjoroachable in dreams, feeds his
hopes for the time. When the neck-
lace has been delivered, Lamotte in-
vites the cardinal to take his place
among the courtiers in the gallery of
the Q5il-de-Boeuf, where she has ob
served the queen has a customary
motion of the head as she passes
through the throng on her way to the
chapel. This of course is to be inter
preted as a special mark of regard for
the cardinal. He perceives it, and
accepts it as sudh. Another royal
mandate again sends him out of the
way to Alsace, while Lamotte de-
spatches the necklace to her husband
in London, where it is broken up and
sold for the benefit of the conspirators.
The day of payment now arrives, and
the jeweler looks to the cardinal ; out
of the proceeds of the jewels Lamotte
produces a sum of money as interest,
and the principal is not forthcoming
Meanwhile the jewelers have made
their acknowledgments for the trans-
action at court, where nothing of course
is known about it, and the whole bur-
den is thrown upon the cardinal. At

MARIE ANTOINETTE.

101

length, in August, 1785, a year and a
half after the beginning of those trans-
actions with Lamotte — so long had he
been the victim of pretences and for-
geries — the cardinal is summoned to
the presence of the king and queen,
and confronted by the depositions of
the jewelers and the financier from
whom he had bori'owed money for the
queen. He pleads the royal authority
for his act, and the writing on which
he relies is pronoimced a forgery. He
is arrested and sent to the Bastille,
whither shortly the Countess Lamotte
is sent after him. Not long after, Vil-
lette, who personated the queen's valet,
and Mademoiselle Leguet, who repre-
sented the queen herself in the gardens
of Versailles, the deceivers of the car-
dinal, are also arrested. The plot now
becomes clearer, and, when the Avhole
case is before the court, the prince car-
dinal is acquitted of fi-aud, though
sent into exile by the king for his
mischievous alisurdities, while Lamotte
ex23iates her wickedness with flogging,
branding on both shoulders, and a
sentence of imprisonment for life,
which is not fully executed, for after a
while she escapes to England, and one
■ day, from some unseemly cause, is
found precipitated from a high win-
dow to the street pavement, which
ends her remarkable career.

Anecdotes might be multijjlied of
the gay life of the court during the
first ten or fifteen years of the new
reign, of the festive entertainments at
Versailles, of the queen's innocent
pastoral amusements in her little re-
treat of the Petit Trianon, where she
sought to realize that rustic simplicity
which had been the dream of the poets

of the age — a court simplicity, howev-
er, with music from the opera, in the
background, laces and ribbons un-
known to the genuine Arcadia, and
the graces and aifectations of the fash-
ionable Avorld ; but we must refer the
reader for these things to the gossiping
pages of Madame Campan. In her Me-
moirs, much may be read of the petty
jealousies of the court, great often in
their results; of the gradual ascendan-
cy gained by the queen over her hus-
band, who at first neglected her ; of
ber intimacy with the members of her
household, the Princess de Lamballe
and the Countess de Polignac ; of her
mortification in the early years of her
reign when she was childless, and of
the delight of the nation, when after
the birth of a princess in 1778, in 1781
an heir was born to the throne. On
the latter occasion, the artificers and
traders of Paris went to Versailles in
a body, carrying the various insignia
of their callings, with some humorous
accessories. Even the chimney sweep-
ers, we are told, turned out, " quite as
well dressed as those that appear upon
the stage, carrying an ornamented
chimney, at the top of which M-as perch-
ed one of the smallest of their fra-
ternity. Th e chairmen carried a sedan,
highly gilt, in which were to be seen
a handsome nurse and a little dauphin.
The smiths hammered away upon an
auA^il, the shoemakers finished off a
little pair of boots for the dauphin,
and the tailors a little suit of the uni-
form of his regiment. The kins: en-
joyed the sight for a long time from
the l)alcony. So general Avas the en-
thusiasm that (the police not having
carefully examined the procession) the

102

MAEIE ANTOraETTE.

grave-diggers Bad the impudence to send
tlieir deputation also, with the emble-
matic devices of their ill-omened occu-
pation " — ill omened surely, if read hj
the light of the dire revolutionary pro-
ceedings of the few succeeding years.
The market women were received —
a deputation from them — into the
queen's bed-room, one of them read-
ing to her an address written by La
Harpe, piquantly engraved on the in-
side of a fan, Avhich she handed to her
without any embarrassment. This was
peculiarly French. Fancy an English
market - woman approaching Queen
Victoria on such an occasion in that
style ! The fish - women, the ^^o/s-
mrdes, spoke their addresses and sang
their son^s in honor of the event, with
abundant good humor and gayety. Fol-
lowing upon these rejoicings came the
bustle and stir of the American war,
which the queen is said to have made
popular at court, favoring the negotia-
tor Beaumarchais, and humoring the
extraordinary attentions paid to Frank-
lin. The time came when she looked
back upon this enthusiasm as a
source of evil to the dynasty in the
encouragement of the democracy which
was sweeping away old institutions;
but meantime the danger was unsus-
pected, and France was avenged on
the American continent for her loss of
Canada to England.

The personal appearance of the queen
at this time has been described by La-
martine : " On her arrival in France, her
beauty had dazzled the whole kingdom,
a beauty then in all its splendor. The
two children whom she had given to
the throne, far from impairing her
good looks, added to the attractions

of her person, that character of mater-
nal majesty which so well becomes the
mother of a nation. The presentiment
of misfortunes, the recollection of the
tragic scenes of Versailles, the uneasi-
ness of each day somewhat diminished
her youthful freshness. She was tall,
slim and graceful, — a real daughter of
Tyi'ol. Her naturally majestic car-
riage in no way impaired the grace of
her movements : her neck risinsc ele-
gantly and distinctly fi'om her shoul-
ders gave expression to every attitude.
The Avoman Avas perceptible beneath
the queen, the tenderness of heart Avas
not lost in the elevation of her destiny.
Her light broAvn hair was long and
silky, her forehead, high and rather
projecting, was united to her temples
by those fine curA^es which give' so
miich delicacy and expression to that
seat of thou2;ht or the soul in women :
her eyes of that clear blue which recall
the skies of the North or the waters of
the Danube; an aquiline nose, Avith
nostrils open and slightly projecting
Avhere emotions palpitate and courage
is evidenced ; a large mouth, bril-
liant teeth, Austrian lips, that is, j^ro-
jecting and well defined ; an oval
countenance, animated, varying, im
passioned, and the ensemhie of these
features replete with that expression,
impossible to describe, Avhich emanates
from the look, the shades, the reflec-
tions of the face, AA^hich encompasses
Avith an iris, like that of the Avarm and
tinted vapor Avhich bathes objects in
full sunlight — the extreme loveliness
Avhich the ideal conveys, and which
by giA^ng it life increases its attrac-
tion. With all these charms, a soul
yearning to attach itself a heart easi-

MAEIE ANTOINETTE.

103

ly moved, but yet earnest in desire to
itself; a pensive and intelligent smile,
with nothing of vacuity in it, nothing
of preference or mere acqiiaintanceship
in it, because it felt itself worthy of
friendships. Such was Marie Antoinette
as a woman."

In the political events which suc-
ceeded so rapidly, ending in the over-
throw of the monarchy, the queen, in
common with the kinsr, was charo-ed
with duplicity in her professions of
adherence to the will of the nation.
Though of a generous kindly nature,
her inclinations, when the issue came
to be made, were naturally with the
aristocratic party. It would be expect-
ing perhaps too much of any sovereign
at that day to yield gracefully to such
sweeping reforms as were then insti-
tuted in France. The deeds of violence
and lawlessness which were dailj^ com-
mitted by the people, might well seem
to Justify the conviction that the only
safety for the state was in power and
repression, and that this force belonged
of right to the ancient monarchy. The
misfortune of the king "was the emi-
gration of members of the court and
the formation of a hostile party outside
of the country, to whose assistance he
was lookino; for redress. " In forminir
a judgment on the terrible events of
the French Revolution," says a recent
writer, " it must never be forgotten
that this disposition of the court to
rely on foreign aid and to subdue the
revolution by foreign influence, was
the inexpiable crime of the king and
queen. It Avas ridiculous to talk of
Louis as a tyrant. It was an outrage
to ascribe to the queen, as a woman,
any single action which would not

have become the noblest of her sex.
Whatever may have been the short-
comings of her Austrian education and
the frivolity of her early habits, mis-
fortune and dano;er awakened in her a
force of will, a cliearness of intelligence,
a power of language, and a strength of
soul, which speak with imperishable
eloquence in every line of the letters
written by her after the commence-
ment of the revolution. But, although
these qualities of the queen do her the
highest honor, and in this respect the
publication of her most private corres-
pondence can only exalt her reputation,
yet these papers render still more appa-
rent the fact that she had but little po
litical judgment, and that neither she
nor the king ever conceived the possi-
bility of dealing honestly with the rev-
olution. At each successive stage in that
protracted tragedy, there was a secret
policy always at work in the opposite
sense, and that policy, relying mainly
on external support was their destruc-
tion."*

It was more, however, by sufferance
than action that the queen was to be
distinguished in those days of trial.
Events moved rapidly. There was
hardly more than a single step from
the freedom of the court to the re-
straint of the prison, and the part
borne by Marie Antoinette, at any
time, could scarcely be anything more
than that of a simple adviser of the
king, in a feeble, capricious sort of
way. She had no senate to influence,
no army to command, no royal will to
execute. The policy of the nation was
shaped by its necessities. Bankruptcy

* Art. CoiTCspondence of Marie Antoinette,
Edinburgh Review, April, 186G.

104

MARIE ANTOraETTE.

and starvation were tlie imperial ru-
lers, and were inexorable in their de-
mands for reform. All that could be
done to palliate or defer had been
done in previous reigns. The waters
had been dammed up beyond the power
of human engineery to control them fur-
ther, and the deluge was inevitable.
rhe only escape for royalty was timely
abdication, if the reformers had been
willing to spare it as an agent of their
work. The king was made both an
instrument and a sacrifice. His forced
acquiescence in the constitution, which
he had no real intention to i'esj)ect,
gave a sanction to the revolutionary
proceedings, and henceforth, after a
few shiftless efforts at intrigue, and
one weak attempt to escape, there was
nothina: left but submission.

The story of the last years of the
royal family in this constantly dark-
ening revolutionary period is one of
the saddest narratives in all history.
In" their powerless, helpless condition,
the insincerity forced upon them by
their position, might surely have been
fora:iven. To brina; them to death was
an unnecessary crime ; to accompany
that death with the brutalities which
attended it, was the act of fiends. The
first scene in this great drama in which
Marie Antoinette prominently figures,
is in its first act in that incursion of
the mob at Versailles, in the night of
the 5th of October, 1789, when driven
from her bed-chamber, she appeared in
early morning in a balcony of the pa-
lace with her children, confronting the
infuriated crowd in the court-yard be-
low. When they ordered the children
away, as if to shut out from their view
that appeal to tenderness and pity, the

queen appeared alone before them, her
hands and eyes raised to heaven, appa-
rently expecting instant death— an act
of heroism which must have tamed for
the moment the ferocity of her j^erse-
cutors, whose wanton, libellous detrac-
tion, assailing her fair fame, was even
more cruel than theii' personal vio-
lence. The ignominious escort to Paris
follows upon this, and the prolonged
virtual imj)risonment in the palace of
the Tuilleries, the king, shorn of his
prerogatives, a jiuppet in the hands
of the Assembly. Wearied at length
of this anomalous position, in concert
with the emigrant nobles, encouraged
by the decision of the queen, in June,
1791, he endeavors to make his es-
cape from the kingdom. The queen
had been for some time busy in pre-
paration for the departure. Madame
Campan, who was still with her, was
employed in getting together and for-
warding to Brussels a complete ward-
robe for the family. On the 20th, the
king, Avith the queen, their children
and his sister Elizabeth, leave the Tuil-
leries clandestinely in flight for the
frontier. The Journey has been gene-
rally well arranged, but failing in
some of its details, chiefly through a
slight loss of time on the route, the
actual cause of disaster it is said being
the king's j)ersistence in stoppmg to
gratify his appetite by eating a meal
at a friend's house, is fatally checked,
late in the evening; of the 21st at Va-
rennes. The king, showing himself
from a window, "has been recognized,
and a band of young patriots effect his
capture. The party is brought back in
triumph to the Tuilleries and guarded
there more rigorously than before.

MARIE ANTOINETTE.

105

Thougli untried, tliey are already vir-
tually condemned, and their lives, in
tlie rapid deterioration of political par-
ties, are at the mercy of a mob. In
vain has the king sworn to obey the
Constitution, completed at last by the
National Assembly. The Legislative
Assembly, their successors, are more
intolerant, and a mob, in the interest
of the Republicans, on the 20th June,
1792, finds its way into the inner court
of the Tuilleries, demanding conces-
sions of the king, crowning his majesty
with the red revolutionary cap, while
the queen with difficulty escapes wear-
ing just siich another, getting off by
placing a tri-colored cockade in her
head-dress. This is but child's play,
however, to the events at the Tuille-
ries of the 10th of August, one of the
dark days of history, when the insur-
rectionary factions, commencing the
reign of terror, di'ove the royal family
as their only escape from immediate
massacre to take refua;e in the National
Assembly, while the faithful Swiss
guard laid down their lives in defence
of the palace. The queen would have
remained to risk their fate and there
met death in defence of the cro-\vn ;
but she was moved by an appeal for
her children and submitted. The As-
sembly decreed that the royal family
should be lodged in the Temple, an
ancient fortress or castle in the heart
of the city. Here for a time, under
strict confinement, making the best of

their situation, the royal party, though
suffering greatly, solaced their misfor-
tunes by mutual acts of affection and
kindness, till the king was separated
fi-om them. In December, he was car-
ried forth to his trial by the Conven-
tion which had succeeded to the As-
sembly, and on the 21st suffered death
at the hands of the public executioner,
having previously been permitted the
grace, or rather the final torture, of a
parting interview with his family.
Four months after the death of the
king, the dauphin was separated from
his mother in the Temple, and the
queen was left with the king's sister,
Madame Elizabeth, to endure the a2;2;ra-
vated sorrows and humiliations heap-
ed upon her. In August, 1793, she was
removed to the still more cruel prison
of the Conciergerie, in the vaults of the
Palace of Justice, and in October was
led to the court above to undergo the
mockery of a trial aggravated by the
fiercest and most revolting? indio-ni-
ties. She endured all with a heroism
worthy the daughter of Maria Theresa.
The only charity she esj^erienced, was
in her speedy execution on the 16th,
when she was conducted amidst the
jeers of the populace to the spot, the
Place Louis Quinze, where, nine months
before, the king had met his fate, and
there, her last glance toward the Tem-
ple, and her last thoughts on her chil-
dren, she too suffered death by the
guillotine.

DAVID GARRICK.

DAVID GAREICK was born at
tlie Angel Inn, Hereford, on the
19th February, 1716,* He was French
by descent. His paternal grandfather,
David Garric, or Garrique, a French
Protestant of good family, had escaped
to England after the revocation of the
Edict of Nantes, reaching London on
the 5th of October, 1685. There he was
joined in the following December by
his wife, who had taken a month to
make the passage from Bordeaux in a
wretched bark of fourteen tons, " with
strong tempests, and at great peril of
being lost." Such was the inveteracy
of their persecutors, that, in effecting
their own escape, these poor people
had to leave behind them their only
child, a boy called Peter, who was out
at nurse at Bastide, near Bordeaux. It
was not until May, 1687, that little
Peter was restored to them by his
nurse, Mary Mougnier, who came over
to London with him. By this time a
daughter had been born, and other
sons and daughters followed ; but of
a numerous family three alone surviv-
ed — Peter, Jane, and David. David

* This narrative is abridged from an admira-
ble presentation of the career of Garrick in the
Quarterly Review.
(106)

settled at Lisbon as a wine mei chant,
and Peter entered the anny in 1706.
His regiment was quartered at Lich-
field ; and, some eighteen months after
he received his commission, he married
Arabella, the daughter of the Rev. Mr.
Clough, vicar choral of the cathedral
there. There was no fortune on either
side, but much affection. The usual
result followed. Ten children were
bom in rapid succession, of whom sev-
en survived. Of these the third was
David, who made his appearance some-
what inopportunely, while his father,
then a lieutenant of dragoons, was at
Hereford on recruiting service.

Lichfield was the home of the fami-
ly. There was good blood on both
sides of it, and they were admitted in-
to the best society of the place, and
held in deserved respect. David was
a clever, bright boy ; of quick observa-
tion, apt at mimiciy, and of an enga
ging temper. Such learning as the
grammar - school of the town could
give he obtained; and his training
here, and at Edial some years after-
wards under his townsman Samuel
Johnson, produced more of the fruits
of a liberal education than commonly
results even from schooling of a more

DAVID GAEEICK.

107

elaborate and costly kind. Tlie occa-
sional visits of a strolling troop of play-
ers gave tlie future Roscius his first
toste of the fascinations of the di'ama.
To see was to resolve to emulate, and
before he was eleven years old he dis-
tinguished himself in the part of Ser-
jeant Kite in a performance of Far-
quhar's " Recruiting Officer," organiz-
ed for the amusement of their friends
by his companions and himself.

Meanwhile the cares of a numerous
family were growing upon his parents.
To meet its expenses, his father ex-
changed from the dragoons, into a
marching regiment, and went upon
half-pay. Peter, the eldest boy, had
gone into the Navy ; and upon the in-
vitation of the uncle, whose name he
bore, young David, then only eleven,
was sent to Lisbon, apparently with
the expectation that a provision for
life would be made for him in his un-
cle's Imsiness. But either his uncle had
no such intention, or the boy found the
occupation distasteful, for his stay in
Portugal did not extend over many
months. Short as it was, he succeeded
in making himself popular there by his
vivacity and talents. After dinner he
would be set upon the table to recite to
the guests passages from the plays they
were familiar with at home. A very
pleasant inmate he must have been in
the house of his well-to-do bachelor
uncle. No doubt he was sent home
with something handsome in his pock-
et ; and when a few years afterwards
the uncle came back to England to
die, he left his nej^hew 1000/., — twice
as much as he gave to any others of
the family.

Garrick's father, who had for some

years been making an inefl^ectual strug
gle to keep his head above water xipon
his half-pay, found he could do so no
longer, and in 1V31 he joined his regi
ment, which had been sent out to gar
rison Gibraltar, leaving behind him
his wife, broken in health, to face sin
gle-handed the debts and duns, the
worries and anxieties, of a large fami-
ly. In her son David she found the
best support. His heart and head
were ever at work to soften her trials,
and his gay spirit doubtless brighten-
ed with many a smile the sad wistful-
ness of her anxious face. The fare in
her home was meairre, and the dresses
of its inmates scaiity and well worn ;
still there were loving hearts in it,
which were di'awn closer together by
their very privations. But the poor
lady's heart was away with the father.

" I must tell my dear life and soul,"
she WTites to him in a lettei', which
reads like a bit of Thackeray or Sterne,
" that I am not able to live any longer
without him ; for I grow very jealous.
But in the midst of all this I do not
blame my dear. I have very sad dreams
for you but I have the pleas-
ure when I am up, to think, were I with
you, how tender. .... my dear would
be to me ; nay was, when I was with
you last. O ! that I had you in my
arms. I would tell my dear life how
much I am his — A. G."

Her husband had then been only
two years gone. Three more weaiy
years were to pass before she was to
see him again. This was in 1736, and
he returned, shattered in health and
spirits, to die within little more than
a year. One year more, and she, too,
the sad faithful mother, whose " dear

108

DAYID GAEEICK.

life " was restored to lier arms only to
be taken from them by a sterner part-
ing, was herself at rest.

During his father's absence Garrick
had not been idle. His busy brain
and restless fancy had been laying up
stores of observation for future use.
He was a general favorite in the Lich-
field circle — amusing the old, and head-
ing the sports of the young — winning
the hearts of all. Gilbert Walmsley,
Registrar of the Ecclesiastical Court, a
good and wise friend, who had known
and loved him from childhood, took
him under his si:)ecial care. On his
suggestion, possibly by his help, Dav-
id and his brother George were sent as
pupils to Johnson's academy at Edial,
to complete their studies in Latin and
French. Garrick and Johnson had
been friends before, and there was in-
deed but seven years' difference in their
ages. But Johnson even then impress-
ed his pupil with a sense of superiority,
which never afterwards left him ; while
Garrick established an equally lasting
hold upon the somewhat caiiriclous
heart of his ungainly master. From
time to time he was taken by friends
to London, where, in the theatres that
were to be the scenes of his future
triumphs, he had opportunities of
studying some of the leading perform-
ers, whom he was afterwards to eclipse.
Even in these early days the dream of
cojiing with these favorites of the town
had taken possession of him. But he
kept it to himself, well knowing the
shock he would have inflicted on the
kind hearts at home, had he suggested
to them the possibility of such a career
for himself.

By the time his father returned from

Gibraltar Garrick was nineteen. A pro-
fession must be chosen, and the law ap-
pears to have been thought the fittest
for a youth of so much readiness and
address, and with an obviously unusu-
al faculty of speech. Some fu^'ther
preliminary studies were, howevei, in-
dispensable. He could not afford to go
to either university, and in this strait
his friend V ""almsley bethought him of
a " dear old friend " at Rochester, the
Rev. Mr. Colson, afterward Lucasian
Professor at Cambridge, a man oi em-
inence in science, as a person most like-
ly to give young Garrick the instruc-
tion in " mathematics, philosophy, and
humane learning " which was deemed
requisite to comj^lete his education.
To him, therefore, a letter was de-
spatched, asking him to undertake the
charge, from which we get an authen-
tic and agreeable picture of the young
fellow's character.

" He is a very sensible fellow, and a
good scholar, nineteen, of soljer and
good dispositions, and is as ingenious
and promising a young man as ever I
knew in my life. Few instructions on
your side will do, and in the intervals
of study he will be an agreeable com-
panion for you. This young gentleman
has been much with me, ever since he
was a child, and I have taken much
pleasure in instructing him, and have
a great affection and esteem for him."
Mr. Colson accepted the proposal ; but
by the time the terms had been arrang-
ed, another young native of Lichileld,
in whom Walmsley felt no slight inter-
est, had determined to move southward
to try his fortunes, and was also to be
brought under Mr. Colson's notice.

This was Samuel

Johnson, whose

DAVID GAEPJCK.

109

Edial Academy liad by this time been
starved out, but for whom. London, the
last hope of ambitious scholars, was
still open. He had written his trage-
dy of "Irene," and it had found pro-
vincial admirers, Walmsley among the
number, who thought a tragedy in
verse the oi:>en sesame to fame and for-
tune. For London, therefore, Johnson
and Garrick started together — John-
son, as he used afterwards to say, with
two-pence-halfpenny in his pocket,
and Garrick with three halfpence in
his ; a mocking exaggeration, not very
wide, however, of the truth.

For some reason not now known
Garrick did not go to IVir. Colson in a
week. On reaching town he lost no
time in getting himself admitted to
the Honorable Society of Lincoln's Inn
(19th March, 1737) by payment of the
admission fee, the only act of member-
ship which he appears ever to have
performed. He stayed in London with
Johnson for some time, and their fi-
nances fell so low that they had to bor-
row five pounds on their joint note
ft'om one Wilcox, a bookseller and
acquaintance of Garrick's, who after-
wards proved one of Johnson's best
friends. Most probably Garrick's
plans of study under Mr. Colson were
disconcerted by the illness of his father,
who died within a month after Garrick
'lad started from Lichfield. Nor was it
antil the death soon afterwards of the
Lis])on imcle, and the opening to Gar-
rick of his £1000 legacy, that he found
himself in a condition to incur that ex-
pense. Late in 1737 he went to Roches-
ter, and remained with Mr. Colson for
some months, but with what advantage
can be only matter of conjecture.

Early in 1738 Garrick returned to
Lichfield. By this time his brother
Peter had left the navy, and returned
home. There were five brothers and
sisters to be provided for, so Peter and
he clubbed their little fortunes, and
set up in business as wine merchants
in Lichfield and London. David, Ijy
this time tolerably familiar with the
ways of town, and not unknown at the
coffee-houses where his wines might be
in demand, took charge of the London
business. Vaults were taken in Dur-
ham Yard, between the Sti-and and the
river, where the Adelphi Terrace now
stands, and here Foote, in his usual
vein of grotesque exaggeration, used
to say, he had known the great actor
" with three quarts of vinegar in the
cellar, calling himself a wine mer-
chant."

Of Garrick at this period we get a
vivid glimpse from Macklin, an estal>
lished actor, who was then Garrick's
inseparable friend, but was afterwards
to prove a constant thorn in his side
through life, and his most malignant
detractor after death. Garrick " was
then," as Macklin told his own bio-
grapher Cooke, " a very sprightly
young man, neatly made, of an express-
ive countenance, and most agreeable
manners." Mr. Cooke adds, upon the
same authority : — " The stage possessed
him wholly ; he could talk or think of
nothing but the theatre ; and as they
often dined together in select parties,
Garrick rendered himself the idol of
the meeting by his mimicry, anecdotes,
etc. With other funds of information,
he possessed a number of good travel
ling stories " (with which his youthful
voyage to Lisbon had apparently sup-

110

DAVID GAERICK.

plied him), " whicli he narrated, sir "
(added the veteran), " in such a vein
of pleasantry and rich humor, as I
have seldom seen equalled."

There could be only one conclusion
to such a state of things. The wine
business languished ; that it was not
wholly ruined, and Garrick with it,
shows that with all his love of society
he was able to exercise great prudence
and self-restraint. " Though on plea-
sure bent, he had a frugal mind."
Early habits of self-denial, and the
thoughts of the young brothers and
sisters at Lichfield, were enough to
check everything like extravagance,
though they could not control the pas-
sion which was hourly feeding itself
upon the study of plays and inter-
course with players, and bearing him
onwards to the inevitable goal. Their
society, and that of the wits and critics
about town, were the natural element
for talents such as his. He could even
then turn an epigram or copy of verses,
for which his friend Johnson would
secure a place in the " Gentleman's
Magazine." Paragraj^hs of dramatic
criticism frequently exercised his pen.
He had a farce, " Lethe," accepted at
Drury Lane, and anothei', " The Lying
Valet," ready for the stage. Actors
and managers were among his inti-
mates. He had the entree behind the
scenes at the two great houses, Drury
Lane and Covent Garden, and his his-
trionic powers were so well recognized,
that one evening, in 1740, when Wood-
ward was too ill to go on as harlequin,
at the little theatre in Goodman's
Fields, Garrick was allowed to take
his place for the early scenes, and got
vhi-ough them so well that the sub-

stitution was not surmised by the
audience.

Nor had his been a mere lounger's
delight in the pleasures of the theatre.
The axiom that the stage is nought,
which does not " hold the mirror up to
nature," had taken deep hold upon his
mind. But fi'om the actual stage he
found that nature, especially in the
poetical drama, had all but vanished,
and in its place had come a purely
conventional and monotonous style of
declamation, with a stereotyped system
of action no less formal and unreal.
There was a noble opening for any one
who should have the coui'age and the
gifts to return to nature and to truth,
and Garrick felt that it was " in him "
to effect the desired revolution. Nor
Avas that reform far distant. The veiy
next summer was to decide Garrick's
career. His broodings were now to
take actual shape. But before hazard-
ing an appearance in London he wisely
resolved to test his powders in the coun-
try ; and with this view he went down
to Ipswich with the comj^auy of Gif-
fard, the manager of the Goodman's
Fields Theatre, and made his appear-
ance under the name of Lyddal as
Aboan in Southern's tragedy of
" Oroonoko." This he followed up by
several other characters, both tragic
and comic, none of them of first im-
portance, but sufficient to give him
ease on the stage, and at the same time
enable him to ascertain wherein his
strength lay. His success was linques-
tionable, and decided him on appealing
to a London audience.

The quality in which Garrick then
and throughout his career surpassed
all his contemporaries was the povyer

DAVID GAERICK.

Ill

of kindling with the exigencies of the
scene. He lost himself in his part. It
spoke through him ; and the greater
the play it demanded of emotion and
passion, the more diversified the ex-
pression and action for which it gave
scope, the more brilliantly did his
genius assert itself. His face answer-
ed to his feelings, and its workings
gave warning of his words before he
uttered them ; his voice, melodious and
full of tone, though far from strong,
had the penetrating quality hard to
define, but which is never wanting
either in the great orator or the great
actor ; and his figure, light, graceful,
and well balanced, though under the
average size, was equal to every de-
mand which his impulsive nature made
upon it. We can see all this in the
portraits of him even at this early
period. Only in those of a later date
do we get some idea of the command-
ing power of his eyes, which not only
held his audience like a spell, but con-
trolled, with a power almost beyond
endurance, his fellow performers in
the scene. But from the first the
power must have been there. He had
noted well all that was good in the
professors of the art he was destined
to revolutionize ; and he had learned,
as men of ability do learn, even from
their very defects, in what direction
true excellence was to be sought for.
Long afterwards he used to say that
his own chief successes in " Richard the
Third " were due to what he had learn-
ed through watching Eyan, a very in-
difPerent actor, in the same part.
Richard was the character he chose for
liis first London trial ; a choice made
with a wise estimate of his own pow-

ers, for the display of which it was
eminently fitted. At this time the
pai-t was in the possession of Quin,
whose "manner of heaving up his
words, and labored action," as de-
scribed by Davies, were the best of
foils to the fiery energy and subtle
varieties of expression with which Gar-
rick was soon to make the public
familiar. He appeared, by the usual
venial fiction on similar occasions, as a
" gentleman Avho never appeared on
any stage." The house was not a
great one ; still the audience was nu-
merous enough to make the actor feel
his triumph, and to spread the report
of it widely. They were taken by sur-
prise at first by a style at once so new
and so consonant to nature.

"To the Just modulation of the
words," says Davies, " and concurring
expression of the features, from the
genuine workings of nature, they had
been strangers, at least for some time.
But, after Mr. Garrick had gone
through a variety of scenes, in which
he gave evident proof of consummate
art, and perfect knowledge of charac-
ter, their doubts were turned into sur-
prise and astonishment, from which
they relieved themselves in loud and
reiterated applause."

A power like this was sure of rapid
recognition in those days, when theatres
formed a sort of fourth estate. Gar-
rick's first appearance was on the 19th
of October, 1741. He repeated the
character the two following nights,
then changed it for " Aboan," his first
part of the Ipswich Series. Tlie audi-
ences were still moderate, and his sal-
ary, a guinea a night, moderate in
proportion. But fame had carried the

112

DAVID GAREICK.

repoi-t of tlie new wonder from the
obscure corner of the city, near the
Minories, in which his friend GifFard's
theatre was situated, to the wits and
fashionable people in the West-end.
Richard was restored to the bills.
" Goodman's Fields," says Da\'ies,
" was full of the sj^lendors of St.
James's and Grosvenor Square; the
coaches of the nobility filled up the
space from Temple Bar to White
Chapel." What Garrick valued more
than all this concourse of fashionables,
men of high character and undoubted
taste flocked to hear him ; and on the
2nd of November, Pope, ill and failing,
who had come out early in the year to
see Macklin's " Shylock," and had re-
cognized its excellence, was again
tempted from his easy chair at Twick-
enham by the rumor of a worthy suc-
cessor having arisen to the Betterton
and Booth of his early admiration. " I
saw," said Garrick, describing the event
long afterwards to the somewhat mag-
niloquent Percival Stockdale, " our lit-
tle poetical hero, dressed in black,
seated in a side-box near the staere, and
viewing me with a serious and earnest
attention. His look shot and thrilled
like lightning through my frame, and
I had some hesitation in proceeding
from anxiety and from Joy. As Rich-
ard gradually blazed forth, the house
was in a roar of applause, and the con-
spiring hand of Pope showered me
with laurels." Pope returned to see
him twice; and his verdict, which
reached Garrick through Lord Orrery,
shows how deeply he was impressed
by Garrick's fresh and forcible style,
and the genuine insj^iration which
animated his performance. "That

young man never had his equal as an
actor, and he will never have a rival.''
Pope dreaded that success would spoil
him ; but Garrick's genius was not of
the ungenuine kind, which is spoiled
by success. He knew only too well
how far his best achievements fell
short of what his imagination con-
ceived. Others might think his de-
lineations could not be improved. Not
so he; for act as long as he might,
there was no great part, in Shakespeare
especially, which would not constantly
present new details to elaborate, or
suggest shades of significance or con-
trast which had previously escaped
him. The praise of old Mrs. Porter,
herself the greatest tragedian of her
time, who had come up to town to see
him from her retirement in the country,
must have spoken more eloquently to
him than even Pope's broad eulogium,
and in it, too, there was the prophecy
of the " All hail, hereafter." " He is
born an actor, and does more at his
first appearance than ever anybody did
with twenty years' practice ; and, good
God, what will he be in time ! " The
Duke of Argyle and Lord Cobham,
great authorities in stage matters, pro-
nounced him superior to Betterton.
The very conflicts of opinion to which
such high commendations gave rise
were the best of fame for the young ar
tist. They drew crowds to the theatre ;
and even before the end of 1741, it was
often far too small to accommodate the
numbers that flocked for admittance.
The humlile salary of a guinea a night
was clearly no adeqiiate return for such
merits. Gifi^ard ofiEered him a share in
the management upon eqi;al terms;
and within the next few months the

DAYID GAREICK.

113

foundation of the actor's ultimate great
fortune was laid.

Sucli success could not fail to pro-
voke tlie jealousy of those performers
who had hitherto occupied the fore-
most ranks. It was a virtual condem-
nation of all they had trained them-
selves to think true acting. " If this
young fellow is right, then Ave have all
been wrong," said one, as if in that
statement were included a final verdict
asrainst him. "This," remarked the
sententious Quin, " is the wonder of a
day ; Gan-ick is a new religion ; the
people follow him as another White-
field ; but they will soon return to
church again." Return, however, they
did not. A new era had begun ; and
Garrick, whose ready jien did not al-
ways do him such good service, was
able to retort the sarcasm in a smart
epigram, of which these two lines have
kept their place in literature :

" When doctrines meet with general approba-
tion,
It is not heresy but Reformation."

While people were still in admira-
tion at the tragic force of his Richard,
he sur^H-ised them by the display of
comic powers, scarcely less remarkable,
in Clodio in the "Fop's Fortune,"
Fondlewife in Congreve's " Old Bache-
lor," and other characters ; thus early
demonstrating his own doctrine that
" there must be comedy in the perfect
actor of tragedy," of which he was af-
terwards to furnish so brilliant an
example. His lively farce of "The
Lying Valet " (produced in December,
1741), established his re2:)utation as a
writer, at the same time that it gave
him in Sharp a field for the airy viva-
city, the ever-bubbling gayety of tone,
15

the talent of making witty things
doubly witty by the way of saying
them, for which he was afterwards so
famous. Some of his friends (his
townsman Newton, the future Bishop,
then tutor to Lord Carpenter's son,
among the number) thought his ap-
pearance in such j^arts a mistake.
" You, who are equal to the greatest
parts, strangely demean yourself in
acting anything that is low or little,"
he wrote, ISth Januar}', 1742. "There
are abundance of people who hit ofi:'
low humor and succeed in the cos-
comb and the buffoon very well ; but
there is scarce one in an age who is
capable of acting the hero in tragedy
and the fine gentleman in comedy.
Though you perform these parts never
so well, yet there is not half the merit
in excellins; in them as in the others."
Sound enough advice in the main and
to actors of limited scope, and most
politic as a warning, by which Garrick
profited, not to let himself down by
playing merely farce parts. But there
is no good reason why an actor of the
requisite genius should not play Touch-
stone as well as Othello, Sir Toby Belch
as well as Coriolanus, with no more
loss of caste than Shakespeare for hav.
ing vrritten them. But then there must
be the requisite genius to Justify the
attempt. This Garrick had, as was
soon afterwards proved, when he pass-
ed fi'om King Lear to Abel Dnigger,
in "The Alchemist," from Hamlet to
Bayes in " The Rehearsal," and left his
severest critics in doubt in which he
was most to be admired. Indeed it
was just this wide range of power, this
Shakesperian multiformity of concep-
tion, which was the secret of Garrick's

DAVID GAEEICK.

greatness, and, after his death, made
even the cynical Walpole confess that
he was "the greatest actor that ever
lived, both in comedy and tragedy."
Newton himself was struck by this a
few months later. He had just seen
Garrick's Lear, and after giving him
the opinion of certain friends that he
far exceeded Booth in that character,
and even equalled Betterton, he goes
on to say : —

"The thing that strikes me above
all others is that variety in your act-
ing, and your being so totally a differ-
ent man in Lear from what you are in
Richard. There is a sameness in every
other actor. Gibber is something of a
coxcomb in everything : and Wolsey,
Syphax, and lago, all smell strong of
the essence of Lord Foppington. Booth
was a philosopher in Gato, and was a
philosopher in everything else ! His
passion in Hotspur I hear was much of
the same nature, whereas yours was an
old man's jjassion, and an old man's
voice and action ; and, in the four parts
wherein I have seen you, Richard, Cha-
mout, Bayes, and Lear, I never saw four
actors more different from one another,
than you are from yourself."

His Lear, like his Richard, seems
from the first to have been superb.
Cooke, indeed, in his " Memoir- of Mack-
lin" says the first and second perfor-
mances of the part disappointed that
severe critic. It did not sufllciently in-
dicate the infirmities of the man " four-
score and upwards " — the curse did
not break down, as it should have done,
in the impotence of i-age — there was a
lack of dignity in the prison scene, and
so forth. Garrick took notes of Mack-
lin's criticisms on all these points.

withdrew the play for sis weeks, and
restudied the character in the interval.
Of the result on his next appearance
Macklin always spoke with rajiture.
The curse in particular exceeded all he
could have imagined; it seemed to
electrify the audience with horror.
The words " kill— kill— kill," echoed
all the revenge of a frantic king,
" whilst his pathos on discovering his
daughter Gordelia drew tears of com-
miseration from the whole house. In
short, sir, the little dog made it a chef
d^ceuvre, and a chef d'osuvre it contin-
ued to the end of his life."

While the town was ringing with
his triumphs, and his brain was still
on fire with the fulfilment of his cher-
ished dreams, GaiTick did not forget
his sober partner in business nor the
other good folks at Lichfield, to whose
genteel notions his becoming a stage-
jjlayer, he knew, would be a terrible
shock. The Ipswich performances had
escaped their notice; and brother
Peter, when in town soon afterwards,
found him out of health and spii'its.
It was the miserable interim " between
the actinof of a dreadful thintj, and the
first motion" of it. Garrick, though
he had quite made up his mind to go
on the stage, was afraid to break the
news to his family. But he did so the
day after his delid at Goodman's Fields
while the plaudits of his audience
were yet sounding in his ears, in a let-
ter to his brother and partner, dcj^re-
cating his censure with an unassuming
earnestness which speaks volumes for
the modesty of the artist, and the
simple and loving nature of the man : — •

" My mind, " he writes, " (as you
m\ist know) has been always inclined

DAVID GARRICK.

lis

to the stage, nay, so sti'ongly so that
all my illness and lowness of spirits
was owing to my want of resolution
to tell you my thoughts Avhen here.
Finding at last both my inclination
and interest required some new way
of life, I have chose the most aijreeable
to myself, and though I know you will
be much displeased at me, yet I hoj^e
when you shall find that I may have
the genius of an actor, without the
vices, you will think the less severely
of me, and not be ashamed to own me
for a brother. . . Last night I
played Richard the Thii'd to the sur-
prise of everybody, and as I shall make
very near £300 per annum by it, and
as it is really what I doat upon, I am
resolved to pursue it."

The wine business at Durham Yard,
he explained, had not prospered — £400
of Garrick's small capital had been
lost^and he saw no prospect of re-
trieving it. He was prepared to make
every reasonable arrangement with his
brother about their partnership, and
in his new career better fortune
awaited him, of which his family
should share the fruits. But the news
spread dismay in the old home at Lich-
field; their respectability was com-
promised by one of their blood becom-
ing a " harletry player," and getting
mixed up with the loose morals and
shifty ways of the theatrical fraternity.
Before Peter's reply reached him. Gar-
rick must have known that his fame
was secure. But the tone of his re-
joinder is still modest, though firm.
Writinar ajrain on the 27th, he assures
his brother that even his friends, " who
were at first surprised at my intent, by
seeing me on the stage, are now well

convinced it was impossible to keep
me off." As to company, " the best in
town " Avere desirous of his, and he had
received more civilities since he came
on the stage than he ever did in all his
life before. Leonidas Glover has been
to see him every night, and goes about
saying he had not seen acting for ten
years before.

" In short, were I to tell you what
they say about me, 'twould be too vain,
though I am now writing to a brother
, . . I am sorry my sisters are under
such uneasinesses, and, as I really love
both them and you, will ever make it
my study to apj^ear youi* affectionate
brother, D. Garrick."

A less modest or more selfish man
would have thrown off Avith some im-
patience the weak scruples of his fam-
ily about loss of caste. When they
found their brother making his way
in the highest quarters, and becoming
well to do at the same time, the views
of his family underwent a change. It
was not, however, till the 2nd of De-
cember, 1741, that Garrick threw off
the mask and performed under his own
name. By this time even they must
have begun to doubt whether honor
was not more likely to accrue to them
than discredit from the step which he
had taken. But it must have been no
small pain to him to have the vulgar
estimate of his profession thrown so
remorselessly in his teeth by his own
kindred.

Garrick paid the actor's accustomed
penalty for success by being overwork-
ed. Between his first appearance in Oc-
tober, 1741, and the following May,
when the Goodman's Fields Theatre
closed, he played no less than one hun

iir.

DAVID GAREICK.

dred and thirty-eight times, and for the
most part in characters of the greatest
weight and importance in both tragedy
and comedy. Among the former were
Richard, Lear, Pierre ; among the hit-
ter, Lord Foppington, in Gibber's
"Careless Husband," Fondlewife and
Bayes. The range of character and
passion which these pai'ts covered was
immense. To have played them at all,
new as he was to the stage, was no
common feat of industry, but only ge-
nius of the most remarkable kind could
have carried him through them, not
only Avithout injury, but with positive
increase, to the high reputation his first
performances had created. In Bayes
he was nearly as popular as in Richard
and Lear ; and he made the part sub-
servient to his purpose of exposing the
false and unnatural style into which
actors had fallen, by making Bayes
speak his turgid heroics in imitation
of some of the leading performers.
But when he found how the men whose
faults he burlesqued — good, worthy
men in their way — were made wretch-
ed by seeing themselves, and what
they did in all seriousness, held up to
derision, his naturally kind heart and
good taste made him drop these imi-
tations. Garrick's true vocation was
to teach his brethren a purer style by
his ovm example, not to dishearten
them by ridicule. Mimicry, besides,
as he well knew, is the lowest form of
the actor's art, and no mere mimic
can be a great actor, for sincerity, not
simulation, is at the root of all great-
ness on the stacje.

The success of Garriok at Goodman's
Fields emptied the patent houses at
Covent Garden and Drury Lane, and

the patentees had recourse to the law
to compel Giffard to close his theatre
Garrick was secured for the next sea
son at Drury Lane. But as that house
did not open till September, and the
people of Dublin were impatient to
see him, he started off for that city
early in June, and remained there play-
ing a round of his leading parts till
the middle of August. An epidemic
which raged during the greater part
of this time, caused by distress among
the poor, and by the great heat, got
the name of the Garrick Fever. But
the epidemic which he really caused
was not among the poor, but among
the wits and fine ladies of that then
fashionable and lively city, Avho were
not likely to be behind his English
admirers in enthusiasm. He was be-
rhymed and feted on all hands, and from
them he got the title of Roscius, which
to this hour is coupled with his name.
During this engagement he added
Hamlet to his list of characters. Like
his Richard and his Lear it was treated
in a manner quite his own, and like
them it was from the first a success,
but was, of course, much elaborated
and modified in future years.

At Drury Lane Garrick found him-
self associated with his old friend
Macklin, who was deputy manager
and with that " dallying and danger
ous" beauty, Peg Woffington, under
whose spell he appears to have fallen
as early as 1740. As an actress she
was admirable for the life, the nature,
and the crace which she threw into all
she did, set ofi^ by a fine person, and
a face, which, as her portraits shoAv,
though habitually pensive in its ex-
pression, was capable of kindling into

DAYID GAEEICK.

passion, or beaming with tlie sudden
and fitful lights of feeling and fancy.
She had been literally picked out of
the streets of Dublin as a child crying
"halfpenny salads," and trained by a
rope-dancer, Madame Violante, as one
of a Lilliputian company, in which she
figured in such parts as Captain Mac-
heath. Like Rachel and many other
celebrated women, she contrived, it is
hard to say how, to educate herself, so
that she could hold her own in conver-
sation in any society; and such was
her natural jrrace, that she excelled in
characters like Millamant and Lady
Townley, in which the well-bred air of
good society was essential. Frank,
kindly and impulsive, she had also wit
at will, to give piquancy to the exj)res-
sions of a very independent turn of
mind. She never scrupled to avow that
she preferred the company of men to
that of women, who " talked," she said,
" of nothing but silks and scandal." The
men returned the compliment by being
very fond of her comj)any. " Forgive
her one female error," says Murphy,
" and it might fairly be said of her
that she was adorned with every vir-
tue." But when Garrick first fell un-
der her fascination, these frailties had
not been developed. She was then in
the bloom of her beauty, — and how
charming that was we can see from
Hogarth's exquisite portrait, — and
though suitors of Avealth and rank
surrounded her, genius and youth had
probably more charms for her than
gold and fine living. Garrick was deep-
ly smitten by her, and he seems for a
time to have thought her worthy of an
honorable love. For one season he kept
house together with her and Macklin,

and they were visited by his friends,
Johnson and Dr. Hoadley among the
niimber. It was thought he would
marry her ; but Peg's aberrations — her
" one female error " — grew too serious.
She was in truth an incurable coquette.
Garrick's heart was touched, hers was
not. It cost him a good many strag-
gles to break his chains, but he broke
them at last, and left her finally in 1745
to the rakes and fools who were out-
biddino; each other for her favors.

He was worthy of a better mate;
and he was to find one before very
long, for in March of the folloAving
year (1746) the lady came to England
Avho was to replace his feverish passion
for the wayward Wofiiugton, by a de-
votion which grew stronger and deeper
T^dth every year of his life. This was
the fair Eva Maria Veigel, which latter
name she had changed for its French
equivalent Violette. She was then
twenty-one, a dancer, and had come
from Vienna with recommendations
from the Empress Theresa, who was
said to have found her too beautiful
to be allowed to remain within reach
of the Emperor Frederick I. Jupiter
Carlyle, returning from his studies at
Leyden, found himself in the same
packet with her, crossing from Helvoet
to Harwich. She was disguised in male
attire, and this, although traveling un-
der the protection of a person who call-
ed himself her father, and two other
foreigners. Carlyle took the seeming
youth for " a Hanoverian Baron com-
ing to Britain to pay his court at St.
James's." But the lady becoming
alarmed by a storm during the pas-
sage, her voice, no less than her fears,
at once betrayed her to Carlyle. This

lis

DAVID GAEEICK.

led to an avowal of her profession, and
of tlie object of her journey, and the
young handsome Scotchman took care
not to leave London without seeing his
fair fello^^'-traveler on the Opera stage,
where he found her dancing to be " ex-
quisite." Such was the general ver-
dict. The dancing of those days was
not a thing in which every womanly
feeling, every refined grace, was vio-
lated. It aspired to delight by the
2")oetry of motion, not to amaze by com-
plexities of distortion, or brilliant mar-
vels of muscular force. Beautiful,
modest, accomplished, the Violette not
only charmed on the stage, but soon
found her way into fashionable society.
So early as June, 1746, Horace Walpole
writes to his friend Montague : " The
fame of the Violette increases daily.
The sister Countesses of Burlington
and Talbot exert all their stores of
sullen partiality and competition for
her." The Countess of Burlington
took her to live with her, and was in
the habit of attending her to the the-
atre, and waitino- at tke side-wines to
throw a shawl over her as she left the
stage. These attentions, due solely to
the charm of the young lady, and the
enthusiasm of her patroness, vrere quite
enough to set in motion the tonsrues of
the Mrs. Candors and Sir Benjamin
Backbites of society. The Violette,
they began to Avhisper, was a daughter
of Lord Burlington, by a Florentine of
rank; and when, upon her marriage
vfith Garrick in 1749, she received a
handsome marriage portion from the
countess, this was considered conclu-
sive evidence of the scandal. It was
not, however, from the earl, but from
the countess that the dowry came. It

consisted of a sum of five thousand
pounds, secured on one of her lady-
shij>'s Lincolnshire estates, Garrick on
his part settling ten thousand pounds
on his bride, with seventy pounds a
year of pin-money. It is quite possi-
ble that the security for five thousand
pounds granted by the countess was
simply an equivalent for some such
sum previously handed over to her by
the young lady. But the parties kept
their own counsel in their arrange-
ments, and so left the busy-bodies at
fault.

The countess, it is said, looked higher
for her young friend than the great
player, as a countess with so cele-
brated a beauty in hand was likely to
do ; and it was not without difficulty
that Garrick won what proved to be
the great prize of his life. He had on
one occasion to disguise himself as a
woman, in order to convey a letter to
his mistress. But the fact of her receiv
ing it bespeaks the foregone conclusion
that he had won her heart ; and, that
fact once ascertained, the countess was
probably too wise to oppose further
resistance. How attractive in person
the young dancer was her portraits sur-
vive to tell us. What her lover thoiight
of her appears from some verses which
he wrote in the first happiness of what
we cannot call his honeymoon, for their
whole married life was one honeymoon

' ' 'Tis not, my friend, her speaking face.
Her sliape, her youth, her winning grace,
Have reached my heart ; the fair one's mind
Quick as her eyes, yet soft and kind —
A gayety with innocence, .
A soft address, with manly sense ;
Ravishing manners void of art,
A cheerful, Arm, yet feeling heart,
Beauty that charms all public gaze.
And humble, amid pomp and praise."

DAVID GAERICK.

119

What Garrick owed to the happy cir-
cumstances of his man'iage, can scarcely
be stated too highly. In his home he
found all the solace which grace, re-
finement, fine intelligence, and entii'e
sympathy could give. As artist, these
were invaluable to him ; as manager,
a man of his sensibilities must have
broken down without them. In 1747,
two years before his marriage, he had,
along with Mr. Lacy, become patentee
of Drury Lane Theatre, to which his
performances had been confined, with
the exception of a second visit to Dub-
lin in 1745-6, and a short engagement
at Covent Garden in 1746-7. So well
had he husbanded his means since his
dihut at the end of 1741, that he was
able, with some help fi'om friends, to
find eight thousand pounds of the
twelve thousand pounds which were
required for the enterprise. Lacy took
charge of the business details, while all
that related to the performances de-
volved upon Garrick. He got together
the very best company that could be
had, for, to use his own words, he
" thousfht it the interest of the best
actors to be together," knowing well,
that apart from the great gain in gen-
eral eft'ect, this combination brings out
all that is best in the actors themselves.
At starting, therefore, he drew round
him Mrs, Gibber, Mrs. Pritchard, Mrs.
Clive, Mrs. Woflington, among the wo-
men ; Barry, Macklin, Delane, Havard,
Sparks, Shuter, among the men. Later
on he secured Quin andWoodward, and,
whenever he could, he drew into his com-
pany whatever ability was in the mar-
ket. He determined to bring back the
public taste, if possible, from panto-
mime and farce, to performances of a

more intellectual stamp. Johnson
Avi'ote his fine prologue to announce
the princii:)les on which the theatre
was to be conducted, and threw upon
the public, and with justice, the re
sponsil)ility, should these miscarry, by
the well-known lines, —

"The drama's laws the drama's patrons give,
For those, who hve to please, must please to
hve."

The public, as usual, fell back after a
time upon its love for " iuexi^licable
dumb show and noise," and Garrick had
no choice but to indulge its taste. But
in these early days the array of varied
ability which his company presented,
backed by his own genius, filled, as it
well might, the theatre nightly.

Garrick's sympathies with literature
and literary meu were very great. He
formed a fine library, and not only
formed but used it. He was well vers-
ed in the literature of Europe, especial-
ly of Italy and France. He wrote well
himself. His prologues and vers desode-
te are even now pleasant reading. He
would turn off one of his prologues or
epilogues in two hours. As a rule, an
epigram — such as his famous one on
Goldsmith — took him five minutes.
There was no man of literary eminence
in England with whom he was not on
a friendly footing. " It has been the
business, and ever will be, of my life,"
he wrote to Goldsmith in 1757, "to
live on the best terms with men of ge-
nius." When such men wanted money,
his purse was always at their command
and in the handsomest way. Sterne,
Churchill, Johnson, Goldsmith, Mur-
phy, Foote, had many proofs of this
helpful sympathy, not to speak of men
of lesser note.

120

DAYID GARPJCK.

" The animated graces of the player,"
Colley Gibber has well said, " can live
no longer than the instant breath and
motion that present them, or at best
can but faintly glimmer through the
memory or imperfect attestation of a
few surviving spectators." There are
many descriptions, and good ones, of
Garrick's acting ; but the most vivid
pen can sketch but faintly even the
outlines of an actor's Avork, and all the
finest touches of his art necessarily
perish with the moment. Of Garrick,
however, we get some glimpses of a
very life-like kind, from the letters of
Lichtenberg,the celebrated Hogarthian
critic, to his friend Boie. Lichtenberg
saw Garrick in the aiitumn of 1775,
when he was about to leave the staee,
in Abel Drugger, in Archer in the
" Beaux Stratagem," in Sir John Brute
in the " Provoked Wife," in Hamlet,
in Lnsignan in Aaron Hill's version of
" Zaire," and in Don Leon in Beau-
mont and Fletcher's " Kule a Wife and
Have a Wife." He brought to the
task of chronicler powers of observa-
tion and a critical faculty scarcely
second to Lessing's. " What is it," he
wi'ites, " which gives to this man his
great superiority ? The causes, my
friend, are numerous, and very very
much is due to his peculiarly happy
organization. . . . In his entire figure,
movements, and bearing, Mr. Garrick
has a something which I have seen
twice in a modified degree among the
few Frenchmen I have known, but
which I have never met with amonff
the many Englishmen who have come
under my notice. In saying this I
mean Frenchmen of middle age, and
good society, of course. If, for exam-

ple, he turns towards any one with an
inclination of the person, it is not the
head, not the shoulders, not the feet
and arms alone, that are employed, but
each combines harmoniously to produce
a result that is most agreeable and apt
to the situation. When he steps upon
the stage, though not moved by fear,
hope, jealousy, or other emotion, at
once you see him and him alone. He
Avalks and bears himself amona: the
other perfoiiners like a man among
marionettes. From what I have said,
no one will form any idea of Mr. Gar-
rick's deportment, unless he has at
some time had his attention arrested
by the demeanour of such a well-bred
Frenchman as I have indicated, in
which case this hint would be the best
description. His stature inclines ra-
ther to the under than the middle size,
and his figure is thickset. His limbs
are charmingly proportioned, and the
whole man is put together in the neat-
est way. The most practiced eye can-
not detect a flaw about him, either in
details, or in ensemhie, or in movement.
In the latter one is charmed to observe
a rich reserve of power, which, as you
are aware, when well indicated, is more
agreeable than a profuse expenditure
of it. There is nothins: flurried, or
flaccid, or languid about him, and
where other actors in the motion of
their arms and legs allow themselves a
sjiace of six or more inches on either
side of what is graceful, he hits the
right thing to a hair, with admirable
firmness and certainty. His manner
of walking, of shrugging his shoulders,
of tucking in his arms, of putting on
his hat, at one time pressing it over his
eyes, at another pushing it sideways

DAYID GARRICK.

121

off his forehead, all done with an airy
motion of the limits, as though he were
all right hand, is consequently refresh-
ing to witness. One feels one's self
vigorous and elastic, as one sees the
vigor and precision of his movements,
and how perfectly at ease he seems to
be in every muscle of his body. If I
mistake not, his compact figure contrib-
utes not a little to this effect. His sym-
metrically fonned limbs taper down-
ward from a robust thigh, closing in
the neatest foot you can imagine ; and
in like manner his muscular arm ta-
pers off into a small hand. What ef-
fect this must produce you can easily

imagme.

A description like this, aided by the
many admirable portraits which exist,
enables us to see the very man, not
merely as he appeared on the stage,
but also as he moved in the brilliant
social circle, which he quickened by
the vivacity, the di'ollery, the gallant
tenderness to women, and the kindly
wit, which made him, in Goldsmith's
happy phrase, " the abridgment of all
that is pleasant in man." When Lich-
tenberg saw Garrick he was fifty-nine.
But with such a man, as Kitty Clive
had said of herself and him some years
before, " What signifies fifty-nine ? The
public had rather see the Garrick and
the Clive at a hundred and four than
any of the moderns." His was a spirit
of the kind that keeps at bay the signs
of age. " Gout, stone, and sore throat,"
as he wrote about this period ; " yet I
am in spirits." To the two first of
these he had long been a martyr, and
sometimes suffered honibly from the
exertion of acting. When he had to
play Richard, he told Craddock, "I
16

dread the fight and the fall ; I am af-
terwards in agonies." But the audi-
ence saw nothing of this, nor, in the
heat of the peribrmance, was he con-
scious of it himself. It is obvious that
Lichtenberg at least saw no trace in
him of failing power, or of the bodily
weakness which had for some time been
warning him to retire. He had medi-
tated this for several years ; l>ut at last,
in 1775, his resolution was taken. His
illnesses were growing more frequent
and more severe. People were beginning
to discuss his age in the papers, and,
with execrable taste, a public appeal
was made to him by Governor Penn
to decide a bet which had been made
that he was sixty. " As you have so
kindly pulled off my mask," he replied,
" it is time for me to make my exit."
He had accumulated a large fortune.
The actors and actresses with whom
his greatest triumphs were associated
were either dead or in retirement.
Their successors, inferior in all ways,
were little to his taste. The worries
of management, the ceaseless wrang-
ling with actors and authors which it
involved, fretted him more than ever.
Pie had lived enough for fame, and
yearned for freedom and rest. At
the end of 1775 he disposed of his in-
terest in Drury Lane to Sheridan, Lin-
ley, and Ford. " Now," he wrote, " I
shall shake off my chains, and no cul-
prit in a jail-delivery will be happier."
When his resolution to leave the
stage was known to be finally taken,
there was a rush from all parts, not of
England only, but of Europe, to see
his last performances. Such were the
crowds, that foreigners who had come
to England for the purpose were un-

122

DAVID GAERICK.

able to gain admission. While all
sorts of grand people were going on
tlieir knees to him for a box, with
characteristic kindness, he did not for-
get his humbler friends.

The piece selected for his farewell
was " The "Wonder ; " and it was an-
nounced, with Garrick's usual good
taste, simply as a performance for " the
benefit of the Theatrical Fund." No
gigantic posters, no newsj:)aper puffs
clamorously invoked the public inter-
est. The town knew only too well
what it was going to lose, and every
corner of the theatre was crammed.
In his zeal for the charity of which he
was the founder, and to which this
" mean " man contributed over £5000,
Garrick had written an occasional Pro-
logue, to bespeak the good-will of his
audience in its favor. It has all his
wonted vivacity and point, and one
line —

"A fellow-feeling makes one wondrous kind " —

has passed into a household phrase.
This he spoke as only he could speak
such things. He had entire command
of his spirits, and he even thought that
he never played Don Felix to more
advantage. So, at least, he wrote to
Madame Necker eight days afterwards ;
but when it came to taking the last
farewell, he adds — " I not only lost the
use of my voice, but of my limbs, too ;
it was indeed, as I said, a most awful
moment. You would not have thought
an English audience void of feeling, if
you had then seen and heard them.
After I had left the stage, and was
dead to them, they would not suffer

the petite piece to go on ; nor would the
actors perform, they were so affected ;
in short, the public was very generous,
and I am most grateful."

Garrick did not enjoy his retirement
long. While on his wonted Christmas
visit to the Spencers at Althorpe, in
1778, he was attacked by his old ail-
ment. He hurried back to his house
in the Adelphi, and, after some days
of great pain and prostration, died
upon the 20th of January following.
His funeral at Westminster Al^bey
was uj)on an imposing scale. Among
the pall-bearers were Lord Camden, the
Duke of Devonshire, Lord Spencer,
Viscount Palmerston, and Sir W. W.
Wynne, and the members of the Lite-
rary Club attended in a body. " I saw
old Samuel Johnson," says Cumber-
land, "standing beside his grave,
at the foot of Shakespeare's monu-
ment, and bathed in tears." Johnson
wrote of the event afterwards as
one that had eclipsed the gayety of
nations.

In October, 1822, at the extreme age
of ninety-eight, Mrs. Garrick was found
dead in her chair, having lived in full
possession of her faculties to the last.
For thirty years she would not suffer
the room to be opened in which her
husband had died. " He never was a
husband to me," she said, in her old
age, to a fi'iend ; " during the thirty
years of our marriage he was always
my lover!" She was buried, in her
wedding sheets, at the base of Shake-
speare's statue, in the same grave
which forty-three years before had
closed over her " dear Davie."

£':U.--£d j.-ap-;<if^ i7 ,!^ -r-' cl''!^rA'sArjS7i7.'irj\rcf/:njst.Fr.-i '^t ut-^^cferlL .'--^.x jf^.^, di.stT-u^orsrtifrh^srruiifm. •Ih'in.-t <^2fe.vy^"

GEORGE WASHINGTON.

THE traditions of the Wasliington
family in England have been car-
ried back to the picturesque era of the
early days of the Plantagenets, when
the De Wessyngtons did manorial ser-
\\ce in the battle and the chase, to the
military Bishop of Durham. FoIIoav-
ing these spirited scenes through the
fourteenth century to the fifteenth, we
have a glimpse of John de Wessyng-
ton, a stout, controversial abbot attach-
ed to the cathedral. After him, we are
called upon to trace the family in the
various parts of England, and particu-
larly in its branch of Washingtons — ■
for so the spelling of the name had
now become determined — at Sulgrave,
in Northamptonshire. They Avere loy-
alists in the Cromwellian era, when Sir
Henry gained renown by his defence
of Worcester. While this event was
c[uite recent, two brothers of the race,
John and Lawrence, emigrated to Vir-
ginia in 1657, and established them-
selves as planters, in Westmoreland
county, bordering on the Potomac and
Eappahannock, in the midst of a dis-
trict destined to produce many emi-
nent men for the service of a State
then undreamt of. One of these broth-
ers, John, a colonel in the Virginia

service, was the grandfather of Augus-
tine, who married Mary Ball, the belle
of the county, and became the parent
of George Washington. The family
home was on Bridges' Creek, near the
banks of the Potomac, where, the old-
est of six children by this second mar-
riaffe of his father, the illustrious sub-
Ject of our sketch was born on the
twenty-second of February, 1732.

Auarustine Washino-ton was the own-
er of several estates in this region of
the two rivers, to one of which, on the
Rappahannock, in Stafford County, he
removed shortly after his son's birth,
and there the boy received his first im-
pressions. He was not destined to be
much indebted to schools or school-mas-
ters. His father, indeed, was not in-
sensible to the advantages of education,
since, according to the custom of those
days with wealthy planters, he had
sent Lawrence, his oldest son by his
previous marriage, to be educated in
England; an opportunity which was
not given him in the case of George ; for
before the boy was of an age to leave
home on such a Journey, the father was
suddenly taken out of the world by an
attack of gout. This event happened
in April, 1743, when George was left

(123)

124

GEOKGE WASniNGTOK

to tlie guardiansliip of his motlier. The
honest merits of Mary, " the mother of
Washington," have often been matters
of comment. All that is preserved of
this lady, who survived her husband
forty-six years, and of course lived to
witness the matured triumphs of her
son — he was seated in the Presidential
chair when she died — bears witness to
her good sense and simplicity, the
plainness and sincerity of her house-
hold virtues.

The domestic instruction of Wash-
ington was of the best and purest. He
had been early indoctrinated in the
rudiments of learning, in the " field
school," by a village pedagogue, named
Hobby, one of his father's tenants, who
joined to his afflictive calling the more
melancholy profession of sexton — a
shabby member of the race of instruc-
tors, who in his old age kept up the
association by getting patriotically fud-
dled on his pupils' birth-days. The
boy could have learnt little there which
was not better taught at homo. Indeed
we find his mother inculcating the best
precepts. In addition to the Scriptures
and the lessons of the Church, which
always form the most important part
of such a child's education, she had a
book of excellent wisdom, as the event
proved, especially suitable for the
guidance of her son's future life, in
Sir Matthew Hale's " Contemplations,
Moral and Divine " — a book written by
one who had attained high public dis-
tinction, and who tells the secret of his
worth and success. The very volume
out of which Washington was thus
taught by his mother is preserved at
Mount Vernon. He had, however, some
limited school instruction with a Mr.

Williams, whom he attended from his
half brother, Augustine's home, in
Westmoreland, and from whom he
learnt a knowledge of accounts, in
which he was always skilful. He had
also particular instructions from Mr.
Williams in geometry, trigonometry,
and surveying, in which he became an
adept, writing out his examj)les in the
neatest and most careful manner. This
was a branch of instruction more im-
portant to him than Latin and Greek,
of which he was taught nothing, and
one that he turned to account through
life. All the school instruction which
Washington received was thus com-
jDleted before he was sixteen.

On leaving school, young Washing-
ton appears to have taken up his resi-
dence with his brother at Mount Ver-
non, where he was introduced to new
social influences of a liberal character
in the family society of the Fairfaxes
Lawrence was married to a daughter
of William Fairfax, a gentleman of
much experience and adventure about
the world, who resided at his neigh-
boring seat " Belvoir," on the Potomac,
and superintended, as agent, the large
landed operations of his cousin. Lord
Fairfax. Surveys were to be made to
keep possession of the lands, and bring
them into the market ; and who so well
adapted for this service as the youth
who had made the science an object of
special study ? We consequently find
him regularly retained in this service.
His journal, at the age of sixteen, re-
mains to tell us of the duties and ad-
ventures of the journey, as he travers-
ed the outlying rough ways and pas-
sages of the South Branch of the
Potomac. It is a short record of camp

GEOEGE WASnmGTOK

125

incidents and the progress of liis sur-
veys for a month in the wilderness, in
the spring of 1748, the prelude, in its
introduction to Indians and the exj^os-
ures of camp life, to many rougher
scenes of military service, stretching
westward from the region.

Three years were passed in expedi-
tions of this nature, the young survey-
or making his home in his intervals
of duty mostly at Mount Vernon. The
health of his brother, the owner of this
place, to whom he was much attached,
was now failing with consumption, and
George accompanied him in one of his
tours for health in the autumn of 1751,
to Barbadoes. As usual, he kept a
journal of his observations, which
tells us of the every-day living and
hospitalities of the place, with a shrewd
glance at its agricultural resources and
the conduct of its governor. A few
lines cover nearly a month of the visit ;
they record an attack of the small-pox, of
which his countenance always bore some
faint traces. Leaving his brother, par-
tially recruited, to pursue his way to
Bermuda, George returned in February
to Virginia. The health of Lawrence,
however, continued to decline, and in
the ensuing summer he died at Mount
Vernon. The estate was left to a
daughter, who, dying in infancy, the
property passed, according to the terms
of the will, into the possession of George,
who thus ])ecame the 0"\vner of his mem-
orable home.

Previous to this time, rumors of im-
minent French and Lidian aggressions
on the frontier began to engage the at-
tention of the colony, and preparations
were making to resist the threatened
attack. The province was divided in-

to districts for enlistment and ororani-
zation of the militia, over one of which
Washington was placed, Avith the rank
of major, in 1751, Avhenhe was Init nine-
teen — a mark of confidence sustained
by his youthful studies and experience,
but in which his family influence, doubt-
less, had its full share. "We hear of his
attention to militaiy exercises at Mount
Vernon, and of some special hints and
instructions from one Adjutant Ware,
a Virginian, and a Dutchman, Jacob
Van Braam, who gave him lessons in
fencino-. Both of these worthies had
been the military companions of Law-
rence Washinti-ton in the West Indies.
In 1753, the year following his
brother's death, the affairs on the fi-on-
tier becoming pressing, Governor Din-
widdle stood in need of a resolute
agent, to bear a message to the French
commander on the Ohio, remonstrating
against the advancing occupation of
the territory. It ^vas a hazardous ser-
vice crossing a rough, intervening wil-
derness, occupied by unfi'iendly Indi-
ans, and it was a high compliment to
Washington to select him for the duty.
Amply provided with instructions, he
left Williamsburg on the mission on
the last day of October, and, by the
middle of November, reached the ex
treme frontier settlement at Will's
Creek. Thence, with his little party
of eight, he i:)iirsued his way to the
fork of the Ohio, where, with a military
eye, he noted the advantageous posi-
tion subsequently selected as the site
of Fort Du Quesne, and now the flour-
ishing city of Pittsburg. He then held
a council of the Indians at Logstown,
and procured guides to the station of
the French commandant, a hundred

126

GEOEGE WASHINGTOIST.

and twenty miles distant, in tlie vicin-
ity of Lake Erie, which he reached on
the 11th of December. An interview
having been obtained, the message de-
livered and an answer received, the
most hazardous part of the expedition
yet lay before the party in their return
home. They were exposed to frozen
streams, the winter inclemencies, the
perils of the wilderness and Indian
hostilities, when Indian hostilities were
most cruel. To hasten his homeward
journey, Washington sej)arated from
the rest, with a single companion. His
life was more than once in danger on
the way, first from the bullet of an In-
dian, and during a night of extraordi-
nary severity, in crossing the violent
Alleghany river on a raft beset with ice.
Escajiing these disasters, he reached
Williamsburg on the 16th of January,
and gave the interesting journal now
included in his writings as the report
of his proceedings. It was at once
published by the Governor, and was
speedily rej^rinted in London.

The observations of Washington, and
the reply which he brought, confirmed
the growing impressions of the designs
of the French, and military j^repara-
tions were kept up with spirit. A
Virginia regiment of three hundred
was raised for frontier service, and
Washington was appointed its Lieu-
tenant-Colonel. Advancing with a
portion of the force of which he had
command, he learnt that the French
were in the field, and had commenced
hostilities. Watchful of their move-
ments, he fell in with a party under
Jumonville, in the neighborhood of the
Great Meadows, which he put to flight
with the death of their leader. His

own superior oflicer having died on the
march, the entire command fell upon
Washington, Avho was also joined by
some additional troops from South
Carolina and New York. With these
he was on his way to attack Fort Du
Quesne, when word was brought of a
large superior force of French and In-
dians coming against him. This in-
telligence led him, in his unprepared
state, to retrace his steps to Fort Ne-
cessity, at the Great Meadows, where
he received the attack. The fort was
gallantly defended both within and
without, Washington commanding in
front, and it was not until serious loss
had been inflicted on the assailants
that it surrendered to superior num-
bers. In the capitulation the garrison
was allowed to return home with the
honors of war. A second time the Le-
gislature of Virginia thanked her re-
turnino; officer.

The military career of Washington
Avas now for a time interrupted by a
question of etiquette. An order was
issued in favor of the officers holding
the kinoj's commission outrankins; the
provincial appointments. Washington,
who knew the worth of his countrymen,
and the respect due himself, would not
submit to this injustice, and the estate
of Mount Vernon now requiring his
attention, he withdrew from the army
to its rural occupations. He Avas not,
hoAvever, suffered to remain there long
in inactivity. The arrival of General
Braddock, Avith his forces, in the liver,
called him into action at the summons
of that officer, Avho Avas attracted by
his experience and accomplishments.
Washington, anxious to serve his coun-
try, readily accepted an appointment as

GEOEGE WASHINGTOK

127

one of the general's military family,
the question of rank being thus dis-
pensed with. He Joined the army on
its onward march at Winchester, and
proceeded with it, though he had been
taken ill with a raging fever, to the
Great Crossing of the Youghiogany.
Here he was comjjelled to remain with
the rear of the army, by the positive
injunctions of the general, from whom
he exacted his " word of honor " that
he " should be brought up before he
reached the French fort." This he ac-
complished, though he was too ill to
make the journey on horseback, arriv-
ing at the mouth of the Youghiogany,
in the immediate vicinity of the fatal
battle-field, the evening before the en-
gagement. In the events of that me-
morable 9th of July, 1755, he was des-
tined to bear a conspicuous part. From
the beginning, he had been a prudent
coiinsellor of the general on the march,
and it was by his advice that some of
its uro-ent difiiculties had been over-
come. He advised pack-horses instead
of baggage-wagons, and a raj)id ad-
vance with an unencumbered portion
of the force before the enemy at Fort
Du Quesne could gain strength ; but
Braddock, a brave, confident officer of
the European school, resolutely ad-
dicted to system, was unwilling or un-
able fully to carry out the suggestions.
Had Washington held the command,
it is but little to say that he would not
have been caught in an ambuscade. It
was his last advice, on arriving at the
scene on the eve of the battle, that the
Virginia Rangers should be employed
as a scouting party, rather than the
regular troops in the advance. The
pi'oposition was rejected. The next

day, though still feeble from his ill-
ness, AVashington mounted his horse
and took his station as aid to the sen-
eral. It was a brilliant display, as the
well-appointed army passed under the
eye of its martinet commander on its
way from the encampment, crossing
and recrossing the Monongahela to-
wards Fort Du Quesne — and the sol-
dierly eye of Washington is said to
have kindled at the sic-ht. The march
had continued from sunrise till about
two o'clock in the afternoon, when, as
the advanced column was ascending a
rising ground covered with trees, a fire
was opened upon it from two concealed
ravines on either side. Then was felt
the want of American experience in
fio-htino; with the Indian. Braddock
in vain sent forward his men. They
would not, or could not, fight against
a hidden foe, while they themselves
were presented in open view to the
marksmen. Washington recommended
the Virginia example of seeking pro-
tection from the trees, but the general
would not even then abandon his Eu.
ropean tactics. The regulars stood in
squads shooting their own companions
before them. The result was an over-
whelming defeat, astounding when the
relative forces and equipment of the
two pai*ties is considered. Braddock,
who, amidst all his faults, did not lack
courage, directed his men while five
horses were killed under him. Wash-
ington was also in the thickest of the
danger, losing two horses, while his
clothes were pierced by four bullets.
Many years afterwards, when he visited
the region on a peaceful mission, an
old Indian came to see him as a won-
der. He had, he said, levelled his rifle

128

GEOEGE WASHINGTON.

so often at him without effect, that he
became persuaded he was under the
special protection of the Great Spirit,
and gave up the attempt. Braddock
at length fell in the centre of the field
fatally wounded. Nothing now re-
mained but flight. But four officers
out of eighty-six were left alive and
unwounded. Washington's fii'st care
was for the wounded general; his
next employment, to ride to the reserve
camp of Dunbar, forty miles, for aid
and suj)plies. Returning with the re-
quisite assistance, he met the wounded
Braddock on the retreat. Painfully
borne along the road, he survived the
engagement several days, and reached
the Great Meadows to die and be
buried there by the broken remnant of
his army. Washington read the fune-
ral service, the chaplain being disabled
by a wound. Writing to his brother,
he attributed his own protection, " be-
yond all human probability or expect-
ation," to the " all-powerful dispensa-
tions of Providence." The natural and
jjious sentiment was echoed, shortly
after, fi'om the pulpit of the excellent
Samuel Davies, in Hanover County,
Virginia. " I may point," said he, in
illustration of his patriotic purpose of
encourag-insc new recruits for the ser-
vice, in words since that time often
pronounced prophetic, " to that heroic
youth. Colonel Washington, whom I
cannot but hope Providence has hither-
to preserved in so signal a manner for
Bome important service to his country."
The public attention of the province
was now turned to Washington, as the
best defender of the soil. His volun-
tary service had expired, l)ut he was
BtiU engaged as adjutant, in directing

the levies from his residence at Mount
Vernon, whence the Legislature soon
called him to the chief command of the
Virginia forces. He stipulated for
thorough activity and discipline in the
whole service, and accepted the office.
The defence of the country, exposed to
the fierce severities of savage warfare,
was in his hands. He set the posts in
order, organized forces, rallied recruits,
and appealed earnestly to the Assem-
bly for vigorous means of relief. It
was asjain a lesson for his after life
when a greater foe was to be pressing
our more extended frontiers under his
care, and the reluctance or weakness of
the Virginia Legislature was to be
reproduced, in an exaggerated form, in
the imbecility of Congress. We shall
thus behold Washington, everywhere
the patient child of experience, unwea-
riedly conning his lesson, learning,
from actual life, the statesman's knowl-
edge of man and affairs. He was
sent into this school of the world early,
for he was yet but twenty-three, when
this guardianship of the State was
placed uj:)on his shoulders.

We find him again jealous of autho-
rity in the interests of the service. A
certain Captain Dagworthy, in a small
command at Fort Cumberland, refused
obedience to orders, asserting his privi-
lege as a royal officer of the late cam-
paign, and the question was ultimately
referred to General Shirley, the com-
mander-in-chief at Boston. Thither
Washington himself carried his appeal,
making his journey on horseback in
the midst of winter, and had his view
of his superior authority confirmed.

Returning immediately to Virginia,
Colonel Washington continued his

GEORGE WASHINGTON.

129

employment in active military duties,
struggling not less with the inefficient
Assembly at home, whom he tried to
arouse, than with the enemy abroad.
It was a trying service, in which the
commander, spite of every hardship,
which he freely encountered, was sure
to meet the reproach of the suffering
public. The disinterested conduct of
"Washington proved no exception to
the rule. He even experienced the in-
gratitude of harsh newspajoer com-
ments, and thought for the moment of
resignation ; but his friends, the noblest
spirits in the colony, rea^^ured him of
their confidence, and he steadily went
on. The an'ival of Lord Loudoun, as
commander-in-chief of his majesty's
forces, seemed to offer some opportu-
nity for more active operations, and
Washington drew up a memorial of
the affairs he had in charge for his in-
struction, and met him in conference
at Philadelphia. Little, however, re-
sulted from these negotiations for
the relief of Virginia, and Washing-
ton, exhausted Ijy his labors, was com-
pelled to seek retirement at l^.Iount
Vernon, where he lay for some time
prostrated by an attack of fever.

In the next spring, of 1758, he was
enabled to resume his command. The
Vii'ginia troops took the field, joined
to the forces of the British general,
Forbes, and the year, after various dis-
astrous movements, which might have
been l>etter directed had the counsels
of Washington prc^ ailed, was signal-
ized by the capture of Fort Du Quesne.
Washington, with his Virginians, tra-
versed the ground whitened with the
bones of his former comrades in Brad-
dock's expedition, and with his entry
17

of the fort closed the French dominion
on the Ohio. The war had taken
another direction, on the Canadian
frontier in New York, and Virginia
was left in repose.

Shortly after this event, in January,
1759, Washington was mamed to Mrs.
Martha Custis, of the White House,
county of New Kent. This lady, born in
the same year with himself, and conse-
quently in the full bloom of youthful
womanhood, at twenty-seven, was the
widow of a wealthy landed proprietor
whose death had occurred three years
before. Her maiden name was Dan
dridge, and she was of Welsh descent.
The prudence and gravity of her dis-
position eminently fitted her to be the
wife of Washington. She was her
husband's sole executrix, and managed
the complicated affairs of the estates
which he had left, involving the raising
of crops and sale of them in Europe,
with ability. Her personal charms,
too, in these days of her widowhood,
are highly spoken of. The honeymoon
was the inauguration of a new and
pacific era of Washington's hitherto
troubled military life. Yet even this
repose proved the introduction to new
public duties. With a sense of the
obligations befitting a Virginia gentle-
man, Washington had offered himself
to the suffrages of his fellow country
men at Winchester, and been elected
a member of the House of Burgesses.
About the time of his marriage, he
took his seat, when an incident occur-
red which has been often narrated.
The Speaker, by a vote of the House,
having been directed to return thanks
to him for his eminent military ser-
vices, at once performed the duty with

130

GEOEGE WASHINGTON.

warmth and eloquence. Washington
rose to express his thanks, but, never
voluble before the public, became too
embarrassed to utter a syllable. "Sit
down, Mr. Washington," was the
courteous relief of the gentleman who
had addressed him, "your modesty
equals your valor, and that surpasses
the power of any language I possess."
He continued a member of the
House, diligently attending to its
business till he was called to the work
of the Revolution, in this way adding
to his experiences in war, familiarity
with the practical duties of a legislator
and statesman.

Fifteen years had been quietly
passed at Mount Vernon, when the
peace of provincial life began to be
ruffled by a new agitation. France
had formerly furnished the stiiTing
theme of opposition and resistance
when America poured out her best
blood at the call of British statesmen,
and helped to restore the falling great-
ness of England. That same parlia-
ment which had been so wonderfully
revived when America seconded the
call of Chatham, was uow^ to inflict an
insupportable wound upon her defend-
ers. The seeds of the Revolution must
be looked for in the previous war w^ith
France. There and then America be-
came acquainted with her own powers,
and the strength and weakness of
British soldiers and placemen. To no
one had the lesson been better taught
than to Washington. By no one was it
studied with more impartiality. There
was no faction in his opposition. The
traditions of his family, his fi'iends, the
provinces, were all in favor of allegi-
ance to the British government. He

had nothing in his composition of the
disorganizing mind of a mere political
agitator, a breeder of discontent. The
interests of his large landed estates, and
a revenue dependent upon exports,
bound him to the British nation. But
there was one principle in his nature
stronger in its influence than all these
material ties — the love of justice ; and
when Patrick Henry rose in the House
of Burgesses, with his eloquent asser-
tion of the rights of the colony in the
matter of taxation, Washington was
there in his seat to respond to the
sentiment.

To this memorable occasion, on the
29th May, 1765, has been referred the
birth of that patriotic fervor in the
mind of Washington, welcoming as it
was developed a new order of things,
which never rested till the liberties of
the country were established on the
firmest foundations of independence
and civil order. He took part in the
local Virginia resolutions, and on the
meeting of the first Congress, in Phila-
delphia went up to that honored body
w^ith Patrick Henry and Edmund Pen-
dleton. He w^as at this time a fii'm,
unyielding maintainer of the rights in
controversy, and fully prepared for any
issue which might grow out of them ;
but he was no revolutionist — for it
was not in the nature of his mind to
consider a demand for justice a provo-
cative to war. Again, in Virginia
after the adjournment of Congress, in
the important Convention at Rich-
mond, he listens to the impetuous elo-
quence of Patrick Henry. It was this
body which set on foot a popular mili-
tary organization in the colony, and
Washington, who had previously given

GEORGE WASHINGTOIST.

131

his aid to the independent companies,
was a member of the committee to re-
j>ort the plan. A few days later, he
^yrites to his brother, John Augustine,
who was employed in training a com-
pany, that he would " very cheerfully
accept the honor of commanding it, if
occasion require it to be drawn out."

The second Continental Congress, of
which Washington was also a member,
met at Philadeljihia in May, 1775, its
members gathering to the deliberations
with throljbing hearts, the musketry
of Lexington ringing in their ears.
The overtures of war by the British
troops in Massachusetts had gathered
a little provincial army about Boston ;
a national organization was a measure
no longer of choice, but of necessity.
A commander-in-chief was to be ap-
pointed, and though the selection was
not altogether free from local jealousies,
the superior merit of Washington was
seconded by the superior patriotism of
the Congress, and on the 15th of June
he was unanimously elected by ballot
to the high position. His modesty in
accepting the office was as noticeable
as his fitness for it. He was not the
man to flinch from any duty, because
it was hazardous; but it is worth
knowing, that we may form a due esti-
mate of his character, that he felt to
the quick the full force of the sacrifices
of ease and happiness that he was
making, and the new difficulties he
was inevitably to encounter. He was
so impressed with the probabilities of
failure, and so little disposed to vaunt
his own powers, that he begged gen-
tlemen in the House to remember, " lest
some unlucky event should happen un-
favorable to his reputation," that he

thought himself, " with the utmost sin-
cerity, unequal to the command he was
honored with." With a manly spirit
of patriotic independence, worthy the
highest eulogy, he declared his inten-
tion to keep an exact account of his
public expenses, and accept nothing
more for his services — a resolution
which was faithfully kept to the let-
ter. With these disinterested prelim-
inaries, he proceeded to Cambridge,
and took command of the army on the
3d of July. Bunker Hill had been
fought, establishing the valor of the
native militia, and the leaguer of Bos-
ton was already formed, though with
inadequate forces. There was excel-
lent individual material in the men,
but everything was to be done for their
organization and equipment. Above
all, there was an absolute want of
powder. It was impossible to make
any serious attempt upon the British
in Boston, but the utmost heroism was
shown in cutting ofP their resources
and hemming them in. Humble as
were these inefficient means in the
present, the prospect of the future
was darkened l;)y the short enlistments
of the army, which were made only for
the year, Congress expecting in that
time a favoraljle answer to their second
petition to the king. The new recruits
came in slowly, and means were feebly
supplied, but Washington, bent on ac-
tion, determined upon an attack. For
this purpose, he took possession of and
fortified Dorchester Heights, and pre-
pared to assail the town. The British
were making an attempt to dislodge
him, which was deferred by a storm;
and General Howe, having ab'eady re-
solved to evacuate the city, a few days

132

GEOEGE WASHINGTON.

after, on the l7tli of March, inglori-
ously sailed away with his troops to
Halifax. The next day, Washington
entered the to^vn in triumph. Thus
ended the first epoch of his revolution-
ary campaigns. There had been little
opportunity for brilliant action, but
great difficulties had been overcome
with a more honorable persistence, and
a substantial benefit had been gained.
The full extent of the services of Wash-
ington became known only to his pos-
terity, since it was absolutely neces-
sary at the time to conceal the difficul-
ties under which he labored ; but the
country saw and felt enough to extol
his fame and award him an honest
meed of gratitude. A special vote of
Congress gave expression to the senti-
ment, and a gold medal, bearing the
head of Washington, and on the re-
verse the legend Hostibus •primo fit-
ffittis, was ordered by that body to
commemorate the event.

We must now follow the commander
rapidly to another scene of operations,
remembering that any detailed notice,
however brief, of Washington's mili-
tary operations during the war, would
expand this biographical sketch into a
historical volume. New York was evi-
dently to be the next object of attack,
and thither Washin2;ton srathered his
forces, and made every available means
of defence on land. By the beginning
of July, when the Declaration of Inde-
pendence was received in camp, Gene-
ral Howe had made his appearance in
the lower bay from Halifax, where he
was speedily joined by his brother.
Lord Howe, the admiral, who came
bearing ineffectual propositions for re-
eoncilation. Additional reinforcements

to the royal troops on Statcn Island
arrived from England ; a landing was
made by the well-equipped army on
Long Island, and a battle was immi-
nent. Washington, who had his head-
quarters in New York, made vigilant
preparations around the city, and at
the works on Long Island, which had
been jjlanned and fortified by General
Greene. This officer, unfortunately
falling ill, the command fell to General
Putnam, who was particularly charged
by Washington with instructions for
the defence of the passes by which the
enemy might approach. These were
neglected, an attack was made from
ojiposite ;:ides, and in spite of much
valiant fighting on the part of the va-
rious defenders, who contended with
fearful odds, the day was most disas-
trous to the Americans. The slaughter
was great on this 27th of August, and
many prisoners, including General Sul-
livan and Lord Stirling, were taken.
Still tlio main works at Brooklyn, occu-
pied by the American troops, remained,
though, exposed as they were to the
enemy's fleet, they were no longer ten-
able. Washington, whose duties kept
him in the city to be ready for its de
fence, as soon as he heard of the en
gagement, hastened to the spot, but
it was too late to turn the fortunes of
the day. He was compelled to witness
the disaster, tradition tells us, not with-
out the (deepest emotion.

But it was the glory of Washington
to save the remnant of the army by a
retreat more memorable than the vic-
tory of General Clinton. The day
after the battle, and the next were
passed without auy decisive movements
on the part of the British, who were

GEOEGE WASHINGTON.

133

aljout bringing up their ships, and who,
doubtless, as they had good reason,
considered their prey secure. On the
twenty - ninth, Washington took his
measures for the retreat, and so per-
fectly were they arranged, that the
■w^hole force of nine thousand, with ar-
tillery, horses, and the entire equipage
of war, were borne off that night, under
cover of the fog, to the opposite shore
in triumph. It was a most masterly
operation, planned and superintended
by Washington fi'om the beginning.
He did not sleej) or rest after the bat-
tle till it was executed, and was among
the last to cross.

After the battle of Long Island,
there had been little but weariness and
disaster, in the movements of Wash-
ington, to the end of the year, when,
as the forces of Howe were apparently
closing in upon him to open the route
to Philadeljihia, he turned in very
despair, and ]>y the brilliant aft'aii' at
Trenton retarded the motions of the
enemy and checked the growing de-
spondency of his eountiymen. It was
M'ell planned and courageously under-
taken. Christmas night, of a most
inclement, wintry season, when the
river was blocked with ice, was chosen
to cross the Delaware, and attack the
British and Hessians on the opposite
side at Trenton. The expedition was
led by Washington in person, who
anxiously watched the slow process of
the transportation on the river, which
lasted from sunset till near the da's\Ti —
too long for the contemplated surprise
])j night. A storm of hail and snow
now set in, as the general advanced
with his men, reaching the outposts
about eight o'clock. A gallant onset

was made, in which Lieut. Monioe,
afterwards the President, Avas wounded ;
Sullivan and the other officers, accord-
ing to a previously arranged plan,
seconded the movement fi'om another
part of the town ; the Hessians were
disconcerted, and their general, Rahl,
slain, T^hen a surrender Avas made,
nearly a thousand prisoners laying
down their arms. General Howe,
astonished at the event, sent out Corn-
Avallis in pursuit, and he had his game
seemingly secure, when Washington,
in front of him at Trenton, on the
same side of the Delaware, made a
bold diversion in an attack on the
forces left behind at Princeton. It
was, like the previous one, conducted
by night, and, like the other, was at-
tended with success, though it cost the
life of the gallant Mercer. After these
brilliant actions the little anny took
up its quarters at Morristown for the
winter.

In the spring, General Howe made
some serious attempts at breaking up
the line of Washington in New Jersey,
but he Avas foiled, and compelled to
seek another method of reaching Phila-
delj)hia. The AvithdraAval of the Brit-
ish troops would thus haA^e left a simple
course to be pursued on the DelaAvare,
had not the attention of Washington
been called in another direction by the
adA'ance of Burgoyne from Canada. It
Avas natural to suppose that HoAve
Avould act in concert Avith that officer
on the Hudson, nor was Washington
relieved ti'om the dilemma till intelli-
gence reached him that the British
general had embarked his forces, and
Avas actually at the Capes of the Dela-
Avare. He then took up a position at

134

GEOEGE WASHIIS^GTOK

Germautown for the defence of Pliila-
delpliia.

Howe, meanwliile, the summer hav-
ing passed away in these uncertainties,
was slowly making his way up the
Chesapeake to the Head of Elk, to
gain access to Philadelphia from Mary-
land, and the American anny was ad-
vanced to meet him. The British troojis
numbered about eighteen thousand ;
the Americans, perhaps two-thirds of
that number. A stand was made by
the latter at Chad's Ford, on the east
side of the Brandy wine, to which Kny-
phausen was opposed on the ojiposite
bank, while Cornwallis, with a large
division, took the upper course of the
river, and turned the flank of the po-
sition. General Sullivan was intrusted
with this portion of the defence ; but
time was lost, in the uncertainty of
information, in meeting the movement,
and when the parties met, Cornwallis
had greatly the advantage. A rout
ensued, which was saved from utter
defeat by the resistance of General
Greene, who was placed at an ad-
vantageous point. Lafayette ^ams
severely wounded in the leg in the
com-se of the conflict. "Washington
was not dismayed by the disaster ; on
the contrary, he kept the field, mar-
shalling and manueuvrinsr through a
hostile country, one thousand of his
troops, as he informed Congress, actu-
ally barefoot. He would have offered
battle, but he was without the means
to resist effectually the occupation of
Philadelphia. A part of the enemy's
forces were stationed at Germantown,
a few miles from the city. Washing-
ton, considering them in an exposed
situation, planned a surprise. It was

well an-anged, and at the outset was
successful ; but, owing to the confusion
in the heavy fog of the October morn-
ing, and loss of strength and time in
attacking a strongly defended man-
sion at the entrance of the village,
what should have been a brilliant vic-
tory was changed into a partial defeat.
The encampment at Valley Forge
succeeded the scenes we have describ-
ed. Half clad, wanting frequently the
simplest clothing, without shoes or
blankets, the army was hutted in the
snows and ice of that inclement win-
ter. Yet they had Washington with
them urging every means for their
welfare, while his " lady," as his wife
was always called in the army, came
from Mount Vernon, as was her custom
during these winter encampments, to
lighten the prevailing despondency.
Washington, meanwhile, was busy
with a Committee of Congress in put-
ting the army on a better foundation.
With the return of summer came the
evacuation of Philadelphia by the Brit-
ish, who were pursuing theii- route
across New Jersey to embark on the
waters of New York. Washington
with his forces was watching their
movements from above. Shall he at-
tack them on their march ? There was
a di\'ision of ojjinion among his officers.
The equivocal Charles Lee, then unsus-
pected, was opposed to the step ; l^ut
Washington, with his best advisers,
Greene, Lafayette, and Wayne, was in
favor of it. He accordingly sent La-
fayette forward, when Lee interposed,
and claimed the command of the ad-
vance. Washington himself moved on
Avith the reserve towards the enemy's
position near Monmouth Court House

GEOEGE WASHINGTOK

135

to take part in the fortunes of the day,
the 28th of June. As he was proceed-
ing, he was met by the intelligence that
Lee was in full retreat, without notice
or aj)parent cause, endangering the or-
der of the rear, and threatening the
utmost confusion. Presently he came
upon Lee himself, and demanded from
him with an emphasis roused by the
fiercest indignation — ^and the anger of
Washington when excited was ten'ific
— the cause of the disorder. Lee re-
plied angrily, and gave such explana-
tion as he could of a superior force,
when Washington, doubtless mindful
of his previous conduct, answered him
with dissatisfaction, and it is said,
on the authority of Lafayette, ended
by calling the retreating general "a
damned poltroon."* It was a great
day for the genius of Washington. He
made his arrangements on the spot to
retrieve the fortunes of the hour, and
so admirable were the dispositions, and
so well was he seconded by the bravery
of officers and men, even Lee redeem-
ing his character by his valor, that at
the close of that hot and weary day,
the Americans having added greatly to
the glory of their arms, remained at
least equal masters of the field. The
next morning: it was found that Sir
Henry Clinton had withdrawn towards
Sandy Hook. The remainder of the
season was passed by Washington on
the eastern borders of the Hudson, in
readiness to co-operate with the French,
who had now arrived under D'Estaing,
and in watching the British in New
York. In December he took up his
winter quarters at Middlebrook, in New

* Dawson's "Battles of the United States."
I. 408.

Jersey. The event of the next year in
the little army of Washington, was
Wayne's gallant storming of Stony
Point, on the Hiidson, one of the de-
fences of the Highlands, which had
been recently captured and manned by
Sir Henry Clinton. The attack on the
night of the 15th July was planned by
Washington, and his directions in his
instructions to Wayne, models of careful
military precision, were faithfully car-
ried out. Henry Lee's spirited attack
on Paulus Hook, within sight of New
York, followed, to cheer the encamp-
ment of Washington, who now busied
himself in fortifying West Point. Win-
ter again finds the army in quarters in
New Jersey, this time at Morristown,
when the hardships and severities of
Valley Foi'ge were even exceeded in the
distressed condition of the troops in
that rigorous season. The main inci-
dents of the war are henceforth at the
South.

The most prominent event in the
personal career of Washington, of the
year 1780, is certainly the defection of
Arnold, with its attendant execution
of Major Andre. This unhappy trea-
son was every way calculated to enlist
his feelings, but he suffered neither
hate nor sympathy to divert him from
the considerate path of duty. We may
not pause over the subsequent events
of the war, the renewed exertions of
Congress, the severe contests in the
South, the meditated movement upon
New York the following year, but must
hasten to the sequel at Yorktown. The
movement of the army of Washington
to Virginia was determined by the ex-
pected arrival of the French fleet in
that quarter from the West Indies.

136

GEORGE WASHINGTON.

Lafayette was already on tlie spot,
where he had been ensjaged in the de-
fence of the eountiy from the inroads
of Arnold and Phillij^s. Cornwallis
had arrived ft'orn the South, and un-
suspicious of any serious opposition
was entrenching himself on York River.
It was all that could be desired, and
Washington, who had been planning
an attack upon New York with Ro-
chambeau, now suddenly and secretly
directed his forces by a rapid march
southward. Extraordinary exertions
were made to expedite the troops.
The timely arrival of Colonel John
Lawrens, from France, with an instal-
ment of the French loan in specie,
came to the aid of the liberal efforts
of the financier of the revolution, Rob-
ert Morris. Lafayette, vrith the Vir-
ginians, was hedging in the fated Corn-
wallis. Washington had just left Phi-
ladelphia, when he heard the joyous
news of the arrival of De Grasse in the
Chesapeake. He hastened on to the
scene of action in advance of the
troops, with De Rochambeau, gaining
time to pause at Mount Vernon, which
he had not seen since the opening of
the war, and enjoy a day's hurried
hosjiitality with his French officers at
the welcome mansion. Arrived at
Williamsburg, Washington urged on
the militaiy movements with the en-
ergy of anticipated victory. " Hurry
on, then, my dear sir," he wrote to
General Lincoln, " witli your troops on
the wings of speed." To make the last
arrangements with the French admiral,
he visited him in his ship, at the mouth
of James' River. Everything was to
be done before succor could arrive
from the British fleet and troops at

New York. The combined French
and American forces closed in upon
Yorktown, which was fortified by re-
doubts and batteries, and on the 1st
of October, the place was completely
invested. The first parallel was opened
on the 6th. Washington lighted the
first gun on the 9th. The storming of
two annoying redoubts by French and
American parties were set down for
the night of the 14th. Hamilton, at
the head of the latter, gallantly car-
ried one of the works at the point of
the bayonet without firing a shot.
Washington watched the proceeding at
imminent hazard. The redouljts ffain-
ed were fortified and turned against
the town. The second parallel was
ready to open its fire. Cornwallis
vainly attempted to escape with his
forces across the river. He received
no relief from Sir Henry Clinton, at
New York, and on the 17th he pro-
posed a surrender. On the 19th, the
terms having been dictated by Wash-
ington, the whole British force laid
down their arms. It was the virtual
termination of the Avar, the crowning
act of a vast series of military opera-
tions planned and perfected by the
genius of Washington.

In the beginning of November, 1783,
when the last arrangements of peace
had been perfected, he took leave of
the army in an address from head-
quarters, with his accustomed warmth
and emotion, and on the 25th, entered
New York at the head of a military
and civic procession as the British
evacuated the city. On the 4th of
December, he was escorted to the har-
bor on his way to Congress, at An-
napolis, to resign his command, after

GEOEGE WASHINGTON".

137

a toil cling scene of farewell with his
officers at Fraunces' Tavern, when the
great chieftain did not disdain the
sensibility of a tear and the kiss of
his friends. Arrived at Annapolis,
having on the way delivered to the
proper officer at Philadeljjhia his ac-
counts of his expenses during the war,
neatly wi'itten out by his own hand,
on the 23d of the month he restored
his commission to Congress, with a few
remarks of great felicity, in which he
commended " the interests of our dear-
est country to the protection of Al-
mighty God ; and those who have the
superintendence of them to His holy
keeping."

At the treaty of peace Washington
was fifty-one, and had gloriously dis-
charofed the duties of two memorable
eras — the war with France and the
war with Great Britain ; a third ser-
vice to his country remained, her di-
rection in the art of government in
the formation of the Constitution.
Many ministered to that noble end,
but who more anxiously, more perse-
veringly, than Washington ? His au-
thority carried the heart and intelli-
gence of the country with it, and most
appropriately was he placed at the
head of the Convention, in 1787, which
gave a government to the scattered
States and made America a nation.

Once more he was called to listen to
the highest demands of his country in
his unanimous election to the presi-
dency. With what emotions, with
what humble resignation to the voice
of duty, with how little fluttering of
vainglory let the modest entry, in his
diary, of the 16th of April, 1789, tell:
"About ten o'clock," he wi'itea, "I bade
18

adieu to Mount Vemon, to private life
and to domestic felicity ; and with a
mind oppressed with more anxious and
painful sensations than I have words
to express, set out for New York with
the best disposition to render service
to my country in obedience to its call,
but with less hope of answering its
expectations." His inauguration took
place in that city on the 30th of April.
Parties were soon at work in the gov-
ernment — the conservative and the
progressive, such as will always arise
in human institutions — represented in
the administration l:)y the rival states-
men, Hamilton and Jefferson; but
Washington honestly recognized no
guide but the welfare of his country,
and the rising waves of faction beat
harmlessly beneath his presidential
chair. As the close of his second ad-
ministration, to which he had been
chosen with no dissentient voice, ap-
proached, he turned his thoughts eager-
ly to Mount Vernon for a few short
years of repose ; and well had he earn-
ed them by his long series of services
to his country. He would have been
welcomed for a third term, but office
had no temptation to divert him from
his settled resolution. Yet he parted
fondly with the nation, and like a pa-
rent, desired to leave some legacy of
council to his country. Accordingly, he
published in September, 1796, in the
Daily Advertiser, in Philadelphia, the
pajjer known as his Farewell Address
to the People of the United States. It
had long engaged his attention ; he had
planned it himself, and, careful of what
he felt might be a landmark for ages,
had consulted Jay, Madison and Ham-
ilton in its composition. The spirit

138

GEOEGE WASHINGTON.

and sentiment, the political wisdom and
patriotic fervor were every whit his own.
Then, once again, Mount Vernon re-
ceived her son, destined never long
to repose unsolicited by his country.
France, pursuing her downward course,
adopted an aggressive policy towards
the nation, which the most conciliating
deference could no longer support. A
state of quasi war existed, and actual
war was imminent. The President
looked to "Washington to organize the
army and take the command, should it
be brought into action, and he accord-
ingly busied himself in the necessary
preparations. It was best, he thought,
to be prepared for the worst while
looking for the best. New negotia-
tions were then opened, but he did not
live to witness their pacific results. He
was at his home at Mount Vernon, in-
tent on public affairs, and making his
rounds in his usual farm occupations,
with a vigor and hardihood which had
abated little for his years, when, on
the 12th of December, he suffered
some considerable exposiu'e from a
storm of snow and rain which came
on while he was out, and in which he

continued his ride. It proved, the
next day, that he had taken cold, but
he made light of it, and passed his
usual evening cheerfully with the
family circle. He became worse during
the night with inflammation of the
throat. He was seriously ill. Having
sent for his old army surgeon. Dr.
Craik, he was bled by his overseer,
and again on the arrival of the phy-
sician. All was of no avail, and he
calmly prepared to die. "I am not
afraid," said he, "to go," while with
ever thoughtful courtesy he thanked
his friends and attendants for their
little attentions. Thus the day wore
away, till ten in the night, when his
end was fast approaching. He noticed
the failing moments, his last act being
to place his hand upon his pulse, and
calmly exj^ired. It was the 14th of
December, 1799. His remains were
interred in the grave on the bank at
Mount Vernon, in front of his resi-
dence, and there, in no long time, ac-
cording to her prediction at the mo-
ment of his death, his wife, Martha,
whose miniature he always wore on
his breast, was laid beside him.

ilf5,J^^^^

Newark

MADAME D'ARBLAY.

MADAME D' ARBLAY, the au-
thor of " Evelina," the leader of
the modern school of lady English
novelists, was descended from a family
which bore the name of Macburney,
and which, though probably of Irish
origin, had been long settled in Shrop-
shire, England, and was possessed of
considerable estates in that county.
Unhappily, many years before her
birth, the Macbm-neys began, as if of
set purpose and in a spirit of deteimin-
ed rivalry, to expose and min them-
selves. The heir apparent, Mr. James
Macburney, offended his father by mak-
ing a runaway match with an actress
from Goodman's Fields. The old gen-
tleman could devise no more judicious
mode of wreaking vengeance on his
nndutiful boy, than by marrying the
cook. The cook gave birth to a son
named Joseph, who succeeded to all
the lands of the family, while James
was cut off with a shilling. The fa-
vorite son, however, was so extrava-
gant, that he soon became as poor as his
disinherited brother. Both were forced
to earn their bread by their labor. Jo-

This sketch of Madame D'Arblay is abridged
from an article by Macau lay in the Edinburgh

Rtview.

seph turned dancing-master, and settled
in Norfolk. James struck off the Mac
from the beginning of his name, and
set up as a portrait-painter at Chester,
Here he had a son named Charles,
well known as the author of the His-
tory of Music, and as the father of two
remarkable children, of a son distin-
guished by learning, and of a daugh-
ter still more honorably distinguished
by genius.

Charles early showed a taste for that
art, of which, at a later period, he be-
came the historian. He was appren-
ticed to a celebrated musician in Lon-
don, and applied himself to study with
vigor and success. He early found a
kind and munificent patron in Fulk
Greville, a high-born and high-bred
man, who seems to have had in large
measure all the accomplishments and
all the follies, all the virtues and all the
vices which, a hundi'ed years ago, were
considered as making up the character
of a fine gentleman. Under such pro-
tection, the young artist had every
prospect of a brilliant career in the
capital. But his health failed. It be
came necessary for him to retreat from
the smoke and river fog of London, to

the pure air of the coast. He accepted
(139)

140

MADAME D'ARBLAY.

the place of organist at Lynn, and set-
tled at that town with a young lady
who had recently become hi? wife.

At Lynn, in June, 1752, Frances
Burney was born. Nothing in her
childhood indicated that she would,
while still a young woman, have se-
cured for herself an honorable place
among English writers. She was shy
and silent. Her brothers and sisters
called her a dunce, and not altogether
■without some show of reason ; for at
eight years old she did not know her
letters. In 1760, Mr. Burney quitted
Lynn for London, and took a house in
Poland street ; a situation which had
been fashionable in the reign of Queen
Anne, but which, since that time, had
been deserted by most of its wealthy and
noble inhabitants. He at once obtained
as many pupils of the most respectable
description as he had time to attend,
and was thus enabled to support his
family, modestly indeed, and frugally,
but in comfort and independence. His
professional merit obtained for him the
degree of Doctor of Music from the
University of Oxford ; and his works
on subjects connected with his art
gained for him a place, respectable,
though certainly not eminent, among
men of letters.

The progress of the mind of Frances
Burney, fi-om her ninth to her twenty-
fifth year, well deserves to be recorded.
When her education had proceeded no
further than the horn-book, she lost her
mother, and thenceforward she educa-
ted herself. Her father appears to
have been as bad a father as a very
honest, affectionate, and sweet-tem-
pered man can well be. He loved
his daughter dearly ; but it never

seems to have occurred to him that
a parent has other duties to perform
to children than that of fondling them.
It would indeed have been impossible
for him to superintend their education
himself. His professional engagements
occupied him all day. At seven in the
morning he began to attend his pupils,
and, when London was full, was some-
times employed in teaching till eleven
at night. He was often forced to carry
in his pocket a tin box of sandwiches,
and a bottle of wine and water, on which
he dined in a hackney - coach while
hurrying from one scholar to anoth-
er. Two of his dauo-hters he sent to a
seminary at Paris; but he imagined
that Frances would run some risk of
being perverted from the Protestant
faith if she were educated in a Catho-
lic country, and he therefore kept her
at home. No governess, no teacher of
any art or of any language, was pro-
vided for her. But one of her sisters
showed her how to write ; and, before
she was fourteen, she began to find
pleasure in reading.

It was not, however, by reading that
her intellect was formed. Indeed, when
her best novels were produced, her
knowledge of books was very small.
When at the height of her fame, she
was unacquainted with the most cele-
brated works of Voltaire and Moliere ;
and, what seems still more extraordi-
nary, had never heard or seen a line
of Churchill, who, when she was a girl,
was the most popular of living poets.
It is particularly deserving of observa-
tion, that she appears to have been by
no means a novel reader. Her father's
library was large ; and he had admit-
ted into it so many books which rigid

MADAME D'AKBIAT.

moralists generally exclude, that he felt
uneasy, as he afterwards owned, when
Johnson began to examine the shelves.
But in the whole collection there was
only a single novel, Fielding's Amelia.
An education, hoAvever, which to most
gii'ls would have been useless, but which
suited Fanny's mind better than elab-
orate culture, was in constant progress
during her passage from childhood to
womanhood. Tlie great book of hu-
man nature was turned over before
her. Her father's social position was
very peculiar. He belonged in for-
tune and station to the middle class.
His daughters seem to have been suf-
fered to mix freely with those whom
butlers and waiting-maids call vulgar.
"We are told that they were in the
habit of playing with the children of
a wig-maker who lived in the adjoining-
house. Yet few nobles could assemble
in the most stately mansions of Gros-
venor Square or St. James's Square, a
society so various and so brilliant as
was sometimes to be found in Dr.
Burney's cabin.

With the literary and fashional>le
society which occasionally met under
her father's roof, Frances can scarcely
be said to have mingled. She was not
a musician, and could therefore bear
no part in the concerts. She was shy
almost to awkwardness, and scarcely
ever joined in the conversation. The
slisfhtest remark from a stranijer dis-
concerted her ; and even the old fi'iends
of her father who tried to draw her out
could seldom extract more than a Yes
or a No. Her figure was small, her
face not distinguished by beauty. She
was therefore suffered to withdraw
quietly to the background, and, unob-

served herself, to observe all that pass-
ed. Her nearest relations were aware
that she had good sense, but seem not
to have suspected, that under her de-
mure and bashful deportment were
concealed a fertile invention and a
keen sense of the ridiculous. She had
not, it is true, an eye for the fine shades
of character. But eveiy marked pecu-
liarity instantly caught her notice and
remained engraven on her imagination.
Thus, while still a girl, she had laid up
such a store of materials for fiction as
few of those who mix much in the world
are able to accumulate during a long
life. She had watched and listened
in her father's dwelling to people of
every class, fi'om princes and great
officers of state down to artists living
in garrets, and poets familiar with
subterranean cook shops. Hundreds
of remarkable persons had passed in
review before her, English, French,
German, Italian, lords and fiddlers,
deans of cathedrals and managers of
theatres, travelers leading about newly
caught savages, and singing women
escorted by deputy -husbands.

So strong was the impression made
on the mind of Frances by the society
which she was in the habit of seeing
and hearing that she began to wi'ite
little fictitious narratives as soon as
she could use her pen vdth ease, which.
as we have said, was not very early.
Her sisters were amused by her stories.
But Dr. Burney knew nothing of their
existence ; and in another quarter her
literary propensities met with serious
discouragement. When she was fifteen
her father took a second wife. The new
Mrs. Burney soon found out that her
step-daughter was fond of scribbling,

142

MADAME D'AEBLAY.

and delivered several good-natured lec-
tures on the sul)ject. The advice no
doubt was well-meant, and might have
been given by the most judicious friend ;
for, at that time, nothing it would ap-
pear could be more disadvantageous
to a young lady than to be known as
a novel-Avriter. Frances -srith amiable
resignation yielded, relinquished her
favorite pursuit, and made a bonfire
of all her manuscripts.

She now hemmed and stitched from
breakfast to dinner with scrupulous
regularity. But the dinners of that
time were early ; and the afternoon
was her own. Though she had given
up novel-writing, she was still fond of
using her pen. She began to keep a
diary, and she corresponded largely
with a person who seems to have had
the chief share in the formation of her
mind. This was Samuel Crisp, an old
friend of her father. Long before
Frances Burney was born, Mr. Crisp
had made his entrance into the world,
with every advantage. He was well
connected and well educated. His
face and figure were conspicuously
handsome ; his manners were polished ;
his fortune was easy ; his character was
without stain ; he lived in the best so-
ciety ; he had read much ; he talked
well ; his taste in literature, music,
painting, architecture, sculpture, was
held in high esteem. As an adviser he
was inestimable. Nay, he might pro-
bably have held a respectable rank as
a writer, if he would have confined
himself to some department of litera-
ture in which nothin2: more than sense,
taste, and reading was required. Un-
happily, he set his heart on being a
great poet, ^vrote a tragedy in five acts

on the death of Virginia, and offered
it to Garrick, who was his personal
friend. Garrick read, shook his head,
and expressed a doubt whether it
would be wise in Mr. Crisp to stake a
reputation which stood high on the
success of such a piece. But the au-'
thor, blinded by self-love, set in mo-
tion a machinery such as none could
long resist. His intercessors were the
most eloquent man and the most lovely
woman of that generation. Pitt was
induced to read Virginia, and to pro
nounce it excellent. Lady Coventry,
with fingers ^\hich might have fur-
nished a model to sculptors, forced the
manuscript into the reluctant hand of
the manager; and in the year 1754,
the play was brought forward. Noth-
ing that skill or fi-iendship could do
was omitted. Garrick wi'ote both pro-
logue and epilogue. The zealous
friends of the author filled every box :
and, by their strenuous exertions, the
life of the play was prolonged during
ten nights. But, though there was no
clamorous reprobation, it was univer-
sally felt that the attempt had failed.
Crisp lost his temper and spirits,
and became a cynic and a hater of
mankind. From London he retired to
Hampton, and fi'om Hampton to a soli-
tary and long-deserted mansion, built
on a common in one of the wildest
tracts of Surrey. No road, not even a
sheep-walk, connected his lonely dwel-
ling with the abodes of men. The
place of his retreat was strictly con-
cealed from his old associates. In the
spring he sometimes emerged, and was
seen at exhibitions and concerts in
London. But he soon disappeared
and hid himself, with no society but

MADAME D'AEBLAT.

143

his books, in his dreary liermitage.
He survived his failure about thirty
years.

Crisp was an old and very intimate
friend of the Burnej^s. To them alone
was confided the name of the desolate
old hall in which he hid himself like
a wild beast in a den. For them were
reserved such remains of his humanity
as had survived the failure of his play.
Frances Burney he regarded as his
daughter. He called her his Fannikin,
and she in return called him her dear
Daddy. In truth, he seems to have
done much more than her real father
for the development of her intellect ;
for though he was a bad poet, he was
a scholar, a thinker, and an excellent
counsellor. He was practically fond
of Dr. Burney's concerts. They had,
indeed, been commenced at his sugges-
tion, and when he visited London he
constantly attended them. But when
he grew old, and when gout, brought
on partly by mental iiTitation, confined
him to his retreat, he was desirous of
having a glimpse of that gay and bril-
liant world from which he was exiled,
and he pressed Fannikin to send him
full accounts of her father's evening
parties. A few of her letters to him
have been published ; and it is impos-
sible to read them •without discerning
in them all the powers which after-
wards produced Evelina and Cecilia,
the quickness in catching every odd
peculiarity of character and manner,
the skill in grouping;-, the humor, often
richly comic, sometimes even farcical.

Fanny's propensity to novel- writing
had for a time been kept down. It
now rose up stronger than ever. The
heroes and heroines of the tales which

had perished in the flames, were still
present to the eye of her mind. One
favorite story, in particular, haunted
her imagination. It was about a cer-
tain Caroline Evelyn, a beautiful dam
sel who made an unfortunate love-
match, and died, leaving an infant
daughter. Frances began to image to
herself the various scenes, tragic and
comic, through which the poor mother-
less girl, highly connected on one side,
meanly connected on the other, might
have to pass. A crowd of unreal be-
ings, good and bad, grave and ludi-
crous, surrounded the pretty, timid,
young orphan ; a coarse sea-captain ;
an ugly insolent fop, blazing in a
superb coirrt-dress ; another foj:), as
ugly and as insolent, but lodged on
Snow-Hill, and tricked out in second-
hand finery for the Hampstead ball ;
an old woman, all wrinkled and rouge,
flirting her fan with the air of a Miss
of seventeen, and screaming in a dialect
made up of vulgar French and vulgar
English ; a poet, lean and ragged, with
a broad Scotch accent. By degrees
these shadoAvs acquired stronger and
stronger consistence : the impulse
which urged Frances to write became
irresistible ; and the result was the
history of Evelina.

Then came, natui'ally enough, a wish,
mingled with many fears, to appear
before the public ; for, timid as Fran-
ces was, and bashful, and altogether
unaccustomed to hear her own praises,
it is clear that she wanted neither a
strong passion for distinction, nor a
just confidence in her own powers.
Her scheme was to become, if possible,
a candidate for fame without running
any risk of disgrace. She had not

1-14

MADAME D'AEBLAT.

money to bear the expense of printing.
It was therefore necessary that some
bookseller should he induced to take
the risk ; and such a bookseller was
not readily found. Dodsley refused
even to look at the manuscript unless
he were trusted with the name of the
author. A publisher in Fleet Street,
named Lowndes, was more complaisant.
Some correspondence took place be-
tween this person and Miss Burney,
who took the name of Grafton, and
desired that the letters addressed to
her might be left at the Orange Coflfee-
House. But, before the bargain was
finally struck, Fanny thought it her
duty to obtain her father's consent.
She told tim that she had written a
book, that she wished to have his per-
mission to publish it anonymously, but
that she hoped that he would not in-
sist upon seeing it. What followed
may serve to illustrate what we meant
when we said that Dr. Burney was as
bad a father as so good-hearted a man
could possibly be. It never seems to
have crossed his mind that Fanny was
about to take a step on which the
whole happiness of her life might de-
pend — a step which might raise her to
an honorable eminence, or cover her
with ridicule and contempt. Several
people had already been trusted, and
strict concealment was therefore not to
be expected. On so grave an occasion,
it was surely his duty to give his best
counsel to his daughter, to win her
confidence, to prevent her from expos-
ing herself if her book were a bad one,
and, if it were a good one, to see that
the terms which she made with the
publisher were likely to be beneficial
to her. Instead of this, he only stared.

burst out a laughing, kissed her, gave
her leave to do as she liked, and never
even asked the name of her work.
The contract with Lowndes was speed-
ily concluded. Twenty pounds were
given for the coj^yright, and were ac-
cepted by Fanny with delight. Her
father's inexcusable neglect of his
duty, happily caused her no worse evil
than the loss of twelve or fifteen hun-
dred pounds.

After many delays Evelina appeared
in January, 1778. Poor Fanny was
sick with terror, and durst hardly stir
out of doors. Some days passed be-
fore anything was heard of the book.
It had, indeed, nothing but its owa
merits to push it into public favor.
Its author was unknown. The house
by which it was published, was not,
we believe, held in high estimation.
No body of partizans had been engaged
to applaud. The better class of read-
ers expected little from a novel about
a young lady's entrance into the world.
There was, indeed, at that time a dis-
position among the most respectable
people to condemn novels generally :
nor was this disposition by any means
without excuse ; for works of that sort
were then almost always silly, and very
frequently wicked. Soon, however,
the first faint accents of praise began
to be heard. The keepers of the cir-
culating libraries reported that every-
body was asking for Evelina, and that
some person had guessed Anstey to be
the author. Then came a favorable
notice in the " London Review ; " then
another still more favorable in the
" Monthly." And now the book found
its way to tables which had seldom
been polluted by marble-covered vol-

MADAME D'AKBLAT.

145

umes. Scholars and statesmen, who
contemptuously ataudoned the crowd
of romauces to Miss Lydia Languish
and Miss Sukey Saunter, were not
ashamed to own that they could not
tear themselves away fi'om Evelina.
Fine carriages and rich liveries, not
often seen east of Temple Bar, were
attracted to the publisher's shop in
Fleet Street. Lowndes was daily
questioned about the author; but was
himself as much in the dark as any of
the questioners. The mystery, how-
ever, could not remain a mystery long.
It was known to brothers and sisters,
aunts and cousins : and they were far
too proud and too happy to be dis-
creet. Dr. Burney wept over the book
in rapture. Daddy Crisp shook his
fist at his Fannikin in affectiouate an-
ger at not having been admitted to her
confidence. The truth was whispered
to Mrs. Thrale ; and then it began to
spread fast.

The book had been admired while
it was ascribed to men of letters long
conversant with the world, and accus-
tomed to composition. But when it
was known that a reserved, silent
young woman had produced the best
work of fiction that had appeared since
the death of Smollett, the acclamations
were redoubled. What she had done
was, indeed, extraordinary. But, as
usual, various reports improved the
story till it became miraculous. Eve-
lina, it was said, was the work of a
girl of seventeen. Incredible as this
tale was, it continueil to be repeated
down to our own time. Frances was
too honest to confirm it. Probably
she was too much a woman to contra-
dict it ; and it was long before any of
19

her detractors thought of this mode of
annoyance.

But we must return to our story. The
triumjih was complete. The timid and
obscure giid found herself on the high-
est pinnacle of fame. Great men, on
whom she had gazed at a distance
with humble reverence, addressed her
with admiration, tempered by the ten-
derness due to her sex and age.
Burke, "Windham, Gil)bon, Reynolds,
Sheridan, were among her most ardent
eulogists. Cumberland acknowledged
her merit, after his fashion, by biting
his lips and -wriggling in his chair
whenever her name was mentioned.
But it was at Streatham that she
tasted, in the highest perfection, the
sweets of flattery, mingled with the
sweets of friendship. Mrs. Thrale,
then at the height of prosperity and
popularity — with gay spirits, quick
wit, showy though superficial acquire-
ments, pleasing though not refined
manners, a singularly amiable temper,
and a loving heart — felt towards Fanny
as towards a younger sister. With the
Thrales Johnson was domesticated.
He was an old friend of Dr. Burney ;
but he had probably taken little notice
of Dr. Burney's daiighters, and Fanny,
we imagine, had never in her life dared
to speak to him, unless to ask whether
he wanted a nineteenth or twentieth
cup of tea. He was charmed by her
tale, and preferred it to the novels of
Fielding, to whom, indeed, he had al-
ways been grossly unjust. He did
not, indeed, carry his partiality so far
as to place Evelina by the side of Cla-
rissa and Sir Charles Grandison ; yet
he said that his little favorite had done
enough to have made even Richardson

146

MADAME D'AEBLAT.

feel uneasy. With Johnson's cordial
approbation of the book was mingled
a fondness, half gallant, half paternal,
for the virriter ; and this fondness his
age and character entitled him to show
without restraint. He began by put-
ting her hand to his lips. But soon
he clasped her in his huge arms, and
implored her to be a good girl. She
was his pet, his dear love, his dear lit-
tle Burney, his little character-monger.
At one time, he broke forth in praise
of the good taste of her caps. At
another time, he insisted on teaching
her Latin. That, with all his coarse-
ness and irritability, he was a man of
sterling benevolence, has long been ac-
knowledged. But how gentle and en-
dearing his deportment could be, was
not known till the Recollections of
Madame D'Arblay were published.

It would not have been surprising
if such success had turned even a strong
head, and corrupted even a generous
and affectionate nature. But, in the
Diary, Ave can find no trace of any feel-
ing inconsistent with a truly modest
and amiable disposition. There is,
indeed, abundant proof that Frances
enjoyed, with an intense, though a
troubled joy, the honors which her
genius had won ; but it is equally
clear that her happiness sprang from
the happiness of her father, her sister,
and her dear Daddy Crisp. While
flattered by the great, the opulent, and
the learned, while followed along the
Steyne at Brighton and the Pantiles at
Tunbridge Wells by the gaze of ad-
miring crowds, her heart seems to have
been still with the little domestic circle
in St. Martin's Street. If she recorded
with minute diligence all the compli-

ments, delicate and coarse, which she
heard wherever she turned, she record
ed them for the eyes of two or three
persons who had loved her from her
infancy, who had loved her in obscu-
rity, and to whom her fame gave the
purest and most exquisite delight.
Nothing can be more unjust than to
confound these outpourings of a kind
heart, sure of perfect sympathy, with
the egotism of a blue-stocking, Avho
prates to all who come near her about
her own novel or her own volume of
sonnets.

It was natural that the ti'iumphant
issue of Miss Burney's first venture
should tempt her to try a second.
Evelina, though it had raised her fame,
had added nothing to her fortune.
Some of her friends lU'ged her to write
for the stage. Johnson promised to
give her his advice as to the composi-
tion. Murphy, who was supposed to
understand the temper of the pit as
well as any man of his time, undertook
to instruct her as to stage effect.
Sheridan declared that he would ac
cejit a play from her without eveu
reading it. Thus encouraged she Avrote
a comedy named The Witlings. For-
tunately it was never acted or printed.
We can, we think, easily perceive fi'om
the little which is said on the subject
in the Diary, that The Witlings
would have been damned, and that
Murphy and Sheridan thought so,
though they were too polite to say so.
Happily Frances had a friend who was
not afraid to give her pain. Crisp,
wiser for her than he had been, for
himself, read the manuscript in his
lonely retreat, and manfully told her
that she had failed, that to remove

MADAME DAEBLAr.

147

blemishes here and there would be
useless, that the piece had abundance
of ■wdt but no interest, that it was bad
as a whole, that it would remind every
reader of the Feiames Savantes, which,
strange to say, she had never read, and
that she could not sustain so close a
comparison with Moliere. This opin-
ion, in which Dr. Burney concurred,
was sent to Frances in what she called
" a hissing, groaning, cat-calling epis-
tle." But she had too much sense not
to know that it was better to be hissed
and cat-called by her Daddy, than by
a whole sea of heads in the pit of Dru-
ry-Lane Theatre ; and she had too good
a heart not to be grateful for so rare
an act of fi-iendship. She returned an
answer which shows how well she
deserved to have a judicious, fiiithful,
and aifectionate adviser. "I intend,"
she wrote, " to console myself for your
censure, by this greatest proof I hare
ever received of the sincerity, candor,
and, let me add, esteem, of my dear
daddy. And as I happen to love my-
self rather more than my play, this
consolation is not a very trifling one.
This, however, seriously I do believe,
that when my two daddies j)ut their
heads together to concert that hissing,
groaning, cat-calling epistle they sent
me, they felt as sorry for poor little
Miss Bayes as she could j)ossibly do
for herself. You see I do not attempt
to repay youi* frankness with the air
of pretended carelessness. But, though
somewhat disconcerted just now, I
will promise not to let my vexation
live out another day. Adieu, my
dear daddy ! I won't lie mortified,
and I won't be dorcned; but I will be
proud to find I have, out of my own

family, as well as in it, a fi-iend who
loves me well enough to speak plain
truth to me."

Frances now turned fi'om her dra-
matic schemes to an undertaking far
better suited to her talents. She de-
tei'mined to wi'ite a new tale, on a plan
excellently contrived for the display
of the powers in which her superiority
to other writers lay. It was in truth
a grand and various picture-gallery,
which presented to the eye a long se-
ries of men and women, each marked
by some strong peculiar feature. There
were avarice and prodigality, the pride
of blood and the pride of money, mor-
bid restlessness and morbid apathy,
frivolous garrulity, supercilious silence,
a Democritus to laugh at everything,
and a Heraclitus to lament over every-
thing. The work proceeded fast, and
in twelve months was completed. It
wanted something of the simplicity
which had been amongst the most at-
tractive charms of Evelina ; but it fur-
nished ample proof that the four years
which had elapsed since Evelina ap-
peared, had not been unprofitably spent.
Those who saw Cecilia in manuscript
pronounced it the best novel of the age
Mrs. Thrale laughed and wept over it
Crisp was even vehement in applause,
and offered to insure the rajjid and
complete success of the book for half a
crown. What Miss Burney received
for the copyright is not mentioned in
the Diary ; but we have observed seve-
ral expressions from which we infer
that the sum was considerable. That
the sale would be great nobody could
doubt ; and Frances now had shrewd
and experienced advisers, who would
not suffer her to wrong herself. We

148

MADAME D'ARBLAY.

have been told that the publishers gave
her two thousand pounds, and we have
uo doubt that they might have given
a still larger sum without being losers.
Cecilia was published in the summer
of 1782. The curiosity of the town
was intense. We have been informed
by persons who remember those days,
that no romance of Sir Walter Scott
was more impatiently awaited, or more
eagerly snatched from the counters of
the booksellers. High as public ex-
pectation was, it was amply satisfied ;
and Cecilia was placed, by general ac-
clamation, among the classical novels
of England.

Miss Burney was now thirty. Her
youth had been singularly prosperous ;
but clouds soon began to gather over
that clear and radiant dawn. Events
deeply painful to a heart so kind as
that of Frances, followed each other in
rapid succession. She was first called
upon to attend the death-bed of her
best friend, Samuel Crisp. When she
returned to St. Martin's Street, after
performing this melancholy duty, she
was appalled by hearing that Johnson
had been struck with paralysis ; and,
not many months later, she parted from
him for the last time with solemn ten-
derness. He wished to look on her
once more ; and on the day before his
death she long remained in tears on
the stairs leading to his bed-room, in
the hope that she might be called in
to receive his blessinir. But he was
then sinking fast, and, though he sent
her an affectionate message, was unable
to see her. But this was not the worst.
There are separations far more cruel
than those which are made by death.
Frances might weep with proud affec-

tion for Crisp and Johnson. She had
to blush as well as to weep for Mrs.
Thrale. Life, however, still smiled
upon her. Domestic happiness, friend
ship, independence, leisure, letters, all
these things were hers ; and she flung
them all away.

Among the distinguished persons to
whom Miss Burney had been intro-
duced, none appears to have stood
higher in her regard than Mrs. Delany.
This lady was an interesting and ven-
erable relic of a past age. She was
the niece of George Granville Lord
Lansdowne, who, in his youth, ex-
changed verses and compliments with
Edmund Waller, and who was among
the first to applaud the opening talents
of Pope. She had married Dr. Delany,
a man known to his contemporaries as
a profound scholar and an eloquent
preacher, but remembered in our time
chiefly as one of the small circle in
^v'hich the fierce spirit of Swift, tor
tured by disappointed ambition, by
remorse, and by the approaches of mad
ness, sought for amusement and repose.
Doctor Delany had long been dead.
His widow, nobly descended, eminent-
ly accomplished and retaining, in spite
of the infirmities of advanced age, the
vigor of her faculties and the serenity
of her temper, enjoyed and deserved
the favor of the royal family. She had
a pension of three hundred a-year ; and
a house at Windsor, belono-iug; to the
crown, had been fitted up for her ac-
commodation. At this house the king
and queen sometimes called, and found
a very natural pleasure in thus catcb
ing an occasional glimpse of the pri
vate life of English families.

In December, 1785, Miss Burney was

MADAME D'AEBLAY,

149

on a visit to Mrs. Delany at Windsor.
The dinner was over. Tlie old lady
was taking a nap. Her grand-niece, a
little girl of seven, was playing at some
Christmas game with the visitors, when
the door opened, and a stout gentle-
man entered unannounced, with a star
on his Lreast, and " What ? what ?
what 1 " in his mouth. A cry of " The
king " was set up. A general scam-
pering followed. Miss Burney owns
that she could not have been more ter-
rified if she had seen a ghost. But Mrs.
Delany came forward to pay her duty
to her royal friend, and the disturbance
was quieted. Frances was then pre-
sented, and underwent a long examina-
tion and cross-examination about all
that she had written and all that she
meant to write. The queen soon made
her appearance, and his majesty re23eat-
ed, for the benefit of his consort, the in-
formation which he had extracted from
Miss Burney. The good-nature of the
royal pair could not but be delightful
to a young lady who had been brought
up a tory. In a few days the visit was
repeated. Miss Burney was more at
ease than before. His majesty, instead
of seeking for information, condescend-
ed to impart it, and passed sentence on
many great writers, English and for-
eign. Voltaire he pronounced a mon-
ster. Rousseau he likedr ather better.
" But was there ever," he cried, " such
stufi^ as great part of Shakesjjeare ?
Only one must not say so. But what
think you ? ' What ? Is there not sad
stuft'? What? What?"

The truth is, that Frances was fasci-
nated by the condescending kindness
of the two great personages to whom
she had been presented. Her father

was even more infatuated than herself,
A German lady of the name of Hagger-
dorn, one of the keepers of the queen's
robes, retired about this time ; and her
majesty offered the vacant post to Miss
Burney. When we consider that Miss
Burney was decidedly the most popu-
lar writer of fictitious narrative then
living, that competence, if not opu-
lence, was within her reach, and that
she was more than usually happy in
her domestic circle, and when we com-
pare the sacrifice which she was invited
to make with the remuneration which
was held out to her, we are divided be-
tween laughter and indignation. What
was demanded of her was, that she
should consent to be almost as com-
pletely separated from her family and
friends as if she had gone to Calcutta,
and almost as close a prisoner as if she
had been sent to jail for a libel ; that
with talents which had instructed and
delighted the highest living minds, she
should now be employed only in mix-
ing snuff and sticking pins; that she
should be summoned by a waiting- wo-
man's bell to a waiting-woman's duties ;
that she should pass her whole life un-
der the restraints of a paltry etiquette,
should sometimes fast till she was ready
to swoon with hunger, should some-
times stand till her knees gave way
with fatigue ; that she should not dare
to speak or move without considering
how her mistress might like her words
and gestures. Instead of those distin-
guished men and women, the flower of
all political parties, with whom she had
been in the ha])it of mixiuo; on terms
of equal friendship, she was to have
for her perpetual companion the chief
keeper of the robes, an old hag from

150

MADAME D'ARBLAY.

Germany, of mean understanding, of
insolent manners, and of temper which,
naturally savage, had now been exas-
perated by disease. Now and then,
indeed, poor Frances might console her-
self for the loss of Burke's and Wind-
ham's society, by joining in the " ce-
lestial colloquy sublime" of his ma-
jesty's equerries.

And what was the consideration for
which she was to sell herself into sla-
very ? A peerage in her own right ?
A pension of two thousand a-year for
life ? A seventy-four for her brother
in the navy ? A deanery for her brother
in the church ? Not so. The price at
which she was valued was her board,
her lodging, the attendance of a man-
servant, and two hundred pounds a-
year. The man who, even when hard
pressed by hunger, sells his birthright
for a mess of pottage, is unwise. But
what shall we say of him who parts
with his birthright, and does not get
even the pottage in return ? It is not
necessary to inquire whether opulence
be an adequate compensation for the
sacrifice of bodily and mental freedom ;
for Frances Burney paid for leave to
be a prisoner and menial. It was evi-
dently understood as one of the terms
of her engagement, that, while she was
a member of the royal household, she
was not to appear before the public as
an author : and, even had there been
no such understanding, her avocations
were such as left her no leisure for any
considerable intellectual effort.

It is not strange indeed that an in-
vitation to court should have caused a
fluttering in the bosom of an inexperi-
enced woman. But it was the duty of
the parent to watch over the child, and

to show her that on the one side were
only infantine vanities and chimerical
hopes, on the other liberty, peace of
mind, affluence, social enjoyments, hon-
orable distinctions. Strange to say,
the only hesitation was on the part of
Frances. Dr. Burney was transported
out of himself with delight. Not such
are the raptures of a Circassian father
who has sold his pretty daughter well
to a Turkish slave-merchant. Yet Dr.
Burney was an amiable man, a man of
good abilities, a man who had seen
much of the world. But he seems to
have thought that going to court was
like going to heaven: that to see
princes and princesses was a kind of
beatific vision ; that the exquisite fe-
licity enjoyed by royal persons was
not confined to themselves, but was
communicated by some mysterious ef-
flux or reflection to all M^ho were suf-
fered to stand at their toilettes, or to
bear their trains. He overruled all
his daughter's objections, and himself
escorted her to her prison. The door
closed. The key was turned. She,
looking back with tender regret on all
that she had left, and forward with
anxiety and terror to the new life on
which she was entering, was unable to
speak or stand ; and he went on his
way homeward rejoicing in her marvel-
ous prosperity.

And now began a slavery of five
years, of five years taken from the best
part of life, and wasted in menial
drudgery or in recreations duller than
even menial druggery, under galling
restraints and amidst unfriendly or un-
interesting companions. The history
of an ordinary day was this : Miss Bur
ney had to rise and dress herself eai'ly,

irADAME D'AEELAY.

151

that slie might he ready to answer the
royal bell,which rang at half-after seven.
Till about eio-ht she attended in the
queen's dressing-room, and had the
honor of lacing her august mistress's
stays, and of piitting on the hoop,
sown, and neck-handkei'chief. The
morning was chiefly spent in mmma-
ging drawers and laying fine clothes
in their proper places. Then the queen
was to be powdered and dressed for
the day. Twice a week her majesty's
hair was curled and craped ; and this
operation appears to have added a full
hour to the business of the toilette. It
was generally three before Miss Bar-
ney was at liberty. Then she had two
hours at her own disposal. To these
hours we owe great part of her diary.
At five she had to attend her colleague,
Madame Schwellenberg, a hateful old
toad-eater, as illiterate as a chamber-
maid, as proud as a whole German
Chapter, rude, peevish, una,l)le to bear
solitude, unable to conduct herself with
common decency in society. With this
delightful associate Frances Burney
had to dine, and pass the evening. The
pair generally remained together from
five to eleven ; and often had no other
company the whole time, except during
the hour from eight to nine, when the
equerries came to tea. If poor Frances
attemped to escape to her own apart-
ment, and to forget her wretchedness
over a book, the execrable old woman
railed and stormed, and complained
that she was neglected. Yet, when
Frances stayed, she was constantly as-
sailed with insolent reproaches. Lite-
rary fame was, in the eyes of the Ger-
man crone, a blemish, a proof that the
person who enjoyed it was meanly born.

and out of the pale of good society.
All her scanty stock of broken English
was employed to express the contempt
with which she regarded the author of
Evelina and Cecilia. Frances detested
cards, and indeed knew nothing about
them; but she soon found that the
least miserable way of passing an even-
ing with Madame Schwellenberg was
at the card-table, and consented, with
patient sadness, to give hours, which
might have called forth the laughter
and the tears of many generations, to
the king of clubs and the knave of
spades. Between eleven and twelve
the bell rang again. Miss Burney had
to pass twenty minutes or half an hour
in undressing the queen, and was then
at liberty to retire, and dream that she
was chatting with her brother by the
quiet hearth in St. Martin's Street,
that she was the centre of an admiring
assembly at Mrs. Crewe's, that Burke
was calling her the first woman of the
age, or that Dilly was giving her a
check for two thousand guineas.

Now and then, indeed, events oc-
cuiTed which disturbed the wretched
monotony of Frances Burney's life.
The court moved from Kew to Wind-
sor and fi'om Windsor back to Kew.
One dull colonel went out of waitins;
and another dull colonel came into
waiting. An impertinent servant made
a blunder about tea, and caused a mis-
understanding between the gentlemen
and the ladies. A half-witted French
Protestant minister talked oddly about
conjugal fidelity. An unlucky mem-
ber of the household mentioned a pas-
sage in the "Morning Herald" reflecting
on the queen, and forthwith Madame
Schwellenberg began to storm in bad

152

MADAME D'ARBLAY.

Englisli, and told him that he made
her " what you call i:)er.sj)ire."

A more importance occurrence was
the royal visit to Oxford. Miss Bur-
ney went in the queen's train to Nune-
ham, was utterly neglected there in the
crowd, and could with difficulty find a
servant to show the way to her bed-
room, or a hair-dresser to arrange her
curls. She had the honor of entering
Oxford in the last of a long string of
carriages which formed the royal pro-
cession, of walking after the queen all
day through refectories and chapels,
and of standing, half-dead with fatigue
and hunger, while her august mistress
was seated at an excellent cold colla-
tion. At Magdalene College, Frances
was left for a moment in a j^arlor, where
she sank down on a chair. A good-natur-
ed equerry saw that she Avas exhausted,
and shared with her some apricots and
bread, which he had wisely put into
his pockets. At that moment the
door opened; the queen entered; the
wearied attendants sprang up ; the
bread and fruit were hastily conceal-
ed. " I found," says poor Miss Bur-
ney, " that our appetites were to be
supi^osed annihilated, at the same
moment that our strength was to be
invincible."

Yet Oxford, seen even under such
disadvantages, " revived in her," to use
her own words, "a consciousness to
pleasure which had long lain nearly
dormant." She foi"got, during one mo-
ment, that she was a waiting maid, and
felt as a woman of true renins mis-ht
be expected to feel amidst venerable
remains of antiquity, beautiful works
of art, vast repositories of knowledge,
and memorials of the illustrious dead.

Had she still been what she was be
fore her father induced her take the
most fatal step of her life, we can eas-
ily imagine what pleasure she would
have derived fi'om a visit to the no-
blest of English cities. She might, in-
deed, have been forced to travel back
in a hack-chaise, and might not have
worn so fine a gown of Chambery gauze
as that in which she tottered after the
royal party; but with what delight
would she have then paced the clois-
ters of Magdalene, compared the an-
tique gloom of Merton with the splen-
dor of Christ Church, and looked down
from the dome of the RadclifFe library
on the magnificent sea of turrets and
battlements below ! How gladly would
learned men have laid aside for a few
hours Pindar's Odes and Aristotle's
Ethics, to escort the author of Cecilia
from college to college ? What neat
little banquets would she have found
set out in their monastic cells ? With
what eagerness would pictures, med
als, and illuminated missals have been
brought forth from the most myste-
rious cabinets for her amusement ? How
much she would have had to hear and
to tell about Johnson as she walked
over Pembroke, and about Reynolds
in the ante chapel of New College ?
But these indulgences were not for
one who had sold herself into bond-

age.

The account which she has s-iven of
the king's illness contains much ex-
cellent narrative and description, and
will, we think, be more valued by
the historians of a future age than
any equal portion of Pepys' or Eve-
lyn's Diaries. That account shows, al-
so, how affectionate and compassionate

MADAME D'AKBLAr.

153

her uatui'e was. But it shows also,
we must say, that lier way of life was
rapidly impairing her powers of rea-
soning, and her sense of justice.

During more than two years after
tlie king's recovery, Frances dragged
on a miserable existence at the palace.
The consolations which had for a time
mitisrated the wretchedness of servi-
tude, were one by one withdrawn. Mrs.
Delany, whose society had been a great
resoui'ce when the court was at Wind-
sor, was now dead. One of the gen-
tlemen of the royal establishment, Col-
onel Digby, appears to have been a man
of sense, of taste, of some reading, and
of prepossessing manners. Agi*eeable
associates were scarce in the prison-
house, and he and Miss Burney were
therefore naturally attached to each
other. She owns that she valued him
as a friend; and it would not have
been strange if his attentions had led
her to entertain for him a sentiment
warmer than friendshij). He quitted
the court, and married in a way which
astonished Miss Burney greatly, and
which evidently wounded her feelings,
and lowered him in her esteem. The
palace grew duller and duller; Mad-
ame Schwellenberg became more and
more savage and insolent. And now
the health of poor Frances began to
give way; and all who saw her pale
face, her emaciated figure, and her fee-
ble walk, predicted that her sirfferings
would soon be over.

Frances imif oiTaly speaks of her roy-
al mistress, and of the princesses, with
respect and affection. The princesses
seem to have well deserved all the
2")raise which is bestowed on them in
the Diary. They were, we doubt not,
20

most amiable women. But " the sweet
queen," as she is constantly called in
these volumes, is not by any means an
object of admiration to us. She had
undoubtedly sense enough to know
what kind of deportment suited her
high station, and self-command enough
to maintain that deportment invariar
bly. She was, in her intercourse with
Miss Burney, generally gracious and
affable, sometimes, when displeased,
cold and reserved, but never, under
any circumstances, rude, peevish or
violent. She knew how to dispense,
gracefully and skilfully, those little
civilities which, when paid by a sover-
eign, are prized at many times their
intrinsic value ; how to pay a compli-
ment; how to lend a book; how to
ask after a relation. But she seems to
have been utterly regardless of the
comfort, the health, the life of her at-
tendants, when her own convenience
was concerned. Weak, feverish, hard-
ly able to stand, Frances had still to
rise before seven, in order to dress the
sweet queen, and to sit up till mid-
night in order to undress the sweet
queen. The indisposition of the nand-
maid could not, and did not, escajje the
notice of her royal mistress. But the
established doctrine of the court was,
that all sickness was to be considered
as a pretence until it proved fatal. The
only way in which the invalid could
clear herself from the suspicion of ma-
lingering, as it is called in the army,
was to go on lacing and unlacing, till
she dropped do\vn dead at the royal
feet. " This," Miss Burney wrote, when
she was suffering cruelly from sickness,
watching, and labor, " is by no means
from hardness of heart ; far otherwise.

154

MADAME D'ARBLAT.

There is no hardness of heart in any
one of them ; but it is prejudice, and
want of personal experience."

Many strangers sympathized with
the bodily and mental suiierings of
this distinguished -woman. All who
saw her, saw that her fi-ame was sink-
ing, that her heart was breaking. The
last, it should seem, to observe the
change was her father. At length, in
spite of himself, his eyes were opened.
In May, 1790, his daughter had an in-
terview of three hours with him, the
only long interview which they had
had since he took her to Windsor in
1786. She told him that she was
miserable, that she was worn with at-
tendance and want of sleep, that she
had no comfort in life, nothing to love,
nothing to hope, that her family and
friends were to her as though they
were not, and were remembered by her
as men remember the dead. From day-
break to midnight the same killing
labor, the same recreations, more hate-
ful than labor itself, followed each
other without variety, without any in-
terval of liberty and repose.

The Doctor was greatly dejected by
this news ; but was too good-natured a
man not to say that, if she wished to
resign, his house and arms were open to
her. Still, however, he could not bear
to remove her from the court. His
veneration for royalty amounted in
truth to idolatry. It can be compared
only to the grovelling superstition of
those Syi'ian devotees, who made their
children pass through the fire to Mo-
loch. When he induced his daughter
to accept the place of keeper of the
robes, he entertained, as she tells us,
a hope that some worldly advantage

or other, not set down in the contract
of service, would be the result of her
connection with the court. What ad-
vantage he expected we do not know,
nor did he probably know himself.
But, whatever he expected, he certain-
ly got nothing. Miss Bumey had been
hired for board, lodging, and two hun-
dred a-year. Board, lodging, and two
hundred a-year, she had only received.
We have looked carefully through the
diary, in the hope of finding some
trace of those extraordinary benefac-
tions on which the Doctor reckoned.
But we can discover only a promise,
never performed, of a gown ; and for
this promise Miss Burney was expected
to return thanks, such as might have
suited the beggar with whom St. Mar-
tin, in the legend, divided his cloak.
The experience of four years was, how-
ever, insufficient to dispel the illusion
which had taken possession of the Doc-
tor's mind ; and, between the dear
father and the sweet queen, there
seemed to be little doubt that some
day or other Frances would drop doven
a corpse. Six months had elapsed
since the interview between the parent
and the daughter. The resignation
was not sent in. The suff'erer grew
worse and worse. She took bark ; but
it soon ceased to produce a beneficial
effect. She was stimulated with wine ;
she was soothed with opium; but in
vain. Her breath began to fail. The
whisper that she was in a decline
spread through the court. The pains
in her side became so severe that she
was forced to crawl from the card-table
of the old fury to whom she was teth-
tred, three or four times in an evening,
for the purpose of taking hartshorn

MADAME D'AEBLAY.

155

Had she been a negro slave, a humane
planter would have excused her from
work. But her majesty showed no
mercy. Thrice a day the accursed bell
still rang ; the queen was still to be
dressed for the morning at seven, and
to be dressed for the day at noon, and
to be undressed at eleven at night.

But there had arisen, in literary and
fashionable society, a general feeling
of compassion for Miss Buruey, and of
indignation aa-ainst both her father
and the queen. " Is it possible," said
a great French lady to the Doctor,
" that your daughter is in a situation
where she is never allowed a holiday ? "
Horace Walpole wrote to Frances to
express his sympathy. Boswell, boil-
ing over with good-natured rage, al-
most forced an entrance into the palace
to see her. " My dear ma'am, why do
you stay? It won't do, ma'am; you
must resign. We can jjut up with it
no longer. Some very violent measures,
I assure you, will be taken. We shall
address Dr. Burney in a body." Burke
and Reynolds, though less noisy, were
zealous in the same cause. Windham
spoke to Dr. Burney ; but found him
still irresolute. " I will set the Lite-
rary Club upon him," cried Windham ;
" Miss Burney has some very true ad-
mirers there, and I am sure they will
eagerly assist." Indeed the Burney
family seem to have been apprehensive
that some public affront, such as the
Doctor's unpardonable folly, to use
the mildest term, had richly deserved,
would be put upon him. The medical
men spoke out, and plainly told him
that his daughter must resign or die.

At last, paternal alfection, medical
authority, and the voice of all London

crying shame, triumphed over Dr. Bur-
ney's love of courts. He determined
that Frances should wi'ite a letter of
resignation. It was with difficulty
that, though her life was at stake, she
mustered spirit to put the paper into
the queen's hands. " I could not," so
runs the diary, " summon courage to
present my memorial — my heart always
failed me from seeing the queen's en-
tire freedom from such an expectation.
For, though I was frequently so ill in
her presence that I could hardly stand,
I saw she concluded me, while life re-
mained, inevitably hers."

At last, with a trembling hand the
paper was delivered. Then came the
storm. Juno, as in the ^neid, dele-
gated the work of vengeance to Alecto.
The queen was calm and gentle ; but
Madame Schwellenberg raved like a
maniac in the incurable ward of Bed-
lam. Such insolence ! Such ingrati-
tude ! Such folly ! Would Miss Bur-
ney bring utter destruction on herself
and her family? Would she throw
away the inestimable advantage of
royal protection? Would she part
with the privileges which, once relin-
quished, could never be regained ? It
was idle to talk of health and life. If
people could not live in the palace, the
best thing that could befall them was
to die in it. The resignation was not
accepted. The language of the medi-
cal men became stronger and stronger.
Doctor Burney's parental fears were
fully roused; and he explicitly de-
clared, in a letter meant to be shown
to the queen, that his daughter must
retire. The Schwellenberg raved like
a wild-cat. " A scene almost horrible
ensued," says Miss Burney. " She waa

156

MADAME D'AEBLAT.

too mucli enraged for disguise, and ut-
tered the most furious expressions of
indignant contempt at our proceedings.
I am sure she would gladly have con-
fined us both in the Bastile, had Eng-
land such a misery, as a fit place to
bring us to ourselves, fi-om a daring so
outrageous against imperial wishes."
This passage deserves notice, as being
the only one in the diary, as far as we
have observed, which shows Miss Bur-
aey to have been aware that she was a
native of a ft'ee country, that she could
not be pressed for a waiting-maid
against her will, and that she had just
as good a right to live, if she chose, in
St. Martin's Street, as Queen Charlotte
had to live at St. James'.

The queen promised that, after the
next birth-day. Miss Burney should be
set at liberty. But the promise was
ill kept ; and her majesty showed
displeasure at being reminded of it.
At length Frances was informed
that in a fortnight her attendance
should cease. " I heard this, " she says,
" with a fearful presentiment I should
surely never go through another fort-
night, in so weak and languishing and
painful a state of health. . . As
the time approached, the queen's cor.
diality rather diminished, and traces
of internal displeasure appeared some-
times, arising from an opinion I ought
rather to have struggled on, live or die,
than to quit her. Yet I am sure she
saw how poor was my own chance
except by a change in the mode of
life, and at least ceased to wonder,
though she could not approve." Sweet
queen ! What noble candor, to ad-
mit that the undutifulness of people
who did not think the honor of ad-

justing her tuckers worth the sacrifice
of their own lives, was, though highly
criminal, not altogether imnatural !

We perfectly understand her ma-
jesty's contempt for the lives of others
where her own pleasure was concerned.
But what pleasure she can have found
in having Miss Burney about her, it
is not so easy to comprehend. That
Miss Bui-ney was an eminently skilful
keeper of the robes is not very prob
able. Few women, indeed, had paid
less attention to dress. Now and then
in the course of five years, she had
been asked to read aloud or to write a
copy of verses. But better readers
might easily have been found; and
her verses were worse than even the
Poet-Laureate's Birth-day Odes. Per-
haps that economy which was among
her majesty's most conspicuous virtues,
had something to do with her conduct
on this occasion. Miss Burney had
never hinted that she expected a re-
tiring pension ; and indeed would
gladly have given the little that she
had for freedom. But her majesty
knew what the public thought, and
what became her dignity. She could
not for very shame suffer a woman of
distinguished genius, who had quitted
a lucrative career to wait on her, who
had served her faithfully for a pit-
tance during five years, and whose
constitution had been impaired by la-
bor and watching, to leave the court
without some mark of royal liberality.
George the Third, who, on all occa-
sions where Miss Burney was concern-
ed, seems to have behaved like an
honest good-natui-ed gentleman, felt
this, and said plainly that she was en-
titled to a provision. At length, in re-

MADAME D'AEBLAY.

157

turn for all the misery which she had
uiidersrone, and for the health which
she had sacrificed, an annuity of one
hundred ^jounds was granted to her,
dependent on the queen's pleasure.

Then the prison was opened, and
Frances was free once more. Johnson,
as Burke observed, might have added
a striking page to his poem on the
Vanity of Human Wishes, if he had
lived to see his little Burney as she
went into the palace and as she came
out of it.

The pleasures, so long untasted, of
liberty, of friendship, of domestic af-
fection, were almost too acute for her
shattered frame. But hajipy days and
tranquil nights soon restored the
health which the queen's toilette and
Madame Schwellenberg's card-table
had impaired. Kind and anxious faces
surrounded the invalid. Conversation
the most polished and brilliant revived
her spirits. Traveling was recom-
mended to her ; and she rambled by
easy journeys from cathedral to cathe-
dral, and from watering-place to wa-
tering-place. She crossed the New
Forest, and visited Stonehenge and
Wilton, the cliffs of Lyme, and the
beautiful valley of Sidmouth. Thence
she journeyed by Powderham Castle,
and by the ruins of Glastonbury Ab-
bey, to Bath, and from Bath, when the
winter was approaching, retui'ned well
and cheerful to London. There she
visited her old dungeon, and found
her successor already far on the way
to the grave, and kept to strict duty,
from morning till midnight, with a
sprained ankle and a nervous fever.

At this time England swarmed with
French exiles driven from their coun-

try by the revolution, A colony of
these refugees settled at Juniper Hall,
in Surrey, not far from Norbury Park,
where, Mr. Lock, an intimate friend
of the Burney family, resided. Frances
visited Norbury, and was introduced
to the strangers. She had strong pre-
judices against them; for her toryism
was far beyond, we do not say that of
Mr. Pitt, but that of Mr. Eeeves ; and
the inmates of Juniper Hall were all
attached to the constitution of 1791,
and were therefore more detested by
the royalists of the first emigration
than Petion or Marat. But such a wo-
man as Miss Burney could not long re-
sist the fascination of that remarkable
society. She had lived with Johnson
and Windham, with Mrs. Montagu and
Mrs. Thrale. Yet she was forced to
own that she had never heard conver-
sation before. The most animated elo-
quence, the keenest observation, the
most sparkling wit, the most courtly
grace, were united to charm her. For
Madame de Stael was there, and M. de
Talleyrand. There too was M. de Nar-
bonne, a noble representative of French
aristocracy ; and \^ath M. de Narbonne
was his friend and follower General
D'Arblay, an honorable and amiable
man, with a handsome person, frank,
soldier-like manners, and some taste
for letters.

The prejudices which Frances had
conceived against the constitutional
royalists of France rapidly vanished.
She listened with rapture to Talley
rand and Madame de Stael, joined with
M. D'Arblay in execrating the Jaco-
bins, and in weeping for the unhappy
Bourbons, took French lessons fi'om
him, fell in love with him, and mar

158

MADAME D'AKBLAY.

ried him on no Letter provision than
a precarious annuity of one hundred
pounds.

M. D'Arl)lay's fortune had perished
in the general wreck of the French
Revolution ; and in a foreign country
his talents, whatever they may have
been, could scarcely make him rich.
The task of providing for the fam-
ily devolved on his wife. In the
year 1796, she published by subscrip-
tion her third novel, Camilla. It was
impatiently expected by the public ;
and the sum which she obtained by it
was, we believe, greater than had at
that time been received for a novel.
Camilla, however, never attained pop-
ularity like that which Evelina and
Cecilia had enjoyed ; and it must be
allowed that there was a perceptible
falling off, not indeed in humor, or in
power of portraying character, but in
grace and in purity of style.

During the short time which follow-
ed the treaty of Amiens, M. D'Arblay
visited France. Lauriston and Lafay-
ette represented his claims to the
French government, and obtained a
promise that he should be reinstated
in his military rank. M. D'Arblay,
however, insisted that he should never
be required to serve against the coun-
trymen of his wife. The first consul, of
course, could not hear of such a condi-
tion; and ordered the general's com-
mission to be instantly revoked.

Madame D'Arblay joined her hus-
band at Paris a short time before the
v/ar of 1803 broke out; and remained

in France ten years, cut off from almost
all intercourse with the land of her
birth. At length, when Napoleon was
on his march to Moscow, she with great
difliculty obtained from his ministers
permission to visit her own country,
in company with her son, who was a
native of England. She returned in
time to receive the last blessing of her
father, who died in his eighty-seventh
year. In 1814 she published her last
novel, the Wanderer, a book which no
judicious friend to her memory will at-
tempt to draw from the oblivion into
which it has justly fallen. In the same
year her son Alexander was sent to
Cambridge. He obtained an honoral)le
place among the wranglers of his year,
and was elected a fellow of Christ's
College. But his reputation at the
University was higher than might be
inferred from his success in academical
contests. His French education had
not fitted him for the examinations of
the Senate-House ; but in pure mathe-
matics, we have been assured hj some
of his competitors that he had very
few equals. He went into the church,
and it was thought likely that he
would attain high eminence as a
preacher; but he died before his
mother. All that we have heard of
him leads us to believe, that he was
such a son as such a mother deserved
to have. In 1832, Madame D'Arblay
published the " Memoirs of her Fa-
ther ; " and, on the 6th of Januaiy,
1840, she died in her eighty-eighth
year.

EDMUND BURKE.

SETTING aside the suggestion of a
descent from the noble Norman
family of De Burgh, which settled in
Ireland in the reign of Henry the
Second, as unsupported by any satis-
factory evidence, the family of Edmund
Burke may be traced to a mayor of
the city of Limerick of some historic
reputation in the troublous scenes of
the parliamentary contest with Charles
the First. This was the great grand-
father of Edmund. He was on the
royal side in the struggle and conse-
quently suffered in fortune. His
grandson Richard, a Protestant, mar-
ried a Miss Nagle, of a respectable
Catholic family of the county of Cork.
He was bred as an attorney, and re-
moving from Limerick to Dublin be-
came engaged in a profitable practice
in that city. Here at his residence on
Arran Quay, then a fashionable quar-
ter of the town, his son Edmund was
born on the first of January (the 12th,
new style), 1728 — if we follow the re-
gister of Trinity College — a year also
memorable for its introduction of
Oliver Goldsmith into the world.
The date given by his biographer Prior
is 1730; his latest biographer, Mac-
knight, thinks that many difficulties

would be removed by placing it in
1729. In his childhood and early life
Edmund was of a delicate constitution,
being threatened with consumption.
Of his father's family of fourteen or
fifteen children all but four died young,
— an elder brother Garret ; Richard, the
celebrated London wit, the friend of
Goldsmith and immortalized in his
verses, and a sister Juliana, married to
a Mr. French, from whom are descended
any surviving representatives of the
family. In consequence of his ill
health Edmund was removed about
the age of six from the residence in
Dublin to the house of his maternal
grandfather at Castletown Roche, the
home of the Nagles, in the county of
Cork, a district famous for its his-
torical memories and its association
with the life of the poet Spenser, who
here from the Castle of Kilcolman
looked out upon the sceneiy which he
introduced in the Faery Queen. Spen-
ser was always a favorite with Burke,
and his eloquent biographer INIacknight
is inclined to trace something of the
influence of the poet upon his mind
and vpritings to this early acquaintance
with the name and fame of the bard
in this " main haunt and region of hia

(159)

160

EDMUXD BUEKE.

song,

" ((

The greatest of writers," is
his remark, " has said that a divinity
may ever be seen directing each indi-
vidual human life to its purposed end.
Who cannot discern it here? Read
amid the scenes in which it was wi'it-
ten, the Faery Queen could never be
forgotten ; and many a splendid sen-
tence and poetical allusion, which give
such a peculiar fascination to the driest
subject when treated by Burke, may
easily be traced to the bard of Kilcol-
man, whose mind was filled with such
noble visions of all that is l)eautiful in
humanity; who was, as his View of
the State of Ireland amply testifies, not
only a great poet, but also a true polit-
ical philosojjher, and who sufl'ered so
cruelly for his attachment to the coun-
try of his adoption." Of course, the
boy, if he read Spenser at all, could
not read as the man afterwards learned
to read ; but the exercise of the imag-
ination, natural to youth, must always
have had a peculiar fascination for
Burke, and who better than Spenser,
whose verse has inspired many poets,
to engage the attention, and to teach
the lesson to the infant mind of all
beauty, grace, tenderness in that fas-
cination of knightly adventure ?

It was an advantage to Burke that
so much of his boyhood was passed in
the country in the society of his kind
relatives. He was treated with indul-
gence and consideration, lived happily,
and always looked back upon this pe-
riod of his life with pleasure. His
mother had taught him to read and he
now attended the village school ; but
he was not pressed in his studies ;
nature and the simple enjoyable life
about him were his best instructors,

and the improvement of health his
most desirable achievement. Return-
ing to Dublin at the age of twelve, if
we accept the earliest date of his
birth, he passed a year at home, after
which he was placed with his brothers
Garret and Richard at a boarding-
school at Ballitore, a pretty village
about thirty miles south of the capi-
tal, in the county Kildare, established
by the members of the Society of
Friends who had settled at that place.
It was fortunate in the possession of
its first schoolmaster, Abraham Shack-
leton, a man of worth and learning,
ever held in great regard by Burke,
who once sounded his praises in the
House of Commons, declaring that he
had been educated as a Protestant of the
Chui'ch of England by a dissenter who
was an honor to his sect, though that
sect was considered one of the purest.
Under his eye he had read the Bible,
morning, noon and night, and had ever
since been the haj)pier and better man
for such reading. The boy Edmimd
took kindly to the good Quaker's in-
structions and studied diligently, read
much and j)rofited greatly by the inti-
macy which he formed with his pre-
ceptor's son Richard, who was his
correspondent in after years, and with
whom he cherished the most friendly
relations during a life which ended a
few years only before his own. It was
a school of liberal, generous ideas, that
academy at Ballitore, which was kept
up by the Shackleton family, in three
generations, father, son and grandson.
There is a story related by Prior of
Burke in these school-days which shows
" the child, the father of the man."
" Seeing a poor man pulling down Ms

EDMUND BUEKE.

161

own hut near the village, and hearing
that it was done by order of a great
gentleman in a gold-laced hat (the
parish conservator of the roads), upon
the plea of being too near the high-
way, the young philanthroj^ist, his
bosom swelling with indignation, ex-
clauned, that were he a man and pos-
sessed of authority, the poor should
not thus be oppressed." After nearly
two years at Ballitore, Burke left the
school to become a student of Trinity
College, Dublin. He carried with
him a fair training in the classics and
some skill in verse-making, encourag-
ed by rivalry with his friend, Richard
Shackleton, with whom about this
time he competed in the translation of
the Idyll of Theocritus on the death
of Adonis. He had also spent much
time in perusing with delight the old
romances, Palmerin of England, and
Don Belianis of Greece.

His college career, though not dis-
tinguished by any extraordinary aca-
demical honors or achievements in
scholarship, was characterized by reg-
ularity and a fair application of his
powers. He probably was no profi-
cient in Greek, but he must have made
a good general acquaintance with some
of the leading authors of that tongue,
Avhile he gave his admiration to the
Latin poets Virgil, Ovid and Horace,
and especially to the dramatic and
philosophical historian, Sallust. Meta-
physics he valued always rather for
their power of enriching the mind by
adding to its faculties of apprehen-
sion, than for the science itself. He
in turn a])})lied himself with zeal to
natural philosophy, logic and history,
and ended with poetry. Milton seems
21

to have attracted his attention moi-e
than Shakespeare, and he would seem
to have entered more heartily into the
enjoyment of the ^neid than of Ho-
mer. While at college he translated
in rhyme the panegyric of country
life at the close of the second Georgic
of Virgil, if not with peculiar poetic
felicity, certainlj^ with a creditable ap-
preciation of the original and of his
English model in Dryden. On one
occasion, in a Dublin literary society
of which he was a member, he was
applauded for his recitation of the
speech of Moloch in Paradise Lost.
He also attended the meetings of the
Historical Society, where politics were
discussed, and wrote two satirical arti-
cles, fi'om the government or conserva-
tive point of view, directed against
what he considered the overwrought
patriotic sentiments and doctrines of
the day. In 1748 he took his Bache-
lor's Degree at Trinity College, and
not long after proceeded to Lon^ion to
enroll himself as a student of the law
at the Middle Temple.

The law by no means engrossed the
whole of Burke's time during his
early years in London, which he was
expected by his father to devote to
the profession. He seems never to
have taken very kindly to it. His
mind was too much imbued with lit-
erature and philosophy to relish very
greatly its technical subtleties. He
knew shorter paths to learning, which
he esteemed of greater account. He
was too essentially moral and practi-
cal to get entangled in its obscure and
thorny intricacies. Hence while he
regarded it in its political and social
relations as " one of the first and no-

162

EDMUND BURKE.

blest of human sciences, doing more
to quicken and invigorate the under-
standi7Jig than all the other kinds of
learning put together," he thought it
" not apt, except in persons very hap-
pily born, to open and to liberalize
the mind exactly in the same propor-
tion." Indifferent health also came in
the way of any great exertions in
the study of the profession. We hear
of visits to different parts of England,
to Bristol and elsewhere ; while in Lon-
don, through his acquaintance with
Arthur Murphy, he is becoming famil-
iar with literary and dramatic life.*

An agreeable chapter could be writ-
ten regarding Burke's female acquaint-
ances, their virtues, their failings, and
their celebrity. There is Peg "Wof-
fiugton, the unfortunate actress, the
daughter of a poor grocer's widow on
Ormond Quay, Dublin, who fascinated
everybody who came within her reach,
and with whom young Edmund ex-
changed glances in the green-room of
Drury Lane. There is Mrs. Montague,
one of the most brilliant and accom-
plished women of her time, of great
wealth and of great kindness, whose
house was always open to men of let-
ters, and who, in 1759, took a real
pleasure in introducing the young au-
thor of the " Essay on the Sublime and
Beautiful" to her great friends. There
was Burke's good-natured country-

* For the remainder of this notice we are in-
debted to an appreciative article in the "North
British Review " based on Thomas Macknight's
eloquent ' ' History of the Life and Times of
Edmund Burke," to which as well as to " Ed-
mund Burke, a Historical Study," by Jolin
Morley (1869), the reader may be refeiTed for
the fullest presentation of the man and his
character in history.

woman, Mrs. Vesey, of Bolton Row
the friend and rival of Mrs. Montague,
who made all her guests at their ease,
and who was as full of L'ish frolic and
of t'ish bulls, as if she still flourished
on the banks of the Liffey. There
were the two model women of French
society in those days, Madame du Def-
fand and Mademoiselle de E'Esjiiuasse,
of whose class Sidney Smith once
said that they " outraged every law of
civilized society, and gave very pleas-
ant little suppers." Burke attended
those suppers when in Paris in 1773,
and listened to the wit and the athe-
ism that circled so freely round their
tables. Finance and philosophy, the
drama and the Contrat Social, D'Al-
embert and Diderot, Voltaire and
Eousseau, Helvetius and " le bon
David," — all were discussed, all were
made the subject of some jeu di'esprit.
Burke was disgusted with what he saw
of French society, and in his " French
Revolution " has held it up as a terri-
ble spectacle to all coming time.

But the young writer has gone to
his gaiTet with health, hope, and genius
on his side, and it will go hard with
hiin if he cannot wrins: from letters
what will supply his humble board.
As an ingenious decoy to the English
public, Burke brought out a pamj)hlet
entitled A Vindication of Natural
Society (1756), which he dexterously
ascribed to a late "noble writer."
Every one pronounced the brochure
Bolingbroke's. It was full of his in-
genious arsruments, it was full of his
bold assumptions, and it was his style
all over. But so high authorities as
Lord Chesterfield and Mr. Pitt had
pronounced Lord Bolingbroke's style

EDMUND BURKE.

163

"inimitable;" and here the most ac-
oomplislied man of fashion, and the
most brilliant orator of the age, were
both at fault, for it actually turned
out to be the work of a poor law stu-
dent of the Inner Temj^le. Hencefor-
ward Burhe had no need to enter the
lists with his visor down. This philo-
sophical satire placed his claims to lit-
erary recognition beyond all doubt,
and he was only following the dictates
of prudence or of policy when he
ventured before the public hereafter
anonymously. A few months after-
wards there appeared A Philosophical
Inquiry into the Origin of our Ideas
of the Sublime and Beautifiil. His
theory, that everything was beautiful
that possessed the power of relaxing
the nerves and fibres, and thus induc-
ing a certain degree of bodily languor
and sinking, is almost too grotesque
to be calmly commented on ; yet the
book is full of the most ingenious
observations on mental phenomena;
and, while comparatively cold and un-
impassioned in its style, it possesses,
nevertheless, many specimens of rare
illustration and most apt allusion,
charmino; the reader even when the
oddity of his postulate affronts the
reason, and does violence to the feel-

ings.

Towards the end of 1756, or early
in the succeeding year, Burke married
Miss Nugent, a countrywoman of his
own, the daughter of Di\ Nugent, a
physician in Bath. As this lady was
brought up a Roman Catholic, it was
probably this circumstance that gave
rise to some whispers respecting
Burke's alleged oscillation between
his own faith and hers. After her

marriage she joined the Church of
England, made to him one of the best
of wives, and sur^'ived him some fom'-
teen years. His father-in-law came up
shortly afterwards to London, and for
many years Burke found a home in
"Wimpole Street with this excellent
physician. In 1759 he became con-
nected with Dodsley the publisher,
with whom he engaged to write the
historical section of the Annual Reg-
ister for £100 a-year. For the next
fifteen years or so, his lucid mind can
be traced in its pages, giving order
and arrangement to its reports, and in-
fusing genius into its details. It was
during the same year that he was in-
troduced by Lord Charlemont to " Sin-
gle-speech " Hamilton, a selfish, crafty
Scot, of much more ability than he
generally gets credit for, who had a
seat at the Board of Trade and a resi-
dence at Hampton Court. Whatever
was the nature of Burke's connection
with this man — for it has not been
clearly defined — we are safe in assert-
ina: that it was in the manufacture of
ideas that the young writer was em-
ployed. He lived with Hamilton for
the next six years, and, after an irre-
concilable quarrel, the £300 of Irish
pension which the wily Hamilton had
procured for him, was throAvn up, and
Burke ttirned his back on " Single-
speech" forever.

Shortly after the Annual Register
was started, Burke met Johnson, for
the first time, at Garrick's table.
Johnson was close on fifty, and we find
the editor of the Register in 1759 re-
proaching the nation with having done
nothing for the author of Rasselas.
Gruff old Samuel seems to have tj>ken

164

EDMUND BUEKE.

immensely to Burke, and the violence
of his political views did not deter
him from recognizing and giving pub-
licity to his admiration of the Ii'ish-
man's worth and genius. The cele-
brated Club in Gerrard Street, of
►vhich Burke was one of the select
nine, was founded in 1764.

On the 17th of July, 1765, Burke
somehow got introduced to Lord
Rockingham, and became his private
secretary by the obliging services of
his friends William Burke and Wil-
liam Fitzherbert. This William Burke
was simply a kinsman of Edmund's,
though the latter frequently calls him
" cousin " in his correspondence. Wil-
liam likewise gained for him the ac-
quaintance of Lord Verney, from whom,
a few months afterwards, he received
the position of Member of Parliament
for the borough of Wendover, near
the foot of the Chiltern Hills. This
borough was a close one, under Lord
Verney's influence ; and in those days,
when as much as £9,000 was the price
j)aid for such a post, and £70,000 for
a county, Edmund Burke required to
thank those powers who had put it
into Verney's heart to be so liberal.
On the 26th of December, 1765, Burke
became member for Wendover ; on
the 14th of the following month he
entered Parliament ; and on the 27th
he made his maiden speech.

The Rockingham Whio-s had, the
previous year, replaced the incompe-
tent ministry of Grenville; and al-
though Lord Rockingham was an
excellent man, of sound integrity, of
great courage, an inflexible patriot, and
a disinterested politician, the House
of Commons was, nevertheless, in no

humor to listen to calm debate or to
impassioned harangue. The Araeri
can colonies came before the British
Parliament in a federal capacity ; and
it was on a question touching the com-
petency of the House of Commons to
receive such a petition, that Burke
first spoke. Pitt was understood to
favor the petition, and the Adminis-
tration considered the admission of it
an open question. The new member
argued, in a speech of much force and
beauty, that the presentation of such
a petition was of itself an acknowl-
edgement of the House's jurisdiction.
If Lord Rockingham had any fears for
the discretion and tact of his new
secretary, this maiden appearance of
his set such suspicions at rest forever.
The great Pitt was the first to rise and
bestow a warm encomium on the new
member.

Unlike the young aristoci'atic po-
litician of a former age, and, per
chance, also of this one, Burke did not
content himself with merely glancing
oyer the newspapers at his club of a
morning, before marching to duty : he
set himself vigorously to work, as only
he knew how, in analyzing the whole
work of government, and the complica-
ted interests of the British Empire.
In his successive appearances, he seems,
by universal testimony, to have taken
the House entirely by storm. Old men
and young men, able men and men less
able, trading politicians and soldiers
of fortune, — all spoke of his orations
with enthusiasm.

The Rockingham Whigs, after a
very short term of ofiice, had to re-
sign, and Pitt, who had recently been
raised to the peerage as Earl of Chat-

EDMUND BUEKE.

165

ham, again took the reins. But he did
not liold them long ; the Duke of Graf-
ton came into office in 1766, and was
succeeded by Lord North in 1770,
whose premiership lasted through the
American war down to 1782.

On the 19tli of April, 1774, on Mr.
Rose Fuller's motion that the House
would take into consideration the tax
of threepence per pound on tea import-
ed into the American colonies, Burke
gaA'e one of his noblest speeches on
American taxation. Dui'ing the deliv-
ery of this masterly oration, idle poli-
ticians, drawn thither by common re-
port, filled the lobbies and staircases
of the House. Loud cries of " Go on ! —
go on !" greeted the speaker, on his
pausing to ask if he tired gentlemen.
Members of all shades of political
opinion declared, enthusiastically, that
here was the most wonderful man they
had ever listened to, and the American
agents were with difficulty restrained
from hurrainof their admiration in the
gallery. So entirely and emphatically
had he got men's prejudices under for
the time by the force of his persuasive
voice, that the king and his crotchet of
taxing America were temporarily for-
gotten, and, even at the risk of being
regarded as personal enemies to his
majesty, adherents of the ministry
were known to join in the general
and irresistible burst of applause.

Perhaps the most perfect specimen
of Burke's oratory is to be found in
his great speech on administrative re-
form, delivered on the 11th of Febru-
ary, 1780. At the height of his pow-
ers, and in the full blaze of his fame, he
was likewise of more gentle temper
than he afterwards became. All Ens;.

land sang his praises. While difficul-
ty is good for man, as Burke himself
declared, there are occasions on which
sunshine is one of the most joyous
things on earth. He opened his ad-
dress by laying down the principles
on which a wise reform should be
founded, neither too liberal nor too
conservative, and then proceeded to
apply those principles.

The sound political wisdom wbich
keld the reins while the bold imagina-
tion went forward on the work of re-
form ; the alluring charms of poetical
illustration which clothed the past
with life, and the future with radiance ;
the brilliant flashes of wit whick
played up like electric coruscations
over the House; the condensed rea-
soning, the burning emotion, and the
fervid appeals to the most noble pas-
sions, rendered this speech the most
remarkable one in a small compass that
the orator ever delivered. For three
hours the audience was spell-bound.
Ministerialists, courtiers, sycophants,
amid tumultuous ckeers, bore testimo-
mony to the greatness of the success.
The historian. Gibbon, though a king's
friend, praised it ; and even Lord North
condescended to say of it that it had
excelled all he had ever heard in the
House.

Burke's prodigious labors in the
prosecution of Warren Hastings, for
his alleged cruelty to the Rohillas and
the Begums of Oude, formally began in
1784, and the actual trial commenced
in Westminster Hall in February, 1788.
The impeachment lasted nine days in
all, four of which were occupied with
the oratory of Burke. He opened his
charge in the presence of the most au-

106

EDMUND BURKE.

gust assemblage of rank and intellect
that perhaps ever met in Westminster
Hall to listen to any single speaker.
On the third day of the trial, which
was perhaps, rhetorically considered,
the most important, the speaker, with
the documents in his raised hands as a
testimony to heaven of the guilt of the
person charged, with streaming eyes
and with suffused countenance, related
how slow fires were made to inflict un-
mentionable tortures on tender wom-
en, how death met life at the very
gates and strangled it. His audience
could endure the agony no longer, and
burst out many of them into tears.
Mrs. Siddons confessed that all the ter-
rors and pity which she had ever wit-
nessed on the stage, sank into insignifi-
cance before the scene she had just be-
held. Mrs. Sheridan fainted; and the
stern Lord Chancellor Thurlow, who
always in the most headstrong way had
insisted on Hastings' innocence, was
observed for once in his life to shed a
tear. "This peroration," said Wind-
ham, himself an orator of great accom-
jilishments, as Burke closed his address,
" was the noblest ever uttered by man."
It may astonish not a few to be told
that this speech was not written, that
the speaker trusted to his never-failing
'supply of ajipropriate language in
which to clothe his ideas as they
crowded upon his brain.

So thoroughly had Burke mastered
the art of government, and so complete-
ly new were his political speculations,
that this very thoroughness and novelty
stood in the way of the reception of
his ideas by the British public, and
even by the British Parliament. It
has taken the greater j)ortion of a

century to place the majority of the
House of Commons abreast of what
he spoke long years before. There are
few of the great measures of the pres-
ent day which his far-seeing wisdom did
not anticipate, and which his feelings
did not valiantly defend. He advoca-
ted free trade many years before it be-
came a watchword of party, and su})-
ported the claims of Catholics when
Fox was a boy in small clothes. Cath-
olic emancipation was granted many
years after his death, but only as a
means of preserving the loyalty of the
Irish nation. He siipported the peti-
tion of the Dissenters to be relieved
from the restrictions which the Church
of Enojland in its own behoof had im-
posed upon them. He opposed the
cruel laws against insolvents, and at-
tempted in vain to mitigate the penal
code. He strove to abolish the old
plan of enlistment ; and he attacked
the slave trade, which the king wished
to preserve as part of the British con
stitution. His labors in law reform
are well known, and he is almost uni-
versally recognized as the first financial
reformer whom the British nation pro-
duced. By means of various bills, he
carried through parliament a system
of official reorganization which, in the
single office of paymaster-general, saved
the country £25,000 a year.

In March, 1768, he purchased a small
estate in the county of Buckingham,
twenty-three miles out of London, for
some £23,000. This agreeable resi-
dence was named Gregories; and ia
situated near Beaconsfield, where Burke
now lies buried. He sat for Bristol from
1774 till 1780; then for Malton, in
Yorkshire, till the close of his political

EDMUKD BUJ^KE.

167

career. On liis retirement from public af-
fairs in 1794, tlie representation of Mal-
ton was delegated to his son, a young
man of good promise, wlio tad pre-
viously filled the post of deputy-pay-
master to his father, at £500 a year.
But this only son, the joy and pride
of his heart, was cut off in a few months
by a rapid consumption, in his thirty-
sixth year. The grief of the father at
this great catastrophe is said, by Dr.
Lawrence, to have been "truly terri-
ble." Bursting frequently from all
control, he would rush into the room
where his dead son lay, and "throw
himself headlong, as it happened, on
the body, the bed, or the floor."

Thenceforward Burke's life was im-
measurably desolate. His affections,
which had always been fervid, now
became almost ungovernable. His feel-
ings occasionally mastered his reason ;
and the strong oak of the forest sensi-
bly swayed. " I live," says this broken-
hearted old man, " in an inverted or-
der. They who ought to have succeed-
ed me have gone before me. They who
should have been to me as posterity
are in the place of ancestors. The
storm has gone over me, and I lie like
one of those old oaks which the late
hurricane has scattered about me. I
am stripped of all my honors; I am
torn up l)y the roots."

His increased irritability is observa-
ble, likewise, in the writings which he
gave to the world after this date. His
Observations on a late Publication, inti-
tuled the Present State of the Nation,
which appeared in 1769, was admitted
by highly competent ju<lges to outstrip
the publications of Halifax, of Swift,
of Addison, and of Boliugbroke. His

Thouffhts on the Causes of the Present
Discontents (1770), while it called
down the dignified "wrath of Chatham,
the cynical sneers of Horace Walpole,
and the screeches of Mrs. Catherine
Macauley, sister to Sawbndge, Lord
Mayor of London, is now admitted on
all hands to be the most perfect expo-
sition of Whiggism which has ever
been made.

It was in 1790 that his work on the
French Revolution made its appearance.
It was read every where, and talked
about by every body. No political
work on the current events of the day
ever equalled it in interest, and in the
sudden reputation which it acquired.
Nothincr else was asked for or thouo^ht
of. Edition followed edition quicker
almost than the printers could throw
them off. Thii-ty thousand copies were
soon in the hands of the public. In no
place was its effect greater than in the
court of George HI., where for long
years the name of the author had not
been mentioned without a shudder.
His majesty himself read the book,
and would have every one read it near
him. " It will do you good — do you
good," said he ; " it is a book every
gentleman should read." Meanwhile
Fox was consigned to perdition by the
creatures of the court : Burke was a
great man, and a good man. Even
clever Miss Burney (Madame D'Ar-
blay), the intelligent keeper of the
robes, felt her interest in Burke revive
on this royal criticism. The book was
talked over with much admiration by
Pitt and Wilberforce, and other minis-
terialists, at a public dinner at Wim-
bledon. The fame of it reached the
banks of the Isis and the shores of the

168

EDMUND BURKE.

LifPey ; and grave academicals in Ox-
ford transmitted tlieir thanks to the
author, and in Dublin they made him
an LL.D. ! All the crowned heads of
Europe, the French nobility and princes
in exile. King Stanislaus of Poland, the
princes and sovereigns of Germany, and
Catherine of the icy North, sent their
special congratulations to the author of
the Reflections. This was flattering to
poor Burke, who had battled so long
and so earnestly under neglect and de-
preciation. Yet Fox could not bear
the book; Sheridan could not bear it;
and young Mackintosh, at the age of
twenty-six, wrote a reply to it. Many
of the English people liked it, yet many
of them disliked it. Some fifty replies
were penned against it ; but the only
one that is still read is the production
of a political staymaker, the " infidel "
Tom Paine. Some two years before
Burke's death, the king saw good to
bestow upon him two considerable
pensions, which amounted in all, dur-
ing his life, to something over £10,-
000. Except £4000 per annum, which
he received as paymaster under Shel-
burne's ministery, this was all that
he ever obtained either from kine or
courtier.

From the time of his son's death,
Burke never dined from home. His
house, formerly like a hotel, was now
the picture of desolation. lie studious-
ly avoided visitors, and wrapt himself
ap in the cold folds of his own great

sorrow.

His head declined, and his
body bent together; and the peasants in
the neighboring fields, accustomed to a
kind word as he passed, now shrunk off,
awe-stricken at the spectacle of so great
a grief. Yet still his mind was fresh,
and his faculties vigorous. He spent a
considerable portion of the days which
preceded his death in the perusal of a
good book sent him by a good man —
" Practical Christianity," by his friend
Wilberforee. On the 9th of July,
1797, Edmund Burke expired at Greg-
ories, without a groan, in the sixtj^-fifth
year of his age. His disease was a scir-
rhous affection of the stomach. " His
end," wrote Dr. Lawrence, on the morn-
ing of his death, over his lifeless re-
mains, " was suited to the simple great-
ness of his mind, which he displayed
through life — every way unafliected,
Avithout levity, without ostentation,
full of natural grace and dignity."

By his own express injunctions, he
was to be interred in the family bury-
ing-ground at Beaconsfield, beside his
brother Richard, and yet a dearer
friend to the old man's heart. On the
15th of the month, at eight o'clock, on
a beautiful July evening, while the
sinking sun sent its last rays through
the casements of the little church, he
was slowly lowered into the grave, and
laid besides the ashes of his son.

Burke's widow, who survived him
for fifteen years, was removed to the
same resting-place in 1812.

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

rp HE Rev. Samuel Reynolds, the
-L father of Sir Joshua, in 1715, at
the age of thii-ty-four, became master
of the grammar-school at Plympton,
in Devonshire, and there Joshua was
born, July 16th, 1723. He was the
third son, and seventh child in a fam-
ily of eleven. Samuel Reynolds was
more remarkable for the range than
for the depth of his attainments. His
want of profundity might have been
no disadvantage in the elementary in-
struction of youth, but he was also re-
markable for good temper, guileless-
ness, and absence of mind, and these
were qualities which would be likely
to render him the dupe of his boys.
Whatever was the cause he was un-
successful in his office, and in spite of
his various knowledge and virtues, he
was at last left with only a single pu-
pil. Joshua was intended for a gen-
eral practitioner in medicine. Before
he was seventeen he had already
" spent a great deal of time and
pains " on the study of medicine, un-
der the direction of his father, who
was, in his own opinion, a proficient

Abridged from two elaborate papers on Rey-
nolds and his works in the Quarterly Review
for 1866.

in the science. He thought of appren
ticing his son to the Plympton apoth
ecary, and said he should make no ac
count of the qualification of the nomi
nal master, since he himself should be
the actual instructor. The salary of
the worthy schoolmaster was only
igl20 a year and a house, and as, -with
his large family and small income, he
could not afford to send his boys to
the University, he had evidently re-
solved to educate them with reference
to their special callings, instead of de-
voting their entire youth to obtaining
a critical acquaintance with the learn
ed languages.

Joshua had been accustomed from
childhood to make little sketches, and
copy the poor engravings in Dryden's
" Plutarch," and Jacob Cats' " Book of
Emblems." He does not appear to
have displayed at the outset any ex-
traordinary skill. His most memor-
able feat was that he went through
the Jesuits' " Perspective " of his own
accord at the age of eight. " It hap-
pened," he told Malone, " to lie on the
window-seat of his father's parlor, and
he made himself so completely master
of it, that he never afterwards had oc
casion to study any other treatise or

(169)

170

Sm JOSHUA KEYXOLDS.

that subject." He lost no time in re-
ducing the system to practice, and
drew by it the Plympton school-house,
which was open below, and rested upon
columns at one side, and one end.
" Now this," said Samuel Reynolds of
his son's performance, "exemplifies
what the author of the ' Perspective '
asserts in his ])rcface, that l)y observ-
ing the rules laid down in his book, a
man may do wonders ; for this is won-
derful." The commendation sunk into
the child's mind, and in the zenith of
his fame Keynolds repeated the re-
mark to Boswell. Joshua next tried
his hand in taking likenesses, but with
only " tolerable success." Year after
year he continued to amuse his leisure
hoiirs with his pencil, and when the
choice of his profession was under dis-
cussion " his very great genius for
di'awing" raised a question whether
medicine should not give way to art.

Joshua had been "very much pleased"
with a print he had seen, from a pic-
ture by Hudson, who was the most
popular portrait painter of the day.
He was a native of Devonshire, and
was shortly expected to pay a visit to
Bideford, wei'e Samuel Reynolds had
an intimate friend in Mr. Cutcliffe, an
attorney. The schoolmaster requested
him to show some of Joshua's draw-
ings to Hudson, and ascertain if he
would receive the lad for a pupil.
The fond father, with a prophetic faith
in the result, pronounced it to be " one
of the most important affairs in his
life, and that which he looked upon to
be his main interest some way or oth-
er to bring about." The difficulties
proved less formidable than he antici-
pated, " Everything," he said, " Jump-

ed out in a strange, unexpected man-
ner to a miracle." The arrangement
was concluded through the mediation
of Mr. Cutcliffe; and Joshua was to
be boarded, lodged, and instructed du-
ring four years for £120. Half of the
money was to be raised by Samuel
Reynolds in the course of the four
years, and the other half Avas advanc-
ed by one of his married daughters,
Mrs. Palmer, as a loan to her brother.

Young Reynolds was received into
Hudson's house in November, 1740,
and found his highest expectations
fulfilled. " He is very sensible of his
happiness," his father wi'ote to Mr.
Cutcliffe in December, " in being un-
der such a master, in such a family, in
such a city, and in such an employ-
ment."

When Joshua arrived in London,
painting had sunk to be an ordinary
manufactiu'e. " The art," he said,
" was at the lowest ebb : it could not
indeed be lower." The painters were
incapable of appreciating fine works
as well as of executing them ; for
fi'om being trained in a false, conven-
tional taste, they had come to prefer
defects to beauties. Reynolds told
Northcote that they would have
laughed any one to scorn who had
ventured to place the masterpieces of
Vandyke in competition with the fi'igid
mannerism of Kneller. Hudson was
the last of this school who acquired a
reputation. There are portraits by
him which w'ould not be thought con-
temptible if they were from the pen
cil of an artist without pretensions ;
but his choicest works are poor per-
formances for the most celebrated pain-
ter of a generation. Horace Walpole

SIE JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

171

speaks of his " honest similitudes,"
which is a correct description of his
pictures. They are fonnal, common-
pLaee, matter-of-fact representations ;
and this degreee of skill, we know
from Sir Joshua, could be acquired as
readily as a mechanic trade. The
young apprentice, in his ignorance,
shared the contemporary opinion of
Hudson's capabilities. Faith and do-
cility were serviceable qualities in a
youth who had nearly everything to
learn ; and a considerable amount of
rudimentary practice could be acquired
in the studio of a man who had at
least the faculty of producing " hon-
est similitudes." " As for Joshiia,"
his father reports, in August, 1742,
"nobody, by his letters to me, was ever
better pleased in his employment, in
his master, in everything. ' While I
am doing this, I am the happiest crea-
ture alive,' is his expression." He had
then been a piipil little more than a
year and a half, and by his talents and
enthusiasm he was rapidly eclipsing
his instructor. At the end of two
years he had painted the portrait of
an elderly female servant, which is
said by its superiority to have roused
the jealousy of his master. Acting
under the irritation of envy at per-
ceiving himself outdone by his scholar,
he is alleged to have dismissed him not
long afterwards on a verj"^ frivolous
pretence. He had served an appren-
ticeship of two years and nine months.
The Hudsons of the day could teach
him nothing further, and relying on
his local connections he set up at Ply-
mouth Dock, where before January,
1744, he had painted twenty portraits,
and had commissions for ten more.

In December of that year he was
again in London. His time, in the in-
terval, had not been well spent. He
told Malone that " about the age of
nineteen or twenty he became very
careless about his profession, and lived
for near three years at Plymouth, in a
great deal of dissipation." The age
of twenty exactly corresponds with
the period when he parted with Hud-
son, and became his own master. His
first taste of freedom from all control,
conjoined with his love of sociality,
naturally drew him from his easel to
indulge in the pleasures of comjjanion-
ship. He said " he saw his error in
time, and sat down serioiisly to his
art about the year 1743, or 1744."
This reduces the season of idleness to
rather less than eio;hteen months.
Pludson's ill-will, if it had ever exist-
ed, was of short duration. When his
discarded pupil reappeared in London,
and opened a studio at the close of
1744, he got him elected into a club,
" composed of the most famous men in
their profession," which was a recogni-
tion of his right to take immediate
rank with them. Samuel Reynolds
calls the conduct " exceeding gener-
ous," and a letter to Mr. Cutcliffe, on
May 24, 1745, furnishes further proof
of the cordial confidence which had
survived the brief misimderstanding.
" Joshua's master is very kind to him.
He comes to visit him pretty often,
and freely tells him where his pictures
are faulty, which is a great advantage,
and when he has fiuisheel anything of
his own, he is pleased to ask Joshua's
judgment, which is a great honor."
There are no more ivcords of his son's
progress from the kind, simple, elatea

172

sm JosriuA eeykolds.

old man. He died on Christmas day,
174G, and Joshua once more withdrew
from London and took a house, with
his two unmarried sisters, at Plymouth
Dock.

It is said by Malone that Reynolds
" always considered the disagreement
which induced him to leave Mr. Hud-
son as a very fortunate circumstance,
since by this means he was led to de-
viate fi'om the tameness and insipidity
of his master, and to form a manner of
his own." The change was not imme-
diate. His works for some time were
of the Hudson school, and he is not
known to have produced anything in
a better style until he painted the
portraits of Captain Hamilton, and the
l)oy engaged in reading, in 1747.
Whatever may have been the exact
period of the change in Reynolds's
style, Northcote and Leslie agree that
the hints which kindled his genius
were derived from the works of Wil-
liam Gandy, an itinerant artist, who rov-
ed through Devonshire and Cornwall,
and died about the time when Joshua
was born. Lazy, gluttonous, improv-
ident, and irasciljle, he dashed oif
likenesses at a couple of guineas a
piece, with no other care than to ob-
tain with as little trouljle as possible
the money which would purchase him
a luxurious meal. "His portraits,"
says Noi-thcote, " are slight and
sketchy, and show more of genius
than of labor; they, indeed, demon-
strate facility, feeling, and nice obser-
vation, as far as concerns the head ;
but he was so idle, and so unambitious
that the remainder of the picture, ex-
cept sometimes the hand, was com-
monly copied from some print after Sir

Godfrey Kneller." One of the precepts
of Gandy was that " a picture ought
to have a richness in its texture, as if
the colors had been composed of cream
or cheese, and the reverse to a hard
and husky, or dry manner." The re-
mark was repeated to Reynolds, and
how largely he profited by it is appa-
rent from the circumstance that it
would be difiicult to describe more ac-
curately the usual surface of his own
paintings. The germ of his distinctive
qualities may be clearly discerned in
particular specimens of Gaudy's works,
but these merely furnished the sjiark
which lighted up the latent powers of
a far greater man. When once the
mind of Reynolds was released fi'om
the trammels of Hudson's authority,
he looked at nature for himself, and
began to transfer to his canvas effects
and incidents caught fresh fi-om life,
and portrayed with the individuality
of his charmins: 2:enius.

In April, 1749, Commodore Keppel
put into Plymouth on his way to take
the command in the Mediterranean,
and paid a visit to Lord Edgcumbe,
who was one of the local patrons of
Reynolds. The young painter yearn-
ed to study the masterpieces of the
world. The " height of his wishes "
was to visit Rome, and at the request
of Lord Edgcumbe the Commodore
offered him a passage to Italy. They
sailed in the Centurion on May 11th,
and after seeing Lisbon, Cadiz, Gibral-
tar, and Algiers, they landed at Port
Mahon on August 23d. Reynolds won
his way wherever he went by his ad-
mil-able qualities. From the guest he
became the friend of Keppel, and at
Minorca General Blakeney, the gov-

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

173

erDor, provided liim with quarters free
of expense, and invited liim to live at
his table. During his stay on the
island he met with a serious accident.
His horse fell with him over a preci-
pice, his face was much bruised, and
his upper lip was injured to such an
extent that it became necessary to cut
a portion of it away. Nearly all the
officers on the station availed them-
Belves of his presence to get their por-
traits painted, and he remained two or
three months among them, " greatly to
the improvement," says Northcote,
" of his skill and fortune."

In December, 1749, Reynolds sailed
from Port Mahon to Leghorn, and pro-
ceeded by way of Florence to Rome.
He was at last in the presence of the
finest productions of Raphael, and to
his extreme mortification he was un-
able to relish them. Surprise has of-
ten been expressed that with the skill
he had already attained he should have
failed to appreciate the extraordinary
qualities of the frescoes at the Vati-
can. A remark he made to North-
cote explains the mystery. " Eveiy
painter," said Reynolds, " has some
favorite branch of the art which he
looks for in a picture ; and, in propor-
tion as that part is well or ill executed,
he pronounces his opinion upon the
whole. One artist looks for coloring,
iinotlier for drawing, another for hand-
ling; an independent spectator looks
for expression." He himself looked
for coloring, or, in his own words,
" for superficial and alluring beauties,"
and the pictorial eilect of nature, dig-
nity and grace seemed tame and in-
sipid when it was not conjoined with
the captivating hues of the Titans and

Correggios. "I felt my ignorance,"
he says, " and stood abashed. All the
indigested notions which I had brought
with me from England were to be to-
tally done away with and eradicated
from my mind. Notwithstanding my
disappointment I proceeded to copy
some of those excellent works. I
viewed them again and again ; I even
affected to feel their merits, and to ad-
mire them more than I really did. In
a short time a new taste and new per-
ceptions began to da-wn upon me, and
I was convinced that I had originally
formed a false opinion of the perfec-
tion of art, and that this great painter
was well entitled to the hisrh rank
which he holds in the estimation of the
world." Thus the first lesson which
Reynolds learnt in Italy proved the
supreme importance of his journey.
He had greatly enlarged his concep-
tions, and to his previous aims he ad-
ded a fuller insight into the noblest
class of effects. His delight in color,
and light and shade, remained undi-
minished, but he had acquired a keen-
er eye for those severer beauties of
form and expression, which character-
ized what has often been fitly called
the epic of art. He vras inspired
above all by the sublime creations of
Michael Angelo. " I was let," he says,
in one of his Roman note-books, " into
the Capella Sistiua in the morning,
and remained there the whole day, a
great part of which I spent walking
uj) and down it with great self-import-
ance."

He paid one severe penalty for the
knowledge he had gained. ^^^ule
painting in the Vatican he caught a
cold which left him deaf for life, and

174

SIR JOSHUA EEYNOLDS.

obliged bini in company to use a trum-
pet. In conversation with an indi-
vidual, as with a sitter, where the talk
was exclusively addressed to himself,
and there were no contending voices
to interfere with the sound, he heard
readily without artificial aid.

lie remained at Rome for two years
and four months. lie departed on
May 3d, 1752, and proceeded to Flor-
ence. Here he was in doulit whether
to remain a little longer in Italy or re-
turn at once to England. The motives
for prolonging his sojourn prevailed.
Reynolds stayed at Florence till July
4, and after visiting Bologna and Mo-
dena he arrived at Venice on July 24.
He again set out on August 16, having
spent but three weeks in the head-
quarters of that school of color, which
he copied and rivalled. His craving
to return to England was increased by
a circumstance which occurred one
night at the opera-house at Venice.
The manager, out of compliment to
the English part of the audience, or-
dered the band to play a popular air
which was heard in every street in
London at the time when Reynolds
and his companions left home. The
recollections the simple strain conjured
up brought the tears into their eyes.
Rejnolds did not again halt above a
day or two on his homeward journey
till he got to Paris, where he remained
a month, and painted a beautiful por-
trait of Mrs. Chambers, the wife of the
architect. Between Turin and the Alps
he fell in with Hudson, who, for the
sake of appearances, had determined
to visit Rome. He only stayed a
couple of days. He was back at
Paris before Reynolds had gone away,

and they returned together to Eng
land.

Reynolds reached Loudon October
IGth, 1752. His health was impaired,
and he went to Plymouth for a three
months' holiday. He had no sooner
recovered than he set off for London,
and hired a studio in St. Martin's
Lane. He had brought with him from
Rome an Italian boy named Marchi,
and he exhibited a head of this lad in
a Turkish turban, "richly painted,"
says Northcote, " something in the
style of Rembrandt." Ellis, a fash-
ionable manufacturer of portraits, ex-
claimed, when he saw it, "Ah! Rey-
nold, this will never answer : why, you
don't paint in the least degree in the
manner of Kneller." Reynolds denied
that Kneller was the standard of per-
fection; and Ellis, astonished and en-
raged at the heresy, rushed fi'om the
room, calling out as he went, " Shake-
speare in poetry, and Kneller in paint-
ing, damme ! " " It is well known,"
says Mason, the poet, " that when young
Reynolds returned from his studies in
Italy, Lord Edgcumbe persuaded many
of the fii'st nobility to sit to him for
their pictures, and he very judiciously
applied to such of them as had the
strongest features, and whose likeness,
therefore, it was the easiest to hit.
Amongst those personages were the
old Dukes of Devonshire and Grafton,
and of these the young artist made
portraits, not only expressive of their
countenances, but of their figures, and
this in a manner so novel, simple, and
natural, yet withal so dignified, as pro-
cured him general applause, and set
him in a moment above his old master
Hudson." A full-length portrait of

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

175

his friend Keppel speedily followed,
and greatly increased his reputation.

His sister Frances, who was six years
younger than himself, and who died
unmarried in 1807, removed with him
to London, and kept his house for sev-
eral years. She excelled in painting
miniatures, and appears at one time to
have practiced the art professionally,
for Johnson, wiiting of her to Laugton,
in January, 1759, says, "Miss is much
employed in miniatures." She some-
times attempted large pictures iu oil,
which were so exceedingly bad that
her brother remarked Jestingly, " that
they made other people laugh, and him
cry." ^

Before the close of 1753, the increas-
ing reputation of Reynolds enabled
him to raise his price to the sum
charged by Hudson, and to exchange
his quarters iu St. Martin's Lane for a
house in Great Newport Street. He had
lived with strict economy abroad, for
he once said that he knew from expe-
rience that £50 a-year was enough for
a student at Eome. A part of the
money was furnished by his married
sisters, IMrs. Palmer and Mrs. Johnson,
and he must have been indebted to re-
lations or friends for the capital which
started him in London. His immedi-
ate success placed him at once above
pecuniary care. His terms for a head
were three guineas before he went to
Italy, five when he set up in St. Mar-
tin's Lane, and twelve when he re-
moved to Newport Street. A half-
length was double the price of a head,
and a full-length double the price of a
halflencrth. He welcomed comments
from every quarter, and scouted the
notion that none but painters could

judge of pictures. "The only opin-
ions," he said, " of which no use can be
made are those of half-learned connois-
seurs, who have quitted nature and
have not acquired art."

Likeness of feature was the least
achievement of Reynolds. His master
faculty was the power of painting the
qualities of the sitter — the power
which, along with the lineaments of
Thurlow, could depict his sapience
and temper. "Sir Joshua dived,"
says Malone, " into the minds and
habits, and manners of those who sat
to him, and accordingly the majority
of his portraits are so appropriate
and characteristic, that the many il-
lustrious persons whom he has deline-
ated will be almost as well known to
posterity as if they had seen and con-
versed with them." Northcote, who
has stamped this passage with his ap-
proval, adds his own opinion that in
character the portraits of Reynolds
surpassed those of every painter in the
world. His range was unlimited. He
was great in rendering the traits of all
ages, temperaments, and callings — men
and women, boys and girls, soldiers
and men of letters, the gay and the
thoughtful, the vicious and the good.
Whatever may be the look it has the
air of being native and spontaneous.
Amid the vast variety of expression
in his female heads, the most frequent
is some form of pensive tenderness,
which was doubtless the quality that
usually preponderated in the originals
His finest works of this kind are an
absolute impersonation of all that is
gentlest and purest in womankind.
He appears too in his glory in his rep-
resentations of ehildren. In sjjite of

176

SIR JOSHUA EEYNOLDS.

the host of affections which gather
round the young, the distinctiveness
of their ways, and the attractiveness
of nature fresli and unsophisticated,
this singularly winning and pictures-
que stage of life had been almost over-
looked by preceding masters. The
painters of religious subjects repre-
sented children as seraphic beings, and
the painters of portraits represented
them with the formal air which they
wore when they sat for their pictures.
The happy idea occurred to Reynolds
of representing them as they are seen
in their daily doings, when animated
by the emotions which typify their
lives to us. The fondest parent could
not observe them more closely, or take
a keener delight in their dawning
traits and engaging simplicity. He
said, "that all their gestures were
graceful, and that the reign of distor-
tion and unnatural attitudes com-
menced with the dancing master."
He has I'ecorded on canvas the whole
round of boyish and girlish existence.
He presents them to us in their games,
their pursuits, their glee, and their
gravity. Their archness and their art-
lessness, their spii'it and their shy-
ness, the seriousness with which they
engage in their little occupations, and
the sweet and holy innocence which is
common to the majority of the young,
are all embodied with unrivalled felic-
ity. No class of his works abounds
equally with examples of that tran-
sient expression which, he said, " lasts
less than a moment, and must be
painted in as little time." He called
it "shooting flying," and considered
that the power of fixing these passing
emotions was "the greatest effort of

the ai-t." Nor did his hand lose its
cunning in passing from the softest
erraces of women and children to the
attributes of men. His male heads
redound with masculine vigor, and are
discriminated by the strongest traits
of individuality. " Sir Joshua's por-
traits," said Northcote to Hazlitt,
" have always that determined air and
character, that you know what to think
of them, as if you had seen them en-
gaged in the most decided action."

A memorable event in the life of
Reynolds occun-ed during his residence
in Great Newport Street. The Miss
Cotterells, who lived opposite to him,
were acquainted with Johnson, Rey-
nolds met him at their house in 1753
or 1754, and a lasting fi"iendship en-
sued. The intimacy imparted a new
impulse to the active intellect of the
painter. " Whatever merit," he vsTote
towards the close of his career, " my
Discourses have, must be imputed, in
a great measure, to the education
Avhich I may be said to have had un-
der Dr. Johnson. I do not mean to
say, though it certainly would be to
their credit if I could say it with truth,
that he contributed even a single sen-
timent to them, but he qualified my
mind to think justly. No man had,
like him, the faculty of teaching infe-
rior minds the art of thinking. The
obsei'vations which he made on poetry,
on life, and on everything about us, I
applied to our art." " Nothing," said
Burke, " showed more the greatness of
Sir Joshua's parts than his taking ad-
vantage of the writings and conversa-
tion of Johnson, and making some ap-
plication of them to his profession,
when Johnson neither understood, nor

SIE JOSHtJA REYNOLDS.

177

desired to understand, anything of
painting."

In 1758, Eeynolds raised his prices
to twenty, forty, and eighty guineas
for a head, half-length, and whole-
leno'th. From the unusual number of
the works he threw off, Northcote says
that his profession was more lucrative
at this period than when his charges
became higher. The celerity with
which he turned out a picture was ex-
traordinary. Mr. Taylor finds from
his pocket-books that in 1758 he had
one hundred and fifty-nine sitters,
which is at the rate of rather more
than a portrait to every two days.
His facility was not even then at its
height. " He took," said Fuseli, " in-
finite pains at first to finish his work,
but afterwards, when he had acquired
a greater readiness of hand he dashed
on with his brush." The freedom and
boldness of his execution increased for
many years to come. Here and there
we are informed of the time he be-
stowed upon particular productions.
In 1762 he painted in a week the cele-
brated picture of Gan-ick between Tra-
gedy and Comedy, and in 1773 he com-
pleted the head of Beattie and sketched
the rest of the figure, in a single sit-
ting of five hours. He did not con-
sider it a disadvantage to be hurried,
but held that the concentration of ef-
fort made amends for more leisurely
workmanship. The rapid succession
with which his portraits followed each
other renders more surprising the va-
riety of his designs, which woixld be
supposed to have demanded deliberate
thought. In the formal parts he could
oall in the help of assistants. He had
several drapery men in his employ, and
23

such was the advantage of their me-
chanic aid, that Northcote had heard
him observe that no one ever acquii'ed
a fortune by his own hands alone. In
17G2 he was making, as Johnson wrote
word to Baretti, six thousand a year,
and once, when lamenting the inter-
ruptions from idle visitors, he dropped
the remark, " Those j^eople do not con-
sider that my time is worth five gui-
neas an hour."

The influx of riches did not relax his
exertions, for his art was his passion.
Till he laid aside his pencil for ever he
was constant to his painting-room fi-om
ten to four, and he himself says that
he went on " laboring as hard as a me-
chanic working for his bread." He
was sometimes enticed into paying a
visit to a country seat, and he alwajs
returned from the relaxation and lux-
uries with the feeling that "he had
been kept from his natural food." His
speedy attainment to wealth and fame
had no eflTect in corrupting his sim-
plicity. "There goes a man," said
Johnson, " not to be spoiled by pros-
perity ; " and Burke records that " his
native humility, modesty, and candor
never forsook him."

Reynolds changed his quarters in
1760, having purchased a forty-seven
years' lease of a house in Leicester-
square for £1650. He expended ,£1500
more in building a picture gallery " for
the exhibition of his works," and paint
ing-rooms for himself, his pupils, and
his assistants. The outlay absorlied
the greater part of his savings. His
enlarged estal)lishment included a cha-
riot with carving and gilding on the
wheels, and allegorical figures of the
seasons on the panels. His sister ob

178

SIE JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

jected that it was too showy, and her
brother reified, "What! woiild you
have one like an apothecary's car-
riage V He had little occasion for a
carriage himself, and much to the
annoyance of Miss Re}Tiolds, who was
exceedingly shy and shrank from the
notice ^vhich the equipage attracted,
he insisted that she should use it. He
gave a ball on taking possession of his
douse. He was not much addicted to
mere gaiety, but no man had a keener
zest for mental intercourse. " He was
as fond of London," says Malone, " as
Dr. Johnson, always maintaining that
it was the only place in England where
a pleasant society might be found." He
later erected a villa on Richmond Hill,
and often spent a summer evening there
with his friends ; but notwithstanding
his fine sense of the beauties of nature,
he rarely remained a night. He used
to say "that the human face was his
landscape," and he would not sacrifice
the stir of London for rural scenes and
fresh air. He belonged to various so-
cial clubs, he was a frequent diner out,
and every week he gave one or more
dinners himself.

An important measure, which is said
by Barry to have originated with Rey-
nolds, was adopted in 1760. The paint-
ers commenced an annual exhibition,
out of \vhich after several years of ex-
periment, grew the incorporated Royal
Academy, of which, by common con-
sent, Reynolds was appointed presi-
dent. To confer dignity on his ofiice he
was knighted, which occasioned much
rejoicing among his friends. Burke de-
clared that tliere was a natural fitness
in his name for the title, and Johnson,
after ten ) ears' abstinence from wine,

drank a glass to his health on the oc«
casion,

Reynolds delivered a discourse at
the opening of the Academy in Janu-
ary, 1769. This was followed by
a second in December, when he dis-
tributed the prizes. The plan of the
academy comprised a school for train-
ins: artists, and a jjold medal was an-
nually to be conferred upon the student
who produced the best attempt at an
historical picture. The president felt
that formal compliments would l)ecome
flat by repetition, and he detennined to
seize the opportunity to put beginners
in possession of the lessons he had
learned by years of observation, reflec-
tion, and practice. Talent was of slow-
er growth than had been anticipated,
and after 1772 the gold medal was re-
served for alternate years, when the
discourses of the president became bi-
ennial also. From the long intervals
between them he could not enter upon
a systematic course of instruction ; but
more methodical lecturers have not bad
equal success in placing the student iip-
on the vantage ground occupied by the
master. He expatiated upon the quali-
ties which go to form a fine picture —
he described the various schools of
painting, with the merits and defects
of each — he specified the characteris-
tics of the several masters, showing
what was to be imitated and what to
be avoided — and he detailed to learn-
ers the modes of proceeding which
would best enable them to appropriate
the beauties of their forerunners. His
style was clear and chaste, and had the
elements of an elegance which proved
that if he had not been a celebrated
painter he had it in his power to become

SIR JOSHUA EEYNOLDS.

179

a celelarated author. The excellence
of the composition gave rise to a report
that the Discourses were the work of
Johnson or Burke. Malone and North-
cote have refuted a charge which must
appear ridiculous to any one who has
the least acquaintance with the style
of the pretended authors. No refuta-
tion was required. An accusation
which is unsupported by a tittle of
trustworthy evidence is simply slander.

He exhibited a large historical pic-
ture in 1779. This was the Nativity,
which he painted as a design for the
chapel window at New College. The
original was burnt at Bel voir Castle,
and was a master-piece of color. Sir
Joshua borroAved from Correggio the
idea of making the Saviour the source
of a supernatural light, " bat his exe-
cution," says Northcote, " both in man-
ner and circumstance gave it the effect
of novelty."

The University of Oxford offered its
tribute to the illustrious president by
conferring on him, in 1773, the degree
of D.C.L. He frequently painted him-
self afterwards in his academical dress,
partly, perhaps, for its pictorial effect,
and partly because he prized honorary
titles. " Distinction," he said, " is what
we all seek after ; and the world does
set a value on them, and I go with the
great stream of life." AVhen Ferguson,
the self-educated astronomer, was elec-
ted a fellow of the Royal Society, he
exclaimed, " Ah ! I do not want honor ;
I want Ijread." Reynolds replied that,
" to obtain honors was the means to ob-
tain bread :" which is commonly true
when the badge is held in estimation
by the public, and ho who receives it
has proportionate merit. A compli-

ment which Sir Joshua rated higher
than his degree was paid him the same
year. He was chosen Mayor of Plymp-
ton. He told the king, who met him
walking in Richmond Gardens, that it
gave him more pleasuj-e than any other
honor he had ever received. As he ut-
tered the words he remembered his
knighthood, and added, " except that
which your majesty was pleased to be-
stow upon me." On his accession to
the mayoralty, Reynolds presented his
poi-trait to the corporation, and request-
ed that it might be hung in a good sit-
uation. He was informed in reply that
it had been put between two old pic-
tures, which acted as a foil, and set it
off to great advantage. The tAVO old
pictures were portraits of naval officers
wliich he himself had painted before he
went to Italy. "Wilkie, who saw them
in 1809, said that " for composition they
were as fine as anything he ever did
afterwards,"

From July 24th to September 16th,
1 781,Reynolds was absent fi'om London
on a tour through Holland and the Neth-
erlands. His admirable criticisms on
the Dutch and Flemish painters were
mostly written during this journey.
He was fascinated by the gorgeous
hues of Rubens, and on his return he
thought the coloring of his own pic-
tures deficient in force. He made an-
other excursion into the Low Countries
in 1783, when the works of Rubens ap-
peared less brilliant than before. In
1784 Reynolds exhibited his Mrs. Sid-
dons as the Tragic Muse, which was
said by Barry to be " both for the ideal
and execution the finest picture, per-
haps, of the kind in the world," and
which Lawrence pronounced to be in.

180

Sm JOSHUA KEYNOLDS.

(lubitahly the finest female portrait
every j)iUiitetl.

The days of Rejniokls continued to
flow on with a prosjierity which seem-
ed almost exempt from tlie common
casualties of life. With the exception
of his slight paralytic attack, in 1782,
he had been hardly acquainted with
illness. He was congratulated at the
age of sixty-six on his healthy and
youthful appearance, and he replied
that he felt as he looked. Just at
this time the scene suddenly chang-
ed. In July, 1789, his left eye became
affected by gutta serena, and in a few
weeks his sight had perished. There
was reason to believe that the right
eye was ready to give way, and the
hazard of exerting it compelled Rey-
nolds to a1)andon his profession. Artists
had usually painted sitting till Rey-
nolds introduced the custom of paint-
ing standing. His object in the change
was that he might be able to see the
effect of his work by stepping back-
wards. Malone supposed that the
habit had answered the additional end
of protecting Reynolds from the evils
of a sedentary calling. His sedentary
life, however, was probably the cause
of his malady, which was subsequently
found to be associated with derange-
ment of the liver. He was neither a
tippler nor a glutton, but he ate and
drank freely, while he took little exer-
cise beyond what the practice of his
art afforded. His excellent consti-
tution had been slowly gathering the
seeds of disease, and when the crisis
arrived the mischief had proceeded
too far to be checked.

" In the fifteen years," says Malone,
' during which I had the pleasure of

living with Sir Joshua on terms of
great intimacy, he appeared to me the
happiest man I had ever known."
Boswell shared the impression, and
Johnson quoted him as an instance of
a thinking person who was never
troubled wdth melancholy, bu,t was
the same all the year round. He was
now deprived of his life- long occupa-
tion in a moment. He had early adop-
ted the maxim that " the great princi-
ple of being hajjpy was not to be af-
fected by small things." He showed
in his closing days that he could ap-
ply the principle under grievous afflic-
tion. He made the most of the re-
sources w^hich remained to him. He
looked with the old enthusiasm at the
master-pieces in his gallery, he occa-
sionally cleaned and touched a dam
aged j^icture, and he found some occu-
pation in the business of the academy.
Mr. Leslie remarks that his fondness
for birds appeared by the manner in
which he introduced them into his
pictxires, and he solaced part of his
weary leisure Avith a little bird he had
tamed. His favorite flew away, and
he wandered for hours round Leices-
ter Square in the fruitless hope of re-
claiming it. He was fortunate in his
domestic circiimstances. When his sis-
ter left his house he had two Miss Pal-
mers, his nieces, for inmates. One had
since become Mrs. Gwatkin ; the other,
afterwards Marchioness of Thomond,
remained to tend upon him with as-
siduous affection. His friends gather-
ed round him, and strove to beguile
the tedium of his existence. He had
all the amusement which could be de-
rived from dinners, conversation, whist,
and country visits. To some his social

SIR JOSirUA REYNOLDS.

181

ease might seem an enviable lot, but a
perpetual holiday was a heavy burthen
to a man whose profession had been
his pleasure for fifty years.

He delivered his final Discourse on
Dec. 10th, 1790, when he informed his
auditors that " his age, and his infirmi-
ties still more than his age," would
probably never permit him to address
them again. His lecture was chiefly
devoted to the mighty master from
whom he had derived in his youth his
highest inspiration, and he wound up
with saying, that the last words he
wished to pronounce from the chair of
the academy was the name of -Michael
Angelo.

His disorders made rapid progress.
Miss Burney saw him in July, 1791,
when he was greatly dejected by the
apprehension that the failing sight of
the right eye would soon consign him
to total darkness. The enormous en-
largement of his liver, which was over-
looked by his physicians, was the secret
cause of a deeper melancholy. His
wonted cheerfulness forsook him, and
his friends could no longer dissipate
his al)idiug despondency. In Decem-
ber he was aware that death was ap-
proaching. A friend tried to comfort
him ^^'ith the hope of returning health,
and he answered, "I know that all
things on earth must have an end, and
I have come to mine." His composure
returned when he became sensible that
his departure was at hand. " Notliing,"
wrote Burke on Jan. 2Gt]i, 179:?, "can
equal the trancpiility with which he
views his end. He concrratulates him-
self on it as a ha]>py conclusion to a
happy life." Enthusiasm for liis art

had enticed him in his prosperity into
a partial neglect of his religious duties.
His sister, Mrs. Johnson, had earnestly
remonstrated with him for painting on
Sundays ; and th.e last request of his
dying friend. Dr. Johnson, was that he
would give up his Sunday painting
and read his Bible. But though he
sometimes relaxed his strictness, his
reverence remained. " All this excel-
lence," he said, in his notice of Moser,
the keeper of the Royal Academy, "had
a firm foundation. He was a man of
sincere and ardent piety, and has left
an illustrious example of the exactness
with which the subordinate duties may
be expected to be discharged by him
whose first care is to please God."
Such was the creed of RejTiolds in
1783 ; and, with his simple mind and
sweet disposition, we might be sure
that he had never relinquished the
faith in which he had been trained
by his father. " He had fi"om the be-
ginning of his malady," said Burke,
" a distinct view of his dissolution,"
and the peaceful hope with which
he looked forward to the consumma-
tion continued with him to the last.
He died on the evening of Feb. 23d,
1792.

He had requested that he might be
buried, without expense, in St. Paul's
cathedral. Burke and the other exec-
utors were of opinion that the brilliant
era he had created in art demanded a
public funeral. His liody was remov-
ed to the academy at Somerset House,
and on Saturday, March 3d, a long pro-
cession of men of eminence and rank
followed the remains of the great and
good academy jiresident to the tomb.

MARTHA WASHINGTON.

THE name of Wasliington rarely
sucforests to an American au!]rlit
but the patriot liero, or the grave and
dignified statesman and father of his
country. "Washington seems to be es-
sentially a part and parcel of the his-
tory of our native land. We think of
him usually as displaying those noble,
manly qualities of head and heart for
which he was distinguished ; and we
are apt to regard him so constantly as
the great leader in the Revolution, as
the presiding officer of that band of
patriots and statesmen who framed the
Constitution of the United States, as
the first president under the Constitu-
tion in its most critical of all periods,
and as the venerable sage and coun-
sellor after his retirement from public
life, that he hardly appears to have
been at any time young, or in any wise
a partaker of the ordinary feelings,
hopes and aspii'ations of our youthful
common humanity.

It is quite a mistake, however, to
look upon our patei' patricB in this
light alone. Washington, it is well
to remember, was once a boy like other
boys, full of feeling which belongs
to that age, a boy of excellent common
sense, and not without high and worthy

(182)

aims in life. And more than this, as
we may here appropriately state, Wash-
ington during his boyhood was so sore-
ly smitten with the charms of a "low-
land beauty," that he went through all
the heats and colds, the elevations of
hope and the sinkings of despair, pe-
culiar to youthful love, both before
and since his time.

Who would think it ? The grave,
reserved, almost stern warrior and
sage, whose self-control was nearly
perfect, was, underneath, all alive with
quick impulses, and peculiarly sen-
sible to female beauty and attractive
ness. Hardly had he entered upon his
career as a man, and begun to be a
lover of Mars and the sterner du-
ties of the field, when he was smitten
again with the tender passion, and his
beating heart palpitated under the be-
witching influence of a beautiful maid-
en of New York. This was Miss Mary
Philipse, sister of Mrs. Beverley Eobin-
son, who was living at the time in the
city of New York. Washington was
at the impressible age of twenty-three,
and it is reported that he formally
asked the lacly's hand and was refused.
But the report may reasonably be
doubted. Washington, though a hero

^^ /^/^^^^ A^^

MAKTHA WASHINGTON.

183

in the fight, was by nature very diffi-
dent and bashful in the presence of
ladies, and as his stay in the city was
but brief, and troubles on the frontier
speedily summoned him to Virginia,
it is more than likely that he did not
tell his love or urge his suit.

In due time, however, to speak after
the manner of storj^-tellers, he met his
fate, and the accomplished lady who
forms the subject of these pages smiled
ujjon him and became his wife. His
first meeting with her was quite ro-
mantic in its character It appears
that, in 1V58, while "Washington was
hurrying forward to Williamsburg,
Virginia, he chanced to cross the Pa-
munkey, and was seized upon by Mr.
ChamberlajTie -w-ith old fashioned Vir-
ginia hospitality, which would hear of
no denial. As an additional induce-
ment to spend the day at his house,
Mr. Chamberlayne promised to intro-
duce his guest to a blooming widow
who was at the time an inmate of
his mansion. Washington reluctantly
yielded, with the firm resolve however
to push forward that same evening.
But when he met the beautiful IMrs.
Custis, and came within the sphere of
her many attractions, his resolve faded
away, and he spent not only that day,
but nearly all the next in company
with the charming widow. So soon,
too, as he could, after dispatching his
business at Williamsburg, he continued
his attentions to the lady who liad evi-
dently captivated him, and was in turn
captivated lierself by the brave and
manly George Washington. Her resi-
dence at tlie Wliite House, New Kent
County, was readily accessible, and
Washiuffton urffcd his suit with so

much ardor that they mutually pledged
their faith, and it was arranged that
the marriage should take place at the
close of the campaign against Fort Du
Quesne.

Martha Dandridge, who was de-
scended from an old family that had
early migrated to Virginia, Avas bom in
the county of New Kent, in May, 1732.
She received such education as was ac-
cessible in those days, and was quite
distinguished among the young ladies
of that region for mental excellence,
amiability, beauty and fascinating
manners. She was only seventeen when
she was married to Colonel Daniel
Parke Custis, also a native of New
Kent County, and a wealthy and suc-
cessful planter. Two children were
the fruit of this marriage ; but Colonel
Custis died within five or six years,
leaving his widow with the cares and
responsibilities of a large fortune upon
her hands, and the training of her chil-
dren in the path of virtue and good-
ness. In this state of aSkirs, she man-
ifested those qualities of pi-udence, dis-
cretion and good sense which pertained
to her through life, and rendered her a
helpmate indeed to the father of his
country.

Washington, as above stated, having
been successful in his suit, the marriage
took place on the Gthof January, 1759,
at the White House, the residence of
the bride. It was attended by large
numbers of relatives and friends, and
was marked by the overflowing and
Ijounteous hos])itality of Virginia in
colonial times, and seemed to promise
as much hai)piness as is ever vouch-
safed to mortals in this world of trou
ble and uncertainty.

184

MAETIIA WASniXGTOK

A few niojiths later, "WasLiugton
took up his residence at Mount Ver-
non, his favorite place of ahodc and
where he spent many of the pleasantest
years of his life. His nian-iage was
unblessed with children, which was a
source of deep regret to him as well
as his estimable spouse, althoiigh it
may be questioned whether, if there
had been a child or children, the lofty
eminence attained by Washington in
later years, would have been duly sus-
tained by his descendants. Under the
circumstances, Washington assumed
the guardianship of his wife's two
children, and in this, as in everything,
exhibited the most scrupulous care
and exactitude in the discharge of his
trust. His deep interest in the educa-
tion and training of these young peo-
ple could hardly have been exceeded
had they been his own childi-en, and
it is pleasing to know that they rev-
erenced and loved him with all the
fervor and devotion of their nature.
Miss Custis, we may here mention,
died at the early age of seventeen;
her brother, John Parke Custis, mar-
ried veiy early, and from his son we
have on record many very curious and
valuable recollections of Washington's
life and career.

It was Mrs. Washinfjton's habit, as
well as sincere pleasure, to enter heart-
ily into all those enjoyments of home
life which were peculiarly acceptable
to her husband. Having added her
own fortune to that of Washins^ton
she was enaljled to practice the free-
handed hospitality to which we have
before alluded, and her mansion was
almost constantly furnished with
guests, who came and went as inclina-

tion urged, charmed with the graceful
courtesy and dignity of their accom-
plished hostess. As befitting her rank
and wealth, Washington provided for
his wife and her lady visitors a chariot
and four, with black postillions in
livery; he himself always preferred to
appear on horseback. Early hours
were observed ; industry, order, neat-
ness and the like, were every\\'here en-
forced ; and vast as was the household,
vnth its numerous dependencies and
varied occupants, there was plainly
visible the firm but gentle hand of
both mistress and master throughout
the daily routine. Washington was
also a vestryman of two parishes, Fair-
fax and Truro, and the Episcopal church
at Pohick, about seven miles distant
fi'om Mount Vernon, was rebuilt in
great measure at his expense. Every
Sunday, he and his family attended
church, if the weather and roads al-
lowed, and it was noted that his de-
meanor was always devout and be-
coming in the house of God. Both
Mrs. Washington and himself were
communicants, and in the varied trials
and hardships of subsequent years,
were enabled to find a;race and strenp-th
to bear with them as becomes every
true Christian.

Years passed in this wise ; but they
were not unaccompanied with fore-
shadowings of the trouble and distress
about to be %-isited upon the countr3^
The Revolution was at hand, and Wash-
ington, though ardently attached to his
home life and its enjoyments, was no un
interested spectator of passing events.
By correspondence as well as personal
intercourse with prominent men of the
day, he kept himself well acquainted

MARTHA WASHINGTON.

185

witli the progress of affairs, and re-
solved, long before the actual struggle
of arms commenced, to devote his life
and fortune to the support of the
liberties of his native country.

In this sacrifice to his sense of duty,
Martha Washington was his counsel-
lor and helper. No merely womanly
feeling stood in the way, although
the result must be separation from him ;
her home virtually broken up ; her mind
and heart kept constantly in a state of
uncertainty and excitement, and her per-
sonal comfort and enjoyment sacrificed
to the exigencies of the time. We
do not find that she ever interposed
any obstacles. So far from this, it is
plain that she not only acquiesced
cheerfully and pleasantly in what was
perhaps inevitable, but she also helped
to encourage and nerve and sustain
her husband in that which was plainly
the path of duty.

The appeal to arms had come be-
yond all possibility of further evasion.
Blood had been shed at Lexington ;
the whole country was roused ; the
battle of Bunker's Hill took place in
June, 1774 ; and only a few days after,
and before the news had reached Phil-
adelphia, the Continental Congress had
appointed Washington to the high and
responsil)le post of Commander-in-cliief.
In accepting this position Washington
was by no means insensible to the ef-
fect which it must produce upon his
beloved wife. In a letter to her at
this date he Avrites, in a tender and
manly tone, worthy, we think, of them
both, " You may believe me, when I
assure you, in the most solemn man-
ner, that, so far from seeking this ap-
pointment, I have used every endeavor
24

in my power to avoid it, not only from
my unwillingness to part with you
and the family, but from a concious-
ness of its being a trust too great for
my capacity; and I should enjoy more
real happiness in one month with you
at home, than I have the most distant
prospect of finding abroad, if my stay
were to be seven times seven years.
But as it has been a kind of destiny
that has thrown me upon this service,
I shall hope that my undertaking it is
designed to answer some good pur-
pose I shall rely con-
fidently on that Providence which has
Heretofore preserved and been bounti-
ful to me, not doubting but that I
shall return safe to you in the fall. 1
shall feel no toil or danger of the cam-
paign ; my unhappiness will flow from
the uneasiness I know you will feel
from beino' left alone. I therefore beo;
that you will summon your whole for-
titude, and pass your time as agreeably
as possible. Nothing ^vill give me so
much sincere satisfaction as to hear this,
and to hear it from youi' own pen." In
writing also to his brother John Augus-
tine, whom he seemed specially to have
loved, Washinijton referriuor to his

Jo O

wife, says : — " I shall hope that my
friends will visit and endeavor to keep
up the spirits of my wife as much as
they can, for my departure will, I
know, be a cutting stroke upon her ;
and on this account alone I have many
disagreeable sensations."

Intense and wearing as were the
care and anxiety of the Commander-
in-Chief, after he had entered upon his
duties near Boston, his thoughts fre-
quently reverted to home affairs at
Mount Vernon. Through his agent

186

MARTHA WASHINGTOK

he kept bimsi'lf advised of all that
was going on, on the Lanks of the Po-
tomac ; and finding that he should not
be able to return to Virginia in the au-
tumn, as he anticipated, he wrote to
Mrs. Washington by express in Novem-
ber and invited her to join him at the
camp. The invitation was readily ac-
cepted, and taking her own carriage
and horses, and accompanied by her son
and his wife, she proceeded, by easy
stages, on her joiu-ney to the north.
Everpvhere she was the recipient of
o-uards of honor and escorts, and eve-
rything was done to manifest the peo-
ple's regard for one to whom, by a
sort of spontaneous homage, was given
the title, "Lady Washington." On
reaching Cambridge, she was gladly
welcomed by all, and her chariot and
four, with black postillions in scarlet
and white liveries, excited much admi-
ration.

Mrs. Washington's presence not only
gladdened her husband, but was espe-
cially valuable in all those matters
ivhere a woman's tact and ability are
requisite to meet and smooth over
social and other difficulties. She pre-
sided at head-quarters with dignity and
ease, and gave a refining and improv-
ing character greatly to be desired in
military life. She also took a lively
interest in every movement calculated
to enliven the dullness of camp, and
prevailed on Washington to celebrate
twelfth night in due style as the anni-
versary of their wedding.

After the evacuation of Boston, in
March, 1776, Mrs, Washington accom-
panied the general to New York, from
.vhich city at the close of May, she
proceeded to Philadelphia, and thence

home to Mount Vernon. It became
her custom thenceforward to pass the
winters with her husband, and Wash-
ington regularly, at the close of each
campaign, sent an aide-de-camp to es-
cort her to head-quarters. She was al-
ways welcomed with much satisfaction,
and as her example was followed by
the wives of other general officers,
much was done to mitigate the hard
and stern severities of the revolution-
ary struggle, and to exercise a cheering,
genial influence in seasons of unusual
disaster and depression.

It was in February, 1788, during
the winter of unutterable suffering at
Valley Forge, that Mrs. Washington
was again at head-quarters. " The
general's apartment," she wrote to
IVIi's. Warren, " is very small ; he has
had a log cabin built to dine in, which
has made our quarters much more tol
erable than they were at first." We
have it on good authority, that her
cheerful submission to the exceeding
privation and hardship of that bitter
winter helped much to strengthen the
fortitude of the half-starved and half-
frozen troops, and to give them hope
and confidence in the ultimate results
of their strusr2:les in behalf of inde-
pendence. She was conspicuous in
endeavorinsf to soften the distresses of
the sick and destitute, and minister-
ing relief to the full extent of her
power. Lady Stirling, Mrs. Knox,
wife of Gen. Knox, and other ladies
who were in camp, joined with Mrs.
Washington in these acts and ofiices
of love and devotion to the cause in
which each was perilling his all.

The alliance with France, which
took place this same year, was cele-

MAETHA WASIIIKGTOISr.

181

brated with great joy tlirougliout the
country, and an entertainment was
given in camp in the pleasant month of
May, at which Mrs. Washington and a
number of distinguished women were
present. Ladies and gentlemen also
from the vicinity were largely in at-
tendance, and it was altogether a grand
affair under the circumstances. Beside
the military display and the roar of
cannon, there was dancing in the eve-
ning and brilliant fireworks. Wash-
ington himself opened the ball, and
though the preparations and material
of every kind were home-made, yet the
enjoyment of the company was none
the less hearty and satisfactory.

The surrender of Cornwallis, at York-
town, in Oct., 1781, virtually brought
the Revolution to a close. Mrs. Wash-
ington's son died shortly after, leaving
to her care her son's widow and four
grandchildren. Washington had tak-
en such lively interest in the young
man, and had done so much towards
fitting him for the useful and honora-
ble station which he filled, that the
death of Mr. Custis was keenly felt by
him, and he spent several days with his
bereaved wife and family in order to
comfort them in their aflliction. Pub-
lic duties, however, were imperative,
and the great and good man who had
been the means of accomplishing so
much, could not now become derelict
when his country's interests were at
stake.

In January, 1783, a treaty of peace
with Great Britain was signed at Par-
is, and by the close of March, the news
reached the United States. In Novem-
ber, New York was evacuated ; Wash-
ington parted with his beloved compan-

ions in arms; was everywhere hailed
with acclamations of love and grati-
tude ; met Congress at Annaj)olis in De-
cemher; resigned his commission into
their hands; and the very next day
hastened to his house at Mount Ver-
non, arriving there on Chi-istmas eve,
under feelings and emotions too deep
for utterance. " The scene is at last clos-
ed," he said, writing to Governor Clin-
ton : " I feel myself eased of a load of
public care. I hope to spend the re-
mainder of my days in cultivating the
aft'ections of good men, and with prac-
tice of the domestic virtues."

Once more at home, and released
from the heavy cares so recently press-
ing upon him, Washington gave him-
self up to the enjojTuents ^\hich agri-
cultural life always afforded him; and
]\Ii"s. Washington, who was in her ele-
ment at home, presided with grace and
dignity at the simple board at Mount
Vernon. She was noted as a house-
keeper in every department, and pos-
sessing as she did excellent good sense
and cheerfulness of spirit, she was al-
ways an agreeable companion, a boun-
teous hostess, and an admirable mana-
ger ; much of her time also was spent
in the care and training of her o-rand-
children recently deprived of their
father.

For a brief period only was Wash-
ington permitted to remain at Mount
Vernon, in the occupation which he
loved and whicli he had resolved never
again to abandon. The perilous con-
dition of the country subsequent to the
war and before a national government
was organized weighed heavily on his
mind ; and it was felt in every part of
the country that his fuither sei-vicea

188

MAETHA WASIILNGTON.

could not be dispensed with in any
(vise. Constant correspondence, and
the urgent solicitations of the noble
band of patriots, who with him were
anxiously watching the course of events,
brouf^ht him to the conviction that he
must be present at the Federal Conven-
tion. Accordingly he set out from
Mount Vernon early in May, 1786,
and reached Philadelphia about the
middle of the month. Here he presid-
ed Avith dignity and judgment, until
that great work, the Constitution of
the United States, was completed and
reported by him to Congress in Sep-
tember.

Meanwhile, Washington returned to
the bosom of his family, quietly wait-
ing the action of the several States in
respect to the ratification of the Con-
stitution, and looking forward with in-
tense earnestness to witness its actual
operation. Of course, as we all know,
there was but one sentiment through-
out the country ; Washington was
unanimously elected president, and,
though with great reluctance, he ac-
cepted the position.

Although Mrs. Washington was not
present at the inauguration, April 30th,
and at the festivities immediately con-
nected therewith, she took an early day
to leave Mount Vernon and go to take
her rightful place at the head of the
president's family. She was now well
advanced in years, being within a few
months of the same age with Washing-
ton, viz., fifty-seven ; but she did not
shrink fi'om the arduous task before
her, a task all the more arduous be-
cause perfectly new and untried ; nei-
ther did she refuse or make any diffi-
culty about assuming the position

which duty laid upon her, although
as she well knew, both herself and hei
husband would be subjected to search
ing scrutiny, and very probably ill
natured, unhandsome criticism.

On the 17th of May, accompanied
by her grandchildren, she set out for
the seat of government at New York.
Eveiywhere, throughout her journey,
she was received with marked atten-
tion and respect, and having met the
president at Elizabethtown, N. J., she
proceeded with him by water in a splen-
did barge, manned by thirteen master
pilots, and landed at Peck Slip, near
the president's house, amid the enthu-
siastic cheers of a vast multitude.

On the Friday following, Mrs. Wash-
ington had a general reception, which
was attended by the first society in
the city and by men of high official
rank and position. This same evening
became thenceforward the regular one
for receptions at her house, to which
all persons of respectability had ac-
cess, without special invitation, and at
which Washington was always pres-
ent. The hours were from eight to ten
o'clock.

These levees, thought not justly
chargeable with ostentation or aping
of foreign courtly manners and cere-
monies, were nevertheless always dig-
nified and marked by less of that dem-
ocratic freedom which has since pre-
vailed. Mrs. Washington, estimal)le
and excellent a lady as she was, was
essentially aristocratic in her tastes and
appreciations ; and the reader need not
be surprised that, in certain quarters,
her receptions were found fault with,
and were cavilled at as " coui't-like
levees," and " queenly drawing-rooms."

MAETHA WASHINGTOJN.

189

The fault-finding, however, was as un-
generous as it was unjust, for the wife
of the president was beloved by all
who knew her, and though occupying
so elevated a station was as earnest in
her desire as her husband to retire
from it at the earliest moment practi-
cable and resume her duties at home
in her own house.

"Writing to an intimate friend, at this
date, Mrs. Washington says : " It is ow-
ing to the kindness of our numerous
friends in all quarters that my new and
unwished for situation is not indeed a
burden to me. "When I was much young-
er, I should probably have enjoyed the
innocent gaieties of life as much as most
persons of my age; but I had long
since placed all the prospects of my
future Avorldly happiness in the still
enjoyments of the fireside at Mount
"V^ernon. I little thought, when the
war was finished, that any circum-
stances could possibly happen, which
would call the general again into pul)-
lic life. I had anticipated that from
that moment we should be suffered to
grow old together in solitude and tran-
quility. That was the first and dearest
wish of my heart."

During the entire period of Wash-
ington's presidency, his wife gave her-
self to the duties and responsil)ilities
of her station with a devotion and
carefulness worthy of all praise. It is
trne, tliat, as she afterwards expressed
herself, she looked upon the years of
public life spent in New York and
Philadelphia, as in some sense among
the " lost days " of her life ; but she
did not on that account neglect the re-
quirements of her position, and she
knew well to what an extent her hon-

ored husband relied upon her for co-
operation and support. "When the time
came that Washington completed the
second term of his presidency, it need-^
no vivid imagination to picture to one-
self the delightful eagerness with which
the venerable pair, whom all united in
lovino; and admirino-, hastened to the
haven of rest at Mount "V^ernon. " The
remainder of my life, which in the course
of nature cannot be long," Washington
remarks, in a letter to an old compan-
ion in arms, " will be occupied in rural
amusements; and though I shall se-
clude myself as much as possible from
the noisy and bustling world, none
would more than myself be regaled
by the company of those I esteem, at
Mount Vernon ; more than twenty
miles from which, after I arrive there,
it is not likely that I shall ever be. . . .
To-morrow, at dinner, I shall, as a ser-
vant of the public, take my leave of
the president elect, of the foreign char-
acters, the heads of departments, etc.,
and the day following, with pleasure,
I shall witness the inauguration of my
successor in the chair of government."
Age had now begun to tell upon the
great and good man who found hia
highest happiness in resigning power
and pre-eminence, usually so attractive
to man. He accordingly invited his
nephew, La^v^l■ence Lewis, to take up
his residence at Mount Vernon, and
relieve both him and Mrs. Washington
from some of the numerous calls upon
their time and attention which needful
hos])itality and the visits of strangers
liad rendered ])urdensome. Mr. Lewis
accepted the kindly expressed in-
vitation of his uncle; and therefrom
certain consequences sprang, which

190

MAETIIA WASnmGTON.

were of no little concern to "Lady
Washington."

At this time, her grandchildren were
at home ; and Miss Nelly Custis, who
was a sprightly young lady, a great fa-
vorite with the general and well cal-
culated to stir up a young man's blood,
fell at once across the path of Lewis.
The old, old story was repeated again ;
the young people followed the exam-
ple of their elders; an engagement
took place in due time ; and, much to
Washiugton's satisfaction, the nujitials
were celebrated at Mount Vernon, on
his birth-day, February 22d, 1799. It
is supposed that Mrs. Washington fa-
vored another suitor, in preference to
Mr. Lewis; but if so, she in no wise
interfered with the course of true love,
and welcomed the husband of her grand-
daughter to his place in the family, with
all the heartiness and sincerity of her
nature.

Although Washington had left pub-
lic life, as he thought and purposed,
forever, still he could not escape from
the call which was again made upon
him. It will be remembered that the
French government at this date, saw
fit to take ground of such a nature,
and to behave generally, in its inter-
course with the United States, in such
wise as rendered it impossible to en-
dure its arrogance and insolence. Pres-
ident Adams, in the discharge of his
duty, felt called upon to urge prepar-
ations for war, if war must needs
be, and Washington was immediately
looked to for advice, counsel and action
in the emergency. He was again ask-
ed to be commander-in-chief, and to
take upon him the oversight of all the
steps necessary to put the country in a

state of defence. The venerable chief
did not refuse to listen to the call ; but,
notwithstanding he was compelled to
be away from home, and to cause new
anxieties to Mrs. Washington, he zeal-
ously performed his work. Happily,
the French government returned to its
senses, and all difficulties were dis-
posed of, without resorting to the last
arbitrament of arms, greatly to the re-
lief of Washington and his beloved
wife.

The winter of 1799 had now fully set
in. Washington, actively occupied in va-
rious improvements and changes in his
favorite estate, was constantly in mo-
tion, riding about in every direction,
overseeing, planning, arranging matters
for the future, and, among other things,
ordering a new family vault. This, he
said, with a sort of melancholy present-
iment, as it seemed, must be made first
of all ; " for," he continued, " I may
require it before the rest." On the 12th
of December, ho was on horseback as
usual ; but the day turned out to be
cold, raw, and snowy, mixed with hail.
He became chilled through ; was seized
with a violent sore throat ; in a day or
two he grew worse and seemed to be
conscious that this was his last sick-
ness. Despite all the efforts of the
physicians, his disease, acute laryngitis,
made rapid progress, and the end speed-
ily came.

Mr. Lear, his secretary and devoted
friend, has furnished an interesting nar-
rative of the last days of Washington.
" While we were fixed in silent grief,"
he says, in speaking of the moment of
departure, "Mrs. Washington, who
was seated at the foot of the bed, ask-
ed, with a firm and collected voice, ' Is

MARTHA WASHINGTON".

191

he gone ?' I could not speak, but held
up my hand as a signal that he was no
more. ' 'Tis well,' she said, in the same
voice. ' All is now over ; I shall soon
follow him ; I have no more trials to
pass through.'" Thus, on the night
of Saturday, December 14th, between
the hours of ten and eleven, the great
and good man sank to his rest in the
fullness of his well-spent life, in the en-
joyment of his mental faculties, sur-
rounded by his family, and sustained
by the faith and hope of the Christian,
who lies down in the grave in the con-
fidence of a joyful resurrection at the
last day.

It needs not that we dwell here upon
the last sad offices for the dead. The
funeral services Avere conducted with
simplicity, dignity and manifest pro-
priety, and Washington's mortal re-
mains were buried at Mount Vernon,
the place which he loved above all
others in the world. Mrs. Wash-
insrton received Adsits of condolence
from President Adams and many
others ; and from every quarter, not
only in the United States but in
foreign lands, tributes of sympathy
and sorrow came to soothe, as far as

possible, the heart of the bereaved
widow.

With the same earnest devotion to
duty that had ever marked her course
of life, the venerable lady at Mount
Vernon continued faithfully to per-
form her manifold obligations ; she re-
ceived visitors as usual at her home ;
and gave attention to domestic cares
and responsibilities, and to the carry-
ing out the wishes of the illustrious
deceased. But it was not for a long
period that she was called upon thus
to act and bear her lot alone.

Some two years later, she was at-
tacked by a dangerous fever, and was
unable to rally. When conscious that
the last hour was near at hand, she
summoned her grandchildren to her
bedside ; she uttered words of mingled
comfort and warning; she pointed
them to that hope which was hers, as
well as his who had not lone before
gone to his rest ; and she quietly and
peacefully passed away, on the 22d of
May, 1802, and in the seventy-first
year of her age. All that was mortal
of Martha Washins^ton was interred
in the same vault where her husband's
body was laid at Mount Vernon.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

WHEN Benjamin Franklin, in the
autumn of life sat down, sur-
rounded by the pleasant family circle
of the good Bishop of St. Asaph, Dr.
Shipley, at Twyford, to relate to his son
the events of a career which, seemed to
him to offer some cheer and guidance to
the world, he commenced that delight-
ful Autobiography with a far back-
ward glance to the ancestors upon
whose native soil he was then tread-
ing. "I have ever had a pleasure,"
he says, "in obtaining any little an-
ecdotes of my ancestors." Indeed,
he once made a special pilgrimage
for the purpose, when he succeeded in
tracing his family of the Franklins,
through a " long pedigree of toil," in
the little village of Ecton, in Northamp-
tonshire, to the middle of the six-
teenth century. For generation after
generation, down to Franklin's day,
they were the blacksmiths of the town,
holding their own on a few acres, and
living in an old stone house, which
was still called by their name, though
it had passed out of the family some
years before the visit of its illustrious
member in 1758.

We may see him on that visit, so
faithfully recorded in a letter to Mrs.

(192)

Franklin, in America, standing -with
the wife of the parish clergyman
among the thick graves of the centuries,
as the old tombstones were scoiu'ed
that his son might copy the family in-
scriptions. The last Franklin who
lived in the lady's recollections was
Thomas, his father's brother. The
nephew expresses himself " highly en-
tertained and diverted " with what he
heard of him ; for he recognized much
in common between this uncle's genius
and his own. " He set on foot " —
Franklin himself is the narrator — " a
subscription for erecting chimes in
their steeple and completed it, and we
heard them play. He found out an
easy method of saving their village
meadows from being drowned, as they
used to be sometimes by the river,
which method is still in being; but
when first proposed, nobody could con-
ceive how it could be ; ' but, however,'
they said, ' if Franklin says he knows
how to do it, it will be done.' His
advice and opinion were sought for on
all occasions, by all sorts of people,
and he was looked upon, she said, by
some, as something of a conjurer."

There was another uncle, Benjamin^
tlie poetaster, who came to Boston,

Cy^^<^ Q^^iZ-n^-^^Z-C^yn.^

BENJAMIN FKAKKLESr.

193

was a collector of historical pamplilets,
a patient digester of Puritan discourses,
stood godfather to his namesake, wrote
poetical directions for liis conduct in
an acrostic, and died at a good old
a2je.

Josiah Franklin, the father, emigrated
to New England under the non-con-
formity impulse about 1G85, bringing
with him his wife and children. Ben-
jamin came into the world at a
house in Milk street, Boston, January
17, 170G, the fruit of a second marriage
in America, the fifteenth child of his
father's family of seventeen. His
mother was the daughter of the old
Nantucket poet, Peter Folger, who
rh}Tned, in his " Looking-Glass for the
Times," of the Fathers and their back-
sliding descendants. There is less told
than we should like to know of Frank-
lin's parents. The cares of a large
family doubtless absorbed their atten-
tion, and the greater part of life was
S2)ent in little duties without much
claim upon the notice of the world.
The father's calling, that of a soap-
boiler and tallow-chandler, is not sug-
gestive of very various accomplish-
ments ; but we are told " he could
draw prettily, and was skilled a little
in music," that his understanding was
sound, and that he was much consulted
by his neighbors. Of the mother we
are told less : but that little is enough
for goodness, if not for fame. " He
was a pious and prudent man, she a
discreet and virtuous woman," says
the inscription -written by their son on
the tomb at Boston which covers the
remains of Josiah Franklin and Abiah
his wife.

At eight Benjamin was sent to the
25

public grammar school, where the vene-
rable Cheever having, in the apt lan-
guage of Mr. Everett, " feruled his last
boy," had lately departed, obedient to
the wand of a more imperious usher,
and Nathaniel Williams birched in his
stead. Benjamin remained there a
year, making his Avay upward with the
good purposes of a boy destined for
college and the pulpit, with the pro-
mise of his uncle's short-hand abridg-
ments of the Puritan sermons he had
listened to, as stock in trade when he
should learn to dechipher them, and be
set up in the vocation. The pressure
of Josiah Franklin's large family, and
" the little encouragement that line of
life afforded to those educated for it, "
induced him to forego these liberal
intentions, and a little plain writing
and arithmetic, inculcated by ISLr.
George Brownwell, was substituted
for the sweet sister Muses. Perhaps
in contrast to that thorny pathway to
Helicon, the grammar school, the pupil
records of his new teacher that he
employed the mildest and most en-
courao-ins: methods. The younec Ben-
jamiu learnt to write a good hand — his
manuscripts are always neat and ele-
gant — but he tells us he failed entirely
in arithmetic. The boy, however, had
not much discipline of this kind to
undergo, for, at ten, he was taken into
the paternal tallow chandlery, when
the longs and shorts to which his at-
tention was directed had reference, not
to Homer and Virgil, but to dips and
moulds. The flavor was not to the
boy's taste, and he cast his eyes to the
ocean. His father took a not irrational
mode of ascertaining his tastes, by
leading him about on a survey of the

trades of the town ; but the exper-
iment did not succeed, if it was due to
this proceeding that he hit upon the
business of a cutler. The arrival from
London of his cousin, who was in that
calling, probably had more to do with
the choice ;' fortunately he was exact-
ing in his apprentice fee, and the thing
fell tlirough.

If Josiah Franhlin Avished to ascer-
tain his son's disposition, it was not
necessary for him to jDerambulate the
town and review all its handicrafts :
the books which the boy so constantly
had in his hand might have guided him,
as, indeed, this taste for reading did
when his father determined to make
him a printer. His brother James,
having brought printing materials from
England, Benjamin was apprenticed to
him in his twelfth year. The boy will
now court the Muses for himself, with-
out the interposition of any of Master
Cheever's successors. He takes to
books as his native element. " About
this time I met with an odd volume of
the ' Spectator,' " reads the Autobio-
graphy. By how many men who have
risen to fame, since the gentle Addison
closed his lucubrations, might not this
sentence have been gratefully written.
Franklin hit upon an excellent plan
to learn the art of writing. He stud-
ied one of the charming essays Just
alluded to, made brief notes, and,
when the words had passed from his
memory, attem2:)ted to reproduce the
whole in language of his own, which
he compared with the original. Find-
ing himself at a loss for words, he be-
thought himself of the 'necessities of
rhjTners, and enlarged and strength-
ened his vocabulary by turning a

" Spectator " into verse. He appears
to have had some talent for rhyming,
or he may simply have shared the uni-
versal weakness of the old Puritans of
the j)lace, who, as old Fuller says of
some kindred excellence, "oftener
snorted than slept on Parnassus." We
hear of his writing street ballads for
his brother ; " The Light-house Trage-
dy," and a sailor's song on the capture
of Black Beard — " wretched stuff," he
candidly tells us, but the first, he adds,
" sold prodigiously." He became at
this time, too, something of a dispu-
tant, choj^ping logic on religious toj^ics,
the old Puritan machinery getting a
little out of gear, as he caught enough
of the method of Socrates to puzzle ig-
norant people with the matter of in-
fidel Shaftesbury and Collins. His
tastes in books, however, led him to
others which were more to his advan-
tage. Cotton Mather's " Essay to do
Good," and De Foe's " Essay on Pro-
jects," he mentions particularly as giv-
ing him " a turn of thinking that had
an influence on some of the principal
future events of his life."

Two or three years after the com-
mencement of the api^renticeship, his
brother set up the fourth newspaper
2:)ublished in America, the " New Eng-
land Courant." The j)ress naturally
took root in America. From the first,
it has called forth the best talent of
the country, and in Franklin's day was
pretty much the only avenue open for
miscellaneous literature. The young
Franklin caught the mania of writing
fi'om the consequence it gave the con-
tributors to the paper, and, knowing
that, a prophet has no honor in the
guise of a printer's devil, slipped his

BENJAMIX FEAJSTKLIN.

195

auonymous offerings by niglit under
the door and awaited the result. He
had the satisfaction of hearing them
read with becoming admiration, and
probably the luxury of setting them
in type himself. The " Courant " was
what would be called in modern slang
a " spicy " paper — trenchant and sa-
tirical. It took some liljerties with
the powers that were — the chmx-h,
state, and the " college " of those times
— freedoms which would probably
pass for civilities as such things go
now-a-days. The Assembly, in con-
sequence, tyranically ousted James
Fi-anklin. This led to cancelling his
brother's indentures, that the paper
might appear M'ith Benjamin's name.

The relations of master and appren-
tice in the good old times allowed
greater indulgence to the temper of
the employer than we hojie is permis-
sible at present. Quarrels arose be-
tween the brothers ; one perhaps was
saucy, the other passionate, and blows
sometimes followed. Benjamin, taking
advantage of the broken indentures,
resolved to leave ; obstacles were then
ifiterposed ; he managed to evade them,
raised money by the sale of his books,
and embarking in a sloop, fled to New
York. Finding no opportunity in that
city, ho pursued" his way, with varioiis
adventures of consideraljlo interest, as
related in the Autobiography, to Phil-
adelphia, making his first entrance
into the place, in which lie was after-
Avards to phiy so imj)ortant a part,
from a boat which he had assisted in
rowing down the Delaware, one mem-
orable Sunday morning, in Octoljer,
1723, at the age of seventeen. He wa^j
clad in his working dress, soiled by ex-

posures on the way ; fatigued, hungry,
and almost penniless. The incidents
of that first day are as familiar as any-
thing in Robinson Crusoe. Every boy
has seen the young Benjamin Franklin
walking along INIarket Street, with the
" tkree great puffy rolls," passing the
door of his future wife, noticed not
very favorably by that lady, making
the cu'cuit of the town, sharing those
never-to-be-forgotten loaves with a
mother and her child, till he finds
shelter in sleep, in a silent meeting of
the Quakers.

He immediately sought employment
in the printing offices of the city, going
first to Andrew Bradford, by the advice
of whose father, the printer, William
Bradford, of New York, he had left
that place for Philadelphia. The old
gentleman introduced him to Samuel
Keinier, an original, a compound of
the knave and the enthusiast, whom
he found literally composing an elegy,
stick in hand, at the case, upon Aquila
Eose, a young printer of the city, re-
cently deceased. Keimer was one of
a host of odd people, with whom
Franklin, in the course of his life,
came in contact, of whom there are
amusins: traces in his letters and Au-
tobiography. He always delighted to
study Iniman nature in her varieties,
and no man ever had a better opportu-
nity, or pursued it more profitably.
He had soon the means of making the
acquaintance of two royal governors;
for there seems to have l)een some in-
fluence in Franklin's star which threw
him out of the society of vagabonds
among titled personages. One of these
was Sir William Keith, the Governor
of Pennsylvania, who was attracted to

196

BENJAMIN FKANKLIN.

the youth hy a letter that had acci-
dentally come to his knowledge, in
which the apprentice stated his rea-
sons for leaving Boston. He made
the most flattering overtures to Frank-
lin, recommending him to open a print-
ing office in the province, and gave
him a letter to smooth the way for the
project, with his father. The epistle
assisted the youth's consequence on
his visit to Boston, produced some
surjirise and good wishes for the fu-
ture, Init no money. On his way back
to Philadeljihia, the young printer had
the honor of an interview with Gover-
nor Burnet, a son of the bishop, then
in office at New York. It is evidence
of the size and character of the present
metropolis at that time that the gover-
nor heard from the captain who had
brought him to the place, of a passen-
ger, with a number of books on board,
and that he invited him in consequence
to see his library.

Governor Keith was as enthusias-
tic as ever on the scheme for a good
printer in the province, and directed
Franklin to make out a list of what
would be wanting, and proceed by the
packet to England, with a letter of
credit for the necessary funds, with
which he would provide him. There
are men in the world whose imagina-
tions give them the faculty of seeing a
tiling in the strongest light at a dis-
tance, who have no capacity to grapple
with it close at hand. Keith appears
to have been one of these ; a man of
words and not of deeds. Franklin was
ready ; not so the letter of credit ; it
was deferred with promises to be sent
to one place and another, and finally
on ship board. The result was that

Franklin found himself in London, in
1724, on a fool's errand. Some fifty
years afterwards, in the Autobiogra-
phy, he summed up the character of
his eminent friend philosophically
enough — " He wished to please every-
body; and, having little to give, he
gave expectations. He was otherwise
an ingenious, sensible man, a pretty
good writer, and a good governor for
the people."

Thus Franklin Mas throAvn upon the
great metroj^olisi Fortunately, within
the limits of the civilized world, a
printer, wherever cast, will always
alight iipon his feet. Franklin soon
found employment, and supported him-
self at his trade during his eighteen
months' residence in London. His
industry at this time was great as ever,
but, unhappily, the principles in which
he had been indoctrinated at home had
been gradually relaxed. He had a
shabby companion iu Ralph, who came
with him from Philadelj)hia, and sub-
sequently grew into a voluminous po-
litical writer, under the patronage of
Bubb Doddington. The two cronies
lived together in Little Britain ; we
are sorry to say their principles were
not of the best; theoretical infidelity
appears to have been their amusement,
and both were faithless to their obli-
gations to the fair they had left in
Amel"ica. Franklin forgot the lady
Miss Read, whom he had courted in
Philadelphia, and Ralph rather prided
himself on his abandonment of his wife
and child. The conclusion of the inti-
macy between the chums was Ralph's
borrowing Franklin's money, and
Franklin making love to his friend's
mistress in his absence.

Franklin also publislied, at tliis time,
" A Dissertation on Lilierty and Neces-
sity, Pleasure and Pain," inscribed to
his friend ; another erratum of his life,
he frankly admits. It led, however, to
his introduction to Dr. Mandeville, and
a club which he maintained. A casual
introduction to Sir Hans Sloane, who
called upon him to purchase a purse
of asbestos, may be mentioned as a sug-
gestive fact in the history of the future
man of science.

It is remarkable, again, how men of
eminence are attracted to this printer's
boy, Franklin. Sir William WjTid-
ham, afterwards Earl of Egremont,
hearing of his excellent qualifications
as a swimmer, was desirous of secur-
ing his services as the instnictor of his
sons. Franklin had now, however,
made up his mind to return home, led
by the inducements held out to him
in a trading scheme by a Mr. Denham,
whose acquaintance he had made on
the outer voyage.

On his return to Pennsylvania, in
the summer of 1726, he turned over a
new leaf, with fewer errata than the
blotted London pages. It is much to
be regretted that the plan for regu-
lating the future conduct of his life,
which he drew up on the voyage, al-
luded to in the Autobiography, is miss-
ing from the very interesting journal
of occurrences at sea to which we are
refeiTC'd. lie was now twenty, with
confirmed haljits of industry, a mind
trained to observation, an extraordi-
nary acquaintance with the world for
one of his years, and, fur his time and
country, a rare felicity in composition,
to state in print what he might think
or desire to accomi)lish. His style was

already fonned in sentences, clear, dis-
tinctly separated, terse and pointed, an
index of his mind and character, and
an admirable vehicle for his peculiar
sagacity and humor. We may see the
young man on the deck of the Berk-
shire, in mid Atlantic, calmly weigh-
ing his past career, rebuking its gravej;
offences, commending the diligence
which had been his preserver, scruti-
nizing carefully those minor morals, as
they have been called, of temper and the
proiDrieties, which may be cultivated to
j^jromote the great successes of life.

At Philadelphia he found his offi-
cious friend. Governor Keith, walking
the streets a private citizen, and his
neglected Ariadne, Miss Eead, the wife
of "one Rogers, a potter." His en-
gagement with Denham in store-keep-
ing prospered for a time, but was
speedily int^rnipted by the death of
that friend, and Benjamin, who thought
he had bid farewell to stick and case
forever, resumed his old employment
with Keimer, who had prospered in
the world.

One of his first steps in this new
residence at Philadelphia, was the for-
mation of his friends into a social and
literary club, to which he gave the
name The Junto. This society, founded
for mutual improvement by a few in-
telligent clerks and mechanics, lasted ^
for forty years, and became the basis
of the American Philosophical Society.
Out of this Junto came the great Phil-
adelphia Libraiy, " the mother of all
the North American subscription li-
braries." It was suggested bv the lit-
tle joint-stock collection of liooks of
Franklin's knot of scriveners, joiners,
and shoemakers.

198

BEN^JAimr FRANKLm.

"While these things were going on,
and Franklin was drawing up all sorts
of plans for knowledge and improve-
ment, he did not neglect the practical
part of life. His business as a printer
— he Avas now in partnership with his
friend Meredith, master of his own
olfice — was not neglected ; on the con-
trary, it throve wonderfully with his
ingenuity and a])])lication. One of his
early projects was the establishing of
a newspaper, for which there was then
an opening. He unhappily communi-
cated the plan, before he was quite
ready for its accom2:)lishment, to one
of his acquaintances in the profession,
who carried it to his rival, Keimer, by
whom he was anticipated. To counter-
act the influence of the new journal,
he threw the weight of his talents into
Andrew Bradford's gazette, "The
Weekly Mercury," to which he con-
tributed some half dozen cajiital es-
says of a series entitled "The Busy
Body." Keimer's feeble attempt fell
through before the end of a year, when
the "Pennsylvania Gazette" became
the property of Franklin and Mere-
dith. The two fi-iends commenced the
publication of the Gazette, September
25th, 1729. It Avas long continued
under the editorship of Franklin.

The year 1730 brought about Frank-
lin's match Avith Deborah Bead, the
lady to whom we have seen him en-
gaged before his visit to Europe, and
Avho was married in his absence. Her
husband proved to be a " worthless fel-
low," got into debt, and ran away to
the West Indies. He was, moreover,
laboring under the suspicion of having
another wife livincr in Ens-land. Frank-
lin took the risk of his comina: back.

v.'hich fortunately never happened, and
secured "a good and faithful help-
mate," the honored companion for for-
ty-four years of his long life, sharing
his rising efforts, living to witness his
brilliant successes in philosophy, and
rapidly growing importance in the
State.

In 1732 Franklin began tlie publi-
cation of his famous " Poor Bichard's
Almanac," vs'hich appeared annually
for a quarter of a century. It was a
great favorite with our forefathers, as
it well might be in those days Avith its
stock of useful information, and the
cheerful facetiousness and shrewd
Avorldly-Avise maxims, of temperance,
health, and good fortune, by its editor,
Bichard Saunders, Philomath, as he
called himself — for Franklin appeared
on its title-page only as j)rinter and
jjublisher. The maxims at the close
of the work in 1758 were collected into
a famous tract, " The Way to Wealth,"
AA'hich, printed on broad sheets, and
translated into various lanj^uaires, has
been long since incorporated into the
I^roverbial wisdom of the Avorld. By
some persons its lessons haA-e been
thought to give a rather avaricious
turn to the industry of the country ;
but there Avas nothing really in Frank-
lin or his philosophy to encourage par-
simony. BeneA^olence and true kind-
ness were laws of his nature, and if
he taught men to be prudent and
economical, it was that they might
be just and beneficent. We liaA^e not
only such spurs to activity as " Dili-
gence is the mother of good luck,"
and " One to-day is Avorth two to-mor-
roAvs," but a charitable Avord for
the unfortunate, and those Avho fall in

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

199

the race. . " It is hard," he says, " for
an empty sack to stand upright."

PuLlic duties now began to flow in
upon Franklin apace. In 173G he was
chosen clerk of the General Assembly,
Avhich gave him some incidental ad-
vantages in securing the printing of
the laws, and the following year was
appointed Deputy Postmaster in Phil-
adelphia. His hand is in everything
useful which is takinc^ its rise in Phil-
adelphia. lie is the Man of Ross in
the place, setting on foot a building
for Whitefield to preach in, instituting
fire companies, editing and puldishing
his newspaper, printing T)ooks, issuiiig,
in 1741, the "Ganeral Magazine and
Historical Chronicle," inventing his
Franklin stove in 1712, drawing up a
proposal for the establinhment of an
Academy in 1743, out of which grew
the University of Pennsylvania ; the
next year projecting and estal dishing
the American Philosophical Society ;
afterwards assisting in founding the
Pennsylvania Hospital.

The puldic business of the country
is now to raise Franklin to a wider
field of exertion than the city limits of
Philadelphia. In 1753 he is appoint-
ed by the department in London, Post-
master-General for the Colonies. The
following year he is sent by the Penn-
sylvania House of Assembly as a
member to the Congress of Commis-
sioners, meeting at Albany, to confer
Avith the Chief of the Six Nations, on
common means of defence. On his
way he draAvs up a plan for a general
system of Union of the Colonies, for
purposes of defence and tlie like,
which is the first time the word Union
is distinctly sounded among the States.

The Home Government saw too much
independence in the scheme, and sent
over General Braddock and his army
to fight the battles of the provincials
for them. Franklin waited upon the
consequential Englishman on his arri-
val, at Fredericktown, in Maryland,
assisted him greatly in his equipment
by means of his influence over the re-
sources of Pennsylvania, and proffered
some ffood advice as to Indian ambus-
cades, which the general was too fool-
hardy to listen to. Franklin shook
his head over the grand march through
the wilderness. He was called upon
at Philadelphia for a subscription to
the fire- works for the expected victory.
Upon his hesitating, one of the appli-
cants said with emphasis, " Why, you
surely don't suppose that the fort will
not be taken !" " I don't know," he
replied, " that it will not be taken ;
but I know that the events of war are
subject to great uncertainty." There
was one man at least in the land who
was not taken by surprise at the news
of Braddock's defeat. After this,
Franklin is himself employed by his
State in superintending its western
defences against the French and In-
dians; but when Governor MoitIs
talks of his making a military expedi-
tion against Fort Du Quesne, he shows
no disposition to follow in the foot-
prints of Braddock.

The philosophical studies of Frank-
lin were now taking form in numerous
experiments and inventions. His at-
tention appears to have been first call-
ed to the subject on a visit to'Boston,
in 174G, when he witnessed the experi-
ments of Dr. Spence, who had lately
come from Scotland. The arrival of a

20.0

BEXJAMIN FEA^'KLEN.

glass tube in Philadelphia, sent by the
ingenious Peter Collinson, of London,
with directions for its use, also stimu-
lated inquiry, ■which Franklin earned
on to advantage Avitli the imjiortant
assistance of his friend, Ebenezer Kin-
nersley. His first observations, in-
cluding his discovery of positive and
negative electricity, -were communicat-
ed in a letter to Collinson, dated July
11th, 1747. In 1749, he suggests the use
of pointed rods — the invention of the
lightning-rod— to draw electricity harm-
lessly to the ground or water. His
celebrated kite experiment, identify-
ing lightning and electricity, was made
at Philadelphia in the summer of 1752.
As his researches went on, the results
were communicated, through his cor-
respondent Collinson, to the Royal So-
ciety, but their publication at first fell
into the hands of Cave, the celebrated
publisher of the " Gentleman's Maga-
zine," by whom they were issued in
qiiarto. Of the style and philosophi-
cal merit of these communications,
which have a place in every history of
the science, we may cite the generous
testimony of Sir Humphrey Davy.
" A singular felicity of induction," he
says, " guided all Franklin's researches,
and by very small means he establish-
ed -very grand truths. The style and
manner of his publication on elec-
tricity are almost as worthy of admi-
ration as the doctrine it contains."

The honor conferred upon Franklin
for these communications and discov-
eries, by the Eoyal Society, in making
him a fellow, in 1756, was, contrary
to the regulations of that body, be-
stowed unsolicited when he was in
America.

One period of the life of Franklin
has now closed ; the printer and edi-
tor is henceforth to be lost in the pub-
licist and statesman. He had been
continued in the Legislature, counsel-
ling and assisting in the affairs of the
Province, studying thoroughly the
vices and defects of its monrrrel cov-
ernment, occasionally casting his eye
upon the map of the whole country,
when he was one day chosen by the
Assembly Agent of Pennsylvania to
represent its interests with the proprie-
taries and the government in England.
He arrived in London, the second time,
July 27th, 1757.

The immediate business which car-
ried Franldin to London, was the refu-
sal of the Proprietaries, the sons of
William Penn, the possessors of large
territory, and entitled to important
political control, to submit their lands
to a tax for the general welfare, which
the Assembly had imposed upon the
whole State. Reasonable as the pro-
position appears, it was so hedged in
by prescriptive rights and legal diffi-
culties, consultations with the Proprie-
taries, arguments before the Board of
Trade, and impinged so greatly upon
the royal prerogative, that it was three
years before the vexed discussion was
brought to a close in favor of the Pro-
vince. "While this political litigation
was pending, a memorable publication,
the "Historical Review of Pennsyl-
vania," appeared in London. It was
a pungent account of the Provincial
management, was Avritten with ability,
and was generally attributed to Frank-
lin ; but he appears only to have as-
sisted in its preparation.

He, however, published another

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

201

pamphlet of wider scope, wliicli ren-
dered a signal service to bis country.
This was his tract entitled " The Inter-
est of Great Britain Considered," a re-
view of the motives for retaining
Canada in the approaching peace with
France. In this year of the publica-
tion of the Canada pamphlet, Frank-
lin was elected a member of the Coun-
cil of the Koyal Society ; and we find
him subsequently placed on its com-
mittees in reference to the introduc-
tion and use of lightning rods.

Franklin — the University of Oxford
had now made him Doctor of Laws —
returned to America in 17G2, honored
as a philosopher abroad, Avith many
nolile friendships with good and active
minded men ; to be greeted at home
with enthusiasm for the discharge of
his agency, and assigned new employ-
ment in the provincial service. Two
years later, the turn of events brings
him again in London, as the agent of
his State, which, in common with the
other colonies, listened with alarm to
rumors of Stamp Acts and other ag-
gressions of the mother country. No
more astute counsellor could he for-
warded to cope with the diplomacy of
the old world. It is soon perceived
through the length and breadth of
America. Georgia, at one extremity,
adds him to her delegation, and Massa-
chusetts at another. He is also agent
for New Jersi-y. Called Ijefore par-
liament in 170(), without special pre-
paration, he answers fully and shrewd-
ly all (juestions proposed. There is
enough wisdom in liis responses to
save an empire, if the Britisli rejire-
Bentatives had ears to hear. Shrewdly
again, six years later — so long a time

21!

is given the British nation for reflec-
tion before this fatal drama is hurried
to its catastrophe — does he manage
that affair of the intercepted Hutchin-
son Letters, which removed the last
veil from the insincerity of British
placemen in America, opening the
eyes, not only of Massachusetts, but
of a continent, to the necessity before
it.

Events were now rapidly approach-
ing a crisis. The old Continental Con-
gress met in Philadelphia, and for-
warded its eloquent, weighty remon-
strances to king, parliament and peo-
ple. Franklin incorporated theii* sug-
gestions with Avisdom of his own in
pleas and remonstrances; Lord Chat-
ham heard him gladly and strength-
ened his own convictions by his warn-
ings; there was talk of rconciliatiou
and adjustments within parliament
and without — all circling about Frank-
lin, and all came to nothing. The ])lii-
losopher kept his finger on the ])ul.se
of the nation; he saw the madness
fixed, and, having no relish for an idle
residence in the Tower on bread and
water, opportunely depai-ted for Amer
ica, after ten years of fruitless moni
tions to England.

Landing in America the 5th of ^lay,
1775, he heard of the battle of Lexing-
ton. It was fought while he was on
the Atlantic, perhaps while the ])hilo-
sopher was meditating those exjieri-
ments on its waters which resulted in
the discovery of the temperature of
the Gulf stream. He was now tt) study
the fever heats of his countrymen, and
distinguish l)etween lukewarninessaud
resolution among men. He was elected
immediately to the second Continental

203

BENJAMIN FKANKLIX.

Congress, counselling with tlie wisest
of his land while he assisted in the
military defence of his State as a mem-
ber of its Committee of Safety. In
Congress he drafted articles of Con-
federation, was appointed Postmaster-
General, visited the camp of Wash-
ington at Camlrridge- — think of the
runaway apprentice of half a century
before takiiifj this tjlance at his native
town — is sent to Canada to negotiate
insiirrection, and on that memorable
day of July, at the age of seventy,
puts his neat, flowing signature to the
Declaration of Indej^endence. "AVe
must be unanimous," said Hancock,
on this occasion ; " there must be no
pulling different ways; we must all
hang together." "Yes," answered
Franklin, " we must, indeed, all hang
together, or most assuredly we shall
all hang separately."

This Ulysses of many counsels is
next at the head of a Convention at
Philadelphia, framing a State Consti-
tution, in which, with less wisdom
than usual, he advocated a single leg-
islative assembly; anon we find him
travelling to Staten Island, sleeping in
the same bed with John Adams, and
philosophically arguing that statesman
to repose with a curtain dissertation
on opening the window for ventila-
tion,* as the commissioners pursued
their way to a fruitless interview with
Lord Howe. A month later and he is
on his way to Paris, accompanied by
his grandsons, William Temple Frank-
lin and Benjamin Franklin Bache, a
commissioner to negotiate a treaty and

* This incident, related by John Adams in
his Autobiography (Works, III., 75), is too
characteristic to be omitted.

alliance Avith the French monarch. His
residence at the capital, apart from the
toilsome business of his American ne-
gotiations, which taxed all his re-
sources and equanimity, has an air of
genteel comedy and stage triumph.
He is courted and flattered by ladies
of distinction ; there is a very pretty
mot complimentary to the j')hiIosoj)her,
of ]\Iadame de Chaumont, when the
young and beautiful Mademoiselle de
Passy is married to the Marquis de
Tonnere, " Ilclas ! tons les conduc-
teurs de Monsieur Franklin n'ont pas
empeche le tonnerre de tomber sur
Mademoiselle de Passy;" writes out
for Madame Brillon and the rest his
pretty, Avise fables in mo.st delightful
prose; the venerable sage trifles as
gallantly as a youth of twenty ; his
portraits and l)ust are everywhere.
Turgot writes his splendid epigraph —

" Eripuit coelo fulmen, sceptrumque tyran
nis " —

the statesman and philo.sopher is in
troduced to the kina; and court at Ver-
sailles, and thus the man diligent in
business comes to realize the j^roverb
and stand before kings, not before
mean men. It is his own application
somewhere in his Autobiography of
the saying of Solomon.

We may not here pause over the
negotiations at Paris, which belong as
well to others and altogether to the
general page of history, but must
hasten to the final settlement. Suffice
it that in the most intricate perplex-
ities, civil, naval and military, of em-
barrassed finance and threatened polit-
ical actions, perplexed by Arthur Lee,
supporting Jay at Madrid and Paul
Jones on the ocean, smoothing, aiding,

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

203

contriving and assisting by word and
l)y pen, always sagacioiis, always to
the point, whether commissioner or
plenipotentiary, he steers the bark of
his country to the desired haven. He
signs with Jay the preliminary Treaty
of Peace with Great Britain and its
final ratification, September 3d, 1783.
Continuing his duties for awhile, he
finally, burdened with infirmities, left
Paris in July, 1785, passed a few days
in England, and reached Pliiladelphia
in September. A grateful nation, fi-om
the highest to the lowest, honored
his return. America, too, had yet
other duties in store for her rep-
resentative son. He held for three
years the Presidency of Pennsylvania
under its old Constitution, and when,
at the instigation of Hamilton and
Madison, the chiefs of the nation
assembled, under the Presidency of
Washinffton, to fonn the Constitu-
tion of the United States, Franklin
was there, counsellino- and suG-ccestins:
as ever, and pouring oil on the trou-
bled waters of controversy.

The venerable Nestor of three gene-
rations; born in the old Puritan time,
with the shades of the past hanging
about his home; traversing the mili-
taiy period of two wars, from Wolfe
to Washington, from Quebec to York-
town ; privileged to partake of the
new era of laws and legislation — the
old sage, full of years and honors, has
now at lenirtli finished liis work. He
has inaugurated a new period in phi-
losophy; he has heralded new princi-
ples in politics; he has sliowm his
countrymen how to think and write;
he has embalmed the wisdom of his
life in immortal compositions; lie has

blessed two great cities with associa-
tions of pleasure and profit clustering
about his name; he has become the
proi")erty of the nation and the world :
there is nothing^ further but retirement
and death. His daughter, IVIrs. Bache,
and his family of grandchildren were
with him in his home in Market Street,
Philadelphia, as the inevitable day
came on. He suffered much from his
disorder, the stone, but was seldom
without his mental employments and
consolations. His homely •wisdom and
love of anecdote, it is pleasing to learn,
kept him company to the last. He
died about eleven o'clock at night,
April 17th, 1790.

Is it necessary to describe the person
or draw the character of Franklin?
His efligy is at every turn ; that figure
of average height, full — a little pleth
oric, perhaps — the broad countenance
beaming benevolence fi'om the specta-
cled grey eye — the whole appearance
indicatins: calmness and confidence.
Such in age, as we all choose to look
upon him, was the man Franklin.
Within, who shall paint, save himself,
in the small library of his writings,
the mingling of sense and humor, of
self-denial and benevolence, the whim-
sical, sagacious, benevolent mind of
Franklin, ever bent upon utility, ever
conducting to somethinsr asrreeable and
advantageous ; the great inventor, the
profound scicTitific in((uirer, the far-
seeing statesman ; masking his worth
by his modesty ; falling short, perhaps,
of the loftiest heights of philosophy,
but finnly treading the path of com-
mon life, slieltering its nakedness, and
ministering in a thousand ways to its
comforts and pleasures.

ROBERT BURNS

EGBERT BURNS belonged by
birth to the peasant or small far
mer class of Scotland, his father, Wil
liam Burness, as he wrote the name
the son of a farmer in Kincardineshire,
having been driven by family misfor-
tunes in his youth, on the breaking up
of his home, to seek employment as a
gardener in the neighborhood of Ed-
inburgh, whence he travelled to Ayr-
shire, and after some employment in
gardening took a lease of seven acres
of land hard by the town of Ayr, with
the intention of carrying on the busi-
ness of a nurseryman. He married in
December, 1757, Agnes Brown, the
daughter of a Carrick farmer, whom
he brought to reside in a humble clay
cottage which he had built with his
own hand on his land. On that spot,
within a short distance of two famous
objects celebrated in his writings, the
bridge of Doon and Kii'k AUoway,
the poet, Robert Burns, was born, on
the 25th of January, 1759. The cot-
tage, which now presents a pretty sta-
ble appearance to the observation of
literary pilgrims, at the time of Rob-
ert's birth was but a crude attempt at
architecture, for a few nights after that
event, the gable was driven out in a

(204)

severe storm, and the building so shat
tered that the mother was compelled
to flee with her son through the in
clemency of the weather and take re
fuge in a neighbor's house.

The father of the poet was a man
of integrity and streugth of character,
and had that trait of the best Scot-
tish peasantry, which has done so much
to raise them in the estimation of the
world, a high regard for the value of
education to his children. He is de-
scribed by his son as possessed, from
his many wanderings and sojouruings,
of " a pretty large quantity of obser-
vation and experience." He had met
with few, he says, " who understood
men, their manners and their ways
equal to him," and that he was in-
debted to him " for most of his little
pretensions to wisdom." The world
know something of the man and of his
earnest religious feelings from that
genial picture of a Scottish peasant's
household, "The Cotter's Saturday
Night," in which —

Kneeling down to heaven's eternal King,
The saint, the father and the husband prays.

The poem was inspired by the author's
vivid impressions of the simple ser-

lP^ov6A/ flm^nd

ROBERT BURWS.

205

vices daily before him at home. It is
customaiy to refer the abilities of men
of genius to qualities derived from their
mothers, perhaps without sufficient ex-
amination of the claims of their fathers :
but Burns certainly owed much to his
ftither ; while he was no doubt also
greatly indebted to his mother, the
worthy, patient, affectionate wife who
relieved the hours of wearisome toil
by chaunting the old ballads of Scot-
land, one of which in particular as it
came from her lijis, " The Life and Age
of Man," made a great impression upon
Robert, and is said to have left its
traces in his Avell-known lyric, " Man
was made to Mourn."

At the time of the birth of the
poet, his father, not having succeeded
in establishing the nursery which he
proposed, engaged as gardener and
overseer to a gentleman who had a
small estate in the neighborhood He
continued in this position for six or
seven years and acquitted himself so
well in it that at the expiration of that
time Mr. Ferguson, his employer, leas-
ed him a farm of about seventy acres
called Mount Oliphant, assisting him
with a loan for stocking it, and the
next twelve years of his life were pass-
ed in laborious and unprofitable efforts
in its cultivation. The land was of
the poorest quality, involving the fa-
ther with his increasing family in a
hard fight for existence — a contest
which he luaiutaincd with heroic reso-
lution that he might assist his children
at home. In 1 777 this barren farm was
left for another named Locldea, with a
l)etter soil, some ten miles distant ; but
difficulties arose respecting the lease,
the elder Burns was harassed l)y a law-

suit groAving out of them, and in this
state of perplexity and despaii*, ruined
in fortune, died a broken-hearted man
in 1784. The period of these strug-
gles, twenty-five years, passed in hard
ship and privation, fully developed
the character of Robert Burns, one of
Scotland's greatest poets. It is a mis-
take to rank him at any time of his
life with rude, uneducated peasant
poets. He had humble fortunes, want,
penury, invohnng coarse and hard labor,
to contend •\\'ith ; it was a wonderful
thing for him to arise to the height of
literary excellence which he attained,
requiring that species of insjiiration
which is called genius ; but ft-om his
earliest years he was never without
some good influences of education and
even of literature and learningr. In
his sixth year he was sent to a school
in the vicinity of his birth-place at Al-
loway Miln, kept by a teacher named
Campbell, and when this person left
to take charge of the workhouse at
Ayr, William Burns, Robert's father,
with several of his neighbors, engaged
a new instructor to take his place.
This was John Murdoch, a man wor-
thy of honorable mention in the biog-
raphy of Burns. He was of an ami-
able disposition, skilled in grammatical
studies, with an excellent knowledge of
French, indeed a proficient in that lan-
guage, having taught it in France and
being the author of one or two books
on its pronunciation and orthogra})hy.
After two or three years Murdoch left
Ayrshire for another part of tlie coun-
try.

In the absence of the teacher the
father supplied his place. When the
labors of the day were over, he instnic-

206

ROBERT BURNS.

ted his cliildren in tlie evening in arith-
metic. He taught them something of
history ami geography fi'oin Salmon's
Geographical Grammar, and of astrono-
my and natural history from Derham's
Physics and Astro-Theology and Ray's
"Wisdom of God in the Creation, all of
which Avorks he borro^ved for the occa-
sion. Kobert, we are told, read all these
books with avidity and industry, and
any others which fell in his way as he
grew up. The collection was not a
large one, but it was sufficiently mis-
cellaneous, including Stackhouse's His-
tory of the Bible, from which he gath-
ered a knowledge of ancient history ; a
collection of English letters by the most
eminent writers, which set him upon
epistolary composition, in which he af-
terwards became a great proficient ; and,
within a few years, Richardson's Pame-
la, which was the first novel he read;
Smollett's Peregrine Pickle and Count
Fathom, some plays of Shakespeare,
The Sjiectator, Poj^e's translation of
Homer, Locke on the Hiiman Under-
standing, Hervey's Meditations, with
several others, the most important of
which were the works of Allan Ram-
say, and a collection of English songs,
entitled the Lark. These, with that
accompaniment to all Scottish homes,
however humble, the Holy Bible, cer-
tainly afforded no mean mental nour-
ishment to a youth of genius. Nor
was this all the dii-ect education the
future poet received. His father, still
careful for his instruction, after the
withdrawal of Murdock, sent him to a
school at Dalrymple, two or three miles
away, to gain improvement in his hand-
writing, and when Mm-dock some time
after was settled as master of the Eng-

lish school in the to^vn of Ayr, Robert
passed three Aveeks with him, which
were employed in revising his gram-
matical studies, and gaining some
knowledge of French, a study which
he pursued with such zeal, that he was
in a short time able to read any ordi-
nary prose in the language. To Latin
he took less kindly, making very tri-
fling progress in that tongue.

All this was much, very much, for a
youth who was constantly engaged
from sheer necessity in toiling in the
farm lalior to assist his overworked
parent in gaining the daily l)read of
the family. He worked faithfully and
industriously, assisted his parents with
his best efforts, and found his solace in
the gratification of his tender humane
disposition — for we read that he was
kind above measure to the young reap-
ers in the field, and that the very cat-
tle were affectionately treated by him —
and he had moreover the old Scottish
songs to cheer him, and his growing ac-
quaintance with the wealth of English
literature. But above all, there was
early developed in him, with a fervor
of passion inconceivable by a duller
nature, a romantic and engrossing love
of woman. This was the great solace
of his life, and this was the first and
most constant inspiration of his muse.

The poet's course after this time, as
the boy was developed into the man,
was upward and onward. The rugged
farm life was somewhat mitigated under
his father's lease of the new land at
Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton.
The lease was continued for seven
years and ended, as we have seen, in
failure and bankruptcy, with the death
of the elder Burns. This period em

ROBERT BURNS.

207

braced the life of Robert from his
nineteentli to his twenty-sixth year.
It furnishes a number of incidents of
mucli interest in his history, relating to
his opening acquaintance with the
world, his observations of life and the
development of his poetic faculty. It
has been thought worth recording by
his biographers that at the age of
eighteen he was taught dancing, a
fact perhaps of some importance in
reference to his subsequent fi'ee par-
ticipation in country revels and junk-
etings, in which he picked up many a
subject for his muse. A circumstance
of at least equal consequence was his
being sent at nineteen by his parents
to learn mensuration and siu'veying
from a noted mathematician who kept
a school at Kirkoswald, on the Carriek
coast, overlooking the Firth of Clyde.
It was his mother's parish, and Robert
was sent to stay with an uncle residing
there. The place was famons for
smuo-olino;, and Burns added consider-
aldy to his knowledge of what is called
" life," by the acquaintance which he
made with the wild revellers who car-
ried on the contraband trade. " Scenes
of swaggering riot and roaring dissi-
pation," says he, " were till this time
new to me ; but I was no enemy to
social life. Here, though I learnt to
fill my glass, and to mix without fear
in a drunken squab1)le, yet I went on
with a high hand in my geometry, till
the sun eiiti'red Virgo, a month ■which
is always a carnival in my bosom,
when a charming^^/f/^, who lived next
door to the school, overset my trigo-
nometry and set me oft' at a tangent
from the .sphere of my studies. I,
however, struggled on Avith my sines

and co-sines for a few days more ; but
stepping into the garden one charming
noon to take the sun's altitude, there
I met my angel,

' Like Proserpine, gathering flowers,
Herself a fairer flower.'

It was in vain to think of doing any
more good at school. The remaining
week I stayed, I did nothing but craze
the faculties of my soul aT)out her, or
steal out to meet her; and the two
last nights of my stay in the country^
had sleep been a mortal sin, the image
of this modest and innocent girl had
kept me guiltless." The rustic damsel
who produced this extraordinary effect
upon the youthful enthusiast was
named Peggy Thompson.

But the time of Burns was not all
given to love and mathematics. He
had an acquaintance in a fellow schol-
ar wdth whom he walked apart and
discussed various questions of manners
and morals, such as form the staple of
the exercises in youthful debating so
cieties. The master heard of this, and
undertook to rebuke what he consid-
ered their nonsensical disputations.
The topic of the day upon which he
fell foul of them, happened to be,
" Whether a great general or a respec-
table merchant was the most valuable
member of society." He laughed at
this as incomparably silly, when Burns
proposed to him tliat if he woxdd take
either side of the question, he Avould
maintain the other before the school.
The mathematical pedagogue in an evil
moment assented, and took up the de-
fence of the military hero, when Burns
bore down upon him so triumpliantly
witli his eloquent assertion of the pre

208

ROBEET BLTENS.

tensions of the merchant, that the dis-
comfited master was compelled to break
up the house in confusion. Under or-
dinary circumstances, the anecdote
would not be worth much, for no wise
school-master would risk a contest be-
fore an audience of his own scholars —
but it exhibits in Burns an unusual de-
velopment of the logical and conversa-
tional powers which greatly distin-
guished him in after life. At Kirkos-
wald, also, Burns studied various hu-
mors of men, particularly of a certain
Douglas Graham, somewhat addicted to
smuggling, and his superstitious wife,
Helen McTaggart, living on their farm
of Shanter — who subsequently furnish-
ed the poet with the leading characters
of his immortal " Tam O' Shanter." The
poet likewise at this time added to his
store of reading the works of Thomson
and Shenstone, both fruitful in his lit-
erary growth ; while on leaving the
place he engaged several of his school-
fellows to keep up a correspondence
^^dth him. " This," he says, " improv-
ed me in composition. I had met with
a collection of letters by the wits of
Queen Anne's reign (already alluded
to), and I pored over them most de-
voutly : I kept copies of any of my own
letters that pleased me ; and a compar-
ison between them and the composition
of most of my correspondents flattered
my vanity. I carried this whim so far,
that though I had not three farthings'
worth of business in the world, yet al-
most every post brought me as many
letters as if I had been a broad plod-
ding son of day-book and ledger."

On his settling down aacain at the
paternal farm. Burns, faithful to his
labors in ploughing and tilling, yet

found time for social amusements and
mental improvement, which, with his
cordial disposition, he pursued with
his friends. In the year 1780, we find
him engaged in planning and conduct-
ing a " Bachelors' Club " at Tarbolton,
with his brother and some half dozen
other associates, young men of the place,
who met to discuss familiar tojiics of
every-day life, among which love and
matrimony seem to have held an espe-
cial place.

One of the members of this "Bache-
lors' Club," was David Sillar, a yoimg
man with something of the poetic fac-
ulty, who is numbered among the po-
ets of Scotland, having published a
volume of verses at Kilmarnock, some
years after the date of the events we
are recording, in 1789. He was an in-
telligent associate of Bums, was on
intimate terms at his father's hoxise,
and accompanied the poet on his walks,
discussing topics of high import, till
one of the fail* sex came in sight, when,
farewell to discourse and companion-
ship. Burns was by the side of the
charmer in a moment, talking with her
with an ease and freedom of conversa-
tion which Sillar confesses that he ad-
mired and envied. With this social
development, came now and then a
new book or two, and all of the
right sort, fit aliment for the poet's
mental and moral growth. Foremost
amons these he mentions as his " bos-
om favorites," the works of Sterne and
Mackenzie, "Tristram Shandy" and
" The Man of Feeling," the latter, he
says about this time, on another occa-
sion, " I prize next to the Bible ;"
while of the writings of Sterne, he es-
pecially singles out for admiration

ROBEKT BURNS.

209

that most exquisite of all novelettes,
" TLe Sentimental Journey."

New loves were in the meantime in-
spiring neAV poems. " Poesy," he
wi-ites, "was still a darling walk for
my mind, but it was only indulged in
according to the humor of the hour.
I had usually half-a-dozen or more
pieces on hand ; I took up one or the
other, as it suited the momentary tone
of the mind, and dismissed the work as
it bordered on fotigue. My passions,
when once lighted up, raged like so
many devils, till they got vent in
rhyme ; and then the conning over my
verses, like a spell, soothed all into
quiet."

Meanwhile, in his twenty-third year,
he attempted a diversion fi-om the rug-
ged home agricultural life, with a view
of bettering his fortunes and with the
honorable motive of placing himself in
a situation to marry. He had, witli
his lirother Gill)ert, for several years,
cultivated a portion of the farm in
raising flax on their own account. He
thought he could add to his profits by
encasincc in the business of flax-dress-
ing. He accordingly joined himself to
a flax-dresser in the neighboring town
of Irvine, and wrought for six months
at the new occupation, which he found
in accordance Avith neither his health
nor inclination. " It was an unlucky
aifair," lie says, in his autobiography,
and had a cliaracteristic endins:. " To
finish the whole, as we were giving a
welcome carousal to the new year, the
shop took fire and ])urnt to ashes, and
I was left, like a true i)oet, not worth a
sixpence." While at Irvine, lie became
a freemason, and was consequently in-
troduced to a more convivial life than
27

that to which he had been accustomed,
and made the acquaintance of some
reckless persons who led him something
astray from the simplicity of his fath-
er's household. A more noticeable ac-
quaintance, however, than any other
which he made at Lochlea, was that of
that thoroughly Scottish poet, Robert
Ferguson, who taught him how to em-
ploy his muse upon the characters of
familiar every-day life. He preceded
Burns in authorship some fifteen years,
and in the words of Chambers, " may
be considered his poetical progenitor."
What Ferguson had done for the to^^^l
hiimors of Edinburgh, his successor
was soon to accomplish, Avith greater
unction, for the pro^nncial life of Ayr
shire. Returning to Lochlea, he wit-
nessed in sorrow, almost in despair,
the hardships and misfortunes of the
last few years of his venerated father's
life.

Immediately after the death of this
parent, in the spring time of 1784,
Robert and his brother Gilbert entered
upon the cultivation of a farm in the
neighboring parish of Mauchline,which
they had engaged in anticipation of
the bankruptcy proceedings of the land-
lord at Lochlea. This was Mossgiel, a
spot memorable in the poet's history,
for there, during his two years' resi-
dence, he produced some of his most
felicitous poems, and there too formed
his acquaintance with Jean Armour,
whom he celebrated in verse as fore-
most among the belles of Mauchline ;
with whom he engaged in an irregular
attachment, and to whom, after much
embarrassment from their illicit inter
course, he was finally married. " It is
a remarkable circumstance," writes

210

ROBERT BURXS.

Robert Chambers in his exhaustive
memoir of Burns, " that the mass of
the poetry which has given this extra-
ordinary man his pi-incipal fame, burst
from him in a comparatively short
space of time — certainly not exceeding
fifteen months. It bes^an to flow of a
sudden, and it ran on in one impetuous
brilliant stream, till it seemed to have
become, comparatively speaking ex-
haiisted." The period thus denoted
was bet^veen the poet's twenty-sixth
and twenty-eighth years.

Somehow, about this time, the poet
got athwart the clergy, and satirized
the old Calviuistic spirit as it ran
counter to the latitudinarian tenden-
cies of the New Lights, as the members
of the moderate party, which about
that time arose in the Scottish church,
were called. The poet had been senti-
mental and playful in his earlier effu-
sions; but in such compositions as
" Holy Willie's Prayer " he showed the
power and severity of his muse. There
was a fiery element in the soul of this
high-spirited plowman, keen and sub-
tle as that of Dante, on occasion. Con-
trasting with the bitter but humorous
satire of the poems to which we allude,
are such productions as that happy
rustic idyll "Halloween," and the
heartfelt home beauty of religion in
her best attire in " The Cotter's Satur-
day Night." Take one other poem of
the series where all are excellent, " The
Jolly Beggars," upon the whole, per-
haps, in its peculiar kind, the finest
exhibition of the author's powers, in
which character, manners, a novelist's
description of real life humorous to
the highest degree, with a high gusto
of poetical expression, are penetrated

throughout by a glowing imagination.
It is a Teniers picture of low life of
the richest warmth and coloring.

Singiilarly enough, this poem, now
one of the most valued of the author's
works, was for a long time denied a
place in the collection. It does not
a2:)13ear in the Kilmarnock or Edin-
burgh editions of the poet's lifetime,
or in that prepared by Dr. Currie after
his death. The subject and its hand-
ling are peculiarly adapted for artistic
illustration. The poem fortunately at-
tracted the attention of George Cruik-
shank, when at the height of his powers.
His series of etchings in illustration of
the operetta, for such it is, admiralily
supj)lements its rare humors. Every
one must regret that, in consequence of
the early neglect to produce the poem
in print, two of its songs, connected by
a few verses of recitative matter ex-
hibiting the character of a chimney
sweep and a sailor, omitted by the au-
thor after the first copy, have been ir-
recoverably lost.

The exercise of his faculties in po-
etry must have been to Burns during
these months of 1784 and 1785 his best
consolation, for his farming oj^erations,
in spite of his efforts and the prudence
of his brother, were proving a failure,
and he had entangled himself in the
most unhappy manner in his love affair
with Jean Armour. She was about to
become a mother. Her father was in-
exorable, refusing to accept a written
acknowledgment of her as his wife
given by Burns, a document which,
according to the law of Scotland, was
sufficient to constitute a valid thoiigh
irregular marriage. He had no ex-
pectation of good fortune from a thrift-

ROBERT BURKS.

211

less poet, and induced his daughter
to forsake a man who might now have
been considered as her husband. The
unhappiness growing out of these cir-
cumstances cast Burns into the deepest
misery, of which we have the most
touching expression in his poem enti-
tled " The Lament, occasioned by the
unfortunate issue of a friend's amour."
" In this perplexity he turned his
thoughts to exile in the new world,
resolving to go to the "West Indies,
where many of his countrymen were
employed on the plantations as over,
seers. He made his preparations and
actually engaged himself as book-
keeper to a Mr. Douglas, on his estate
in Jamaica. To raise money for his
passage, it was suggested to him that
he should publish his poems T)y sub-
scription. There was naturally much
that was pleasing to him in the pro-
posal. "I was pretty confident," he
writes, "my poems would meet with
some applause ; but, at the worst, the
roar of the Atlantic would deafen the
voice of censure, and the novelty of
West Indian scenes make me forget
neglect."

This was in the spring of 1736. Sub-
scription papers for an edition of his
poems were printed and circulated
among the author's friends, who now
num])ered most of the cultivated gen-
tlemen, professional and others, of Ayi'-
shirc. While the proposals were being
di.stril)utc'(l the author penned several
new poems, reflecting with much deli-
cacy and feeling the melancholy which
now oppressed him. One of these is
among the best known and mo<t high-
ly aj)j)reciated of his compositions, the
verses, 'To a Mountain Daisy, on turn-

ing one down with the plow in April,
1786." By the side of the beautiful
picture in the poem of the lark spring-
ing blithely upward " to greet the pur-
pling east, " and the lowly beauty of
the tender flower crushed in the fur-
row, we read in the poet's broken af-
fections the secret of this sympathy
with nature. This poem we are told
by the poet's brother Gilbert was com-
posed on the occasion and while the
author was holding the plow, "hold-
ing the plow being a favorite situation
with Robert for poetic compositions,
and some of his best verses produced
while he was at that exercise." There
is, indeed, a fi-ee open-air flavor about
them all.

The titles of other poems, "Despond-
ency," " To Ruin," are equally suggest-
ive of sorrow and suftering. An
" Epistle to a young friend," the son
of his patron Robert Aiken, also bears
witness to the poet's generous nature,
magnanimous alike in its penitence
and manly aspii'ations.

There are other poems in the au-
thor's first collection tinged with the
melancholy of this period of the au-
thor's life, as that dirge of humanity,
" Man was Made to Mourn."

We are not to suppose, however,
that Burns, overpowering as seemed to
be his afflictions, was wholly given up
to melancholy. The same force of
imagination which aii2:ravated his
sense of disappointment and stimu-
lated those feelings of remorse which
only a generous nature can feel in their
intensity, hurried him at other mo-
ments into a vivid enjoyment of the
fleeting pleasures of the hour. He
was easily moved as ever by the channa

212

ROBERT BURNS.

of love and friendship. If he was foi*
tne time deserted l)y his " honuy Jean,"
his friends, who Avarmly appreciated
liis poetical productions and had the
warmest affection for the man, were
faithful. Nor was the elegiac poet
without resources in his distress with
that sex wliich was associated with so
mucli of his misery. A new passion
on the instant took possession of his
heai-t. Rejected by the Armours, he
turned his thoughts to a young girl of
his acquaintance, Mary Camjjbell, " a
sweet, sprightly, blue-eyed creature,"
of decent Highland parentage, whose
early and unhappy death awakened all
the poet's sympathies and is commem-
orated in one of the finest of his l}Tics.
In a short time the subscription to
the poems was sufficient to secure an
arrangement for their publication with
John Wilson, a bookseller at Kilmar-
nock. Six hundred copies were print-
ed, of which three hundred and fifty
were subscribed for before the work was
issued, about the beginning of August,
1786. The remainder were rapidly
disposed of, twenty pounds falling to
the author after all expenses were paid.
A part of the proceeds was appropri-
ated to a steerage passage in a vessel
which was to sail from Greenock to
Jamaica in September. Happily the
sailing of the ship was delayed and
in the interim the rapid success of the
volume of Poems inspired the author
with new hopes and led to the aban-
donment of the voyage altogether.
The merits of the thirty-six poems
which composed the volume, com-
mencing with that exquisitely humor-
ous and truthful picture of high and
low life, " The Twa Dogs," and includ-

ing such striking exhibitions of genius
and originality as "Poor Maillie,"
" Halloween," " The Holy Fair," with
the various songs and e])istles, were
not to be mistaken. The variety was
extraordinary in the forms of com-
position and the spirit which animated
them " from grave to gay, from lively
to severe." There was rare descrip-
tive talent, invention in incident, char-
acter and grouping, philosophical re-
flection, sentiment and satire in song
and story. The sul)tlest humor, the
lively current of the blood, ran through
the whole. The subjects were famil-
ial", personal, domestic and patriotic.
There was not a bright intellect or a
feeling heart in all Scotland which
could be insensible to their treatment.
It was a book for all classes, which
could be appreciated by the educated
and uneducated, for it united the
rarest simplicity with the purest art.
Among the persons in the poet's neigh
borhood who appreciated the volume
was a clergyman of the moderate party,
the Rev. George Lawrie, who was in
intimate communication with a num-
ber of the distinguished literati of
Edinburgh. He sent a copy of the
poems to one of these personages who
was held in great esteem as a critic,
the Rev. Dr. Blacklock — a character
of some note in the metropolis, for
though blind from his infancy, he had
attained celebrity as a poet and cler
gyman, and was universally esteemed
for his amiability. He received the
gift mth a genuine expression of ap-
plause. " There is," he said in the let-
ter which he sent in return, " a pathos
and delicacy in the serious poems, a
vein of wit and humor in those of a

KOEERT BURNS.

213

more festive turn, wliicli cannot be too
much admired, nor too warmly ap-
proved; and I tliiuk I sliall never
open the book without feeling my as-
tonishment renewed and increased."
The effect of this letter upon the poet
in awakening his ambition may be
imagined, coming as it did with other
flatterincT evidences of the hold he had
taken upon influential persons of emi-
nence. He is presently entertained
by Professor Dugald Stewart at his
villa near Mossgiel, where he is intro-
duced to a lord, a son of the Earl of
Selkirk, a cii'cumstance which he
thought of importance enough to be
celebrated in verse.

The critical Dr. Blair also admired,
pronouncing " The Holy Fair," a work
" of a very fine genius," and the poet
gained from the " Cotter's Saturday
Night," the friendship of a lady,
Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop, a lineal de-
scendant of the hero WaHace, which
was perpetuated in an uninterrupted
correspondence through his life. En-
couraged by these and the like atten-
tions. Burns resolved u])on the publi-
cation of a new edition of his poems
under his own supervision at Edin-
burgh. He set out for the capital,
some sixty miles distant from his
home in Ayrshire, in the latter end of
November, riding on a pony borowed
for the occasion from his friend and
neiglibor at Ayr, ]\Ir. Dalrym])le. On
liis way he received what in the news-
paper language of the present day is
called an ovation. By previous ar-
rangement he was to rest at the close
of his first day's travel at the house of
one of the admirers of his jioetry, a
Mr. Prentice, in a village of Lauai-k-

shire. A late dinner was provided, at
which the farmers of the parish were
assembled and kept up the festivity
in honor of their guest into the early
hours of the morning. "Scotch drink"
we may be sure flowed pretty freely
on the occasion. The host was no half-
way appreciator of the poet. A strict-
ly moral and religious man himself, he
said on one occasion when somebody
was talking of an apologist for Burns
— " What ! do iliey apologize for him !
One-half of his good, and all his bad,
divided among a score o' them, would
make them a' the better men ! "

On his arrival at Edinburgh he
took refuge in the huml>le hospitality
of a foi'mer acquaintance in Ayrshire
who had been a clerk to his friend
Hamilton, but who was now a writer's
apijrentice in the city. The two now
occupied a common room and bed.
Burns seems to have passed his first
days in wanderings about the towTi
and surveying the wonders of the
scene fi'om Arthur's Seat to the castle.

He hunted up the unmarked grave
of Ferguson in the church-yard of the
Canongate and kneeling down kissed
the sod which covered his remains.
Before he left the city he took care
that a stone should be erected on the
spot for which he ^vrote a poetical in-
scri])tion. He owed many a hint in the
composition of his poems to Ferguson,
and there is something very pleasing
in this ])rompt payment of the debt
of gratitude. He also sought out the
house which liad been occupied by
Allan Bamsay and took oft" his hat on
entering it. Not many days passed
before the poet was brought into no-
tice. His masonic brotherhood here,

ROBERT BUR.NS.

as on other occasions, served him. He
was introduced by his friend Dalrym-
ple, who appears to have been as much
at home in Edinlnirgh as at Ap-, at a
lodge meeting, to the lion. Henry
Erskine, Dean of the Faculty of Ad-
vocates, a great favorite in the metrop-
olis, who proved a powerful supporter
of the poet. Of still more value to him
was the friendship of the Earl of
Glencairn, who having previously in-
troduced the Kilmarnock volume to
the notice of his friends, now made
the author at home in his family and
assisted him greatly in the publication
of the new edition of his poems. He
not only found a publisher for the
work in the bookseller Creech, but in-
duced the members of the Caledonian
Club to take each a copy at a guinea,
four times the ordinary subscription
price. For Lord Glencairn, Burns al-
ways entertained the greatest admira-
tion. No one of his readers can forget
the noble " Lament " which he wTote
on the occasion of his early death four
years later.

Writina; to his fi'iend Hamilton on the
7th of December, a week after his ar-
rival in Edinburgh, Burns says : " For
my own affairs, I am in a fair way of be-
coming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis
or John Bunyan ; and you may expect
henceforth to see my birth-day inserted
among the wonderful events in the
Poor Robin's and Aberdeen Almanacs,
along -with the Black Monday and the
battle of Bothwell-Bridge. By all proba-
l)ility, I shall soon be the tenth worthy
and the eio-hth wise man of the world."
Among the notables who were the first
to welcome him, was Henry Macken-
zie, the author of the " Man of Feel-

ing," who had become acquainted with

his poems through Professor Stewart.
Tlie notice of no one could have been
more acceptable to Burns ; from his ear-
liest school days he had been an admirer
of that author's works, and they had
no unimportant influence in forming
his tastes and directing his sensibili-
ties. To be, thus early in his literaiy
career, cherished and applauded by
one to whom he had looked up with a
feeling little short of reverence, must
have moved in no ordinary degree the
gratitude of a man who was always
sensitive to the slightest manifestation
of kindness ; and still more must this
attention have been felt when the
whole reading world of the day was
invited to share in it. Mackenzie, rij^e
in fame and the affections of all Scot-
land, was then engaged in publishing
his classic series of periodical essays in
the style of the Spectator, entitled The
Lounger. In the number of the work
for the 9th of December, he introduced
a critique of Burns' Kilmarnock volume.
A better sei-vice could not have been
rendered to the poet, than by this
thoughtful, sympathetic article. It sep-
arated the poet at once from the humble
class of writers springing up in lowly
stations, whose chief claims to be notic-
ed arose from thefeelingof surprise that,
under such cii'cumstances, they should
possess any merit whatever. Brush-
ing this suggestion aside, he placed the
author at once on the highest level of
the literature of his country. He fully
recognized the genius of this " heaven-
taught ploughman," as he described him,
in depicting the manners of men and ex-
hibiting theii" passions in action, in a
style which recalled to him the power

ROBEET BUEKS.

215

and method of the greatest of drama-
tists — " that intuitive glance with which
a writer like Shakespeare discerns
the characters of men, with which he
catches the many - changing hues of
life, forming a sort of problem in the
science of mind, of which it is easier to
see the truth than to assign the cause."
These are the very elements of genius ;
and he who would thoroughly under-
stand that much abused term, may find
it illustrated in a very remarkal)le man-
ner, in a study of the life and writ-
ings of Robert Burns.

Within a few weeks the poet, " the
lion of the season," was at home in the
best society of the metropolis, passing
from his humble quarters in the room
which he still shared with his compan-
ion, the poor apprentice, to the fashion-
able drawing-rooms where he met such
persons as Dr. Robertson, Dr. Blair,
Dr. Gregory, Dr. Adam Ferguson, and
other magnates of the University. Lord
]\Ionl)oddo often had him at his house
and table, where he fell into an exces-
sive admiration of the lovely daughter
of that eccentric scholar, Miss Eliza
Burnet, whom he has immortalized in
that noble "Address to Edinburgh,"
in wliic'li he more than repaid all the
attentions and honors which were lav-
ished upon him. On returning from
a first visit to Lord Monl>oddo's house,
he was asked by a friend, " Well, and
did you admire the young lady V " I
admired God Almighty more than
ever !" was the re]dy ; " Miss Burnet is
the most heavenly of all his works."
This sentiment is incorporated in the
poem "To Edin])urgh," in which the
lady is introduced in the midst of a
glowing re])resentation of the wealth,

the architecture, the business, the pride
and importance of the historic monu-
ments of the city.

The new edition of the poems waf
published in April with a dedication to
its liberal patrons, "the noblemen and
gentlemen of the Caledonian Hunt,"
a dedication very unlike the old venal,
flattering addresses which are prefixed
to too many volumes of the earlier Brit-
ish poets, his predecessors. Conscious
of his powers, the poet unhesitatingly
takes his position before the world, in
his own words, as a Scottish bard,
proud of the name, and whose highest
ambition is to sing in his country's ser-
vice. " The poetic genius of my countiy
(he adds) found me, as the projihetic
bard Elijah did Elisha, at the plough,
and threw her inspiring mantle over
me. She bade me sing the loves, the
joys, the rui'al scenes and rural pleas-
ures of my native soil, in my native
tongue. I tuned my wild artless notes
as she inspired." Two thousand eight
hundred copies of the work were sub-
scribed for by fifteen hundred sub-
scribers, an extraordinary proof of the
interest excited by the poet in the
wealthy and influential classes. The
piofit of the author on a settlement
with his bookseller, Avas about six
hundi'cd pounds. With the means
now at his disposal, after a residence
in Edinburgh of about six months.
Burns left with a young friend, Mr.
Ainslie, "whose acquaintance he hud
made in the city, for a tour through
the south-eastern part of the country,
following the line of the Tweed, cross-
iuii into Northumberland to Alu-
wick and Newcastle, and returning in-
to Scotland from Carlisle. On hia

216

ROBERT BURNS.

way he visited several 2:)ersons of ce-
lebrity, includiug tlie traveller Bry-
done, and at Jedhurg was presented
witli the freedom of the town. July saw
him with his family, at the farm at
Mossgiel, which he left a few days af-
ter his arrival for Edinburgh, and a
tour by Stirling and Inverary, on his
way round to his home again. In the
autumu, he jom-neyed along the eastern
region by Inverness and Aberdeen, and
the next year passed much of his time in
Edinbursjfli, where he was for awhile un-
der the care of a surgeon, in consequence
of an injury to his knee fi'om the over-
turning of a hackney coach. This gave
him opi^ortunity for reflection ; he saw
his jirospects clouded and fell into the
most gloomy forebodings. His half- wife,
as she might be termed, Jean Ai'mour,
was again to become a mother, which
provoked fresh unkindness on the part
of her father, and brought about the for-
mal ceremony of a marriage between her
and the poet. Though he had become a
reo-ular contributor to the collection of
Scottish songs published by James
Johnson, in the plan of which, with
its revival of the old national airs with
appropriate adaptations of the old
words or with new comjjositions, he
took much interest, he does not seem
to have looked to literature as a pro-
fession. Indeed, he contributed his po-
ems to that work out of pure affection
for the cause, without fee or reward.
His thoughts were still turned to his
former farming occupations as a means
of livelihood. Concluding a negotia-
tion which had been for some time in
progress, in the spring of 1788, he en-
tered upon the possession of the new
farm of Elliesland, in Dumfrieshire

where he was for many months em
ployed in constructing a simple cot-
tage, barely meeting the necessities of
his mode of life. In December, he was
joined by his wife and children, and
early in the following year, occupied
his new house. His success as a farm-
er, notwithstanding his earnest efforts,
was not very encouraging. That re-
quired closer calculation and more
methodical industry than were to be
expected from the temperament and
intellectual habits of the poet. He
consequently Avas soon compelled to
seek some additional means of living.
While at Edinburgh, he had secured a
commission in the excise department,
which had given him some employ-
ment in the Ayr district ; he was now
appointed excise officer in the district in
which he resided. While discharging
these two-fold duties of farmer and ex-
ciseman, he was contributing songs to
Johnson's collection and producing va-
rious minor occasional poems. An ac-
cidental visit to the region of the Eng-
glish antiquary. Captain Grose, led to
the composition of one of the most ad-
mired and perhaps the best known of
his works, the tale of Tam O'Shanter.
Grose with his comical obese figure was
a humorist of the first water, abounding
in anecdote and merry stories. Burns
met him at a friend's house, was de-
lighted with his social qualities, and
took a pleasant view of the object of
his journey, which was to sketch and
describe the antiquities of the country.
With some quizzing, there is a deal of
kindly feeling in the poem which he
wrote on this redoubtable knight er-
rant's " peregrinations through Scot-
land."

EOBEET BUEKS.

217

Seeing these predilections, Burns
"bethought himself of the old kirk at
Alloway, the familiar scene of his
childhood and the burial place of his
father, and suggested the old ruin as a
suitable illustration for Grose's book,
recommending it as the scene of various
ghostly legends. The antiquarian
pi-omised to insert a sketch of the place
if Burns would furnish a witch story
to accompany it. This he undertook
to do and Tam o' Shanter was the re-
sult, composed in one day while the
poet was " crooning to himself" by the
banks of the Nith, which ran by his
abode. The poem, gathering up the
humors of a life-time, the quintessence
of many a study of provincial life, thus
made its first appearance in Grose's
Antiquities of Scotland. No one can
think of the burly antiquarian
without an emotion of gratitude for
his having been the occasion of that
poem ; nor of the engraver, Johnson's,
and its sequel George Thomson's enter-
prize, without recollecting what we in-
cidentally owe to them for calling forth
that wondrous series of Songs, fam-
iliarized in every Scottish and English
household in the world, which should
cover with a redeeming mantle of char-
ity any errors of the poet's life. What
a splendid galaxy in the literary
heaven they form — the songs of Burns
sacred to love and friendship, to pa-
triotism and humanity, to history and
common life, breathing the warmest
2S

affections, inspired by the noblest sen-
timents. Were it only for " Bruce's
Address to his Army at Bannock-
burn," Scotland could never forget
him ; were it only for " John Anderson
my Joe," the universal heart of home
would take him to its embrace.

The ode commemorative of Bannock-
burn was written while the poet re-
sided at Dumfries, his last place of
abode, whither, having given up his
farm of Elliesland as unprofitable, he
had gone in 1791 to be engaged exclu-
sively in the discharge of his duties as
exciseman with an income Avhich
reached about seventy pounds a year.
He passed his time here actively em-
ployed in his office, which did not pre-
vent his partaking freely in such some-
what reckless convivialities as the so-
ciety of the place afforded, doubtless
to the prejudice of his health ; and in
engaging, not a little to the injury of
any prospect of advancement in office
he might have had, in the political
fervors of the day in behalf of demo-
cratic liberty engendered by the en-
thusiasm of the French Revolution. In
the autumn of 1795 he exhibited symp-
toms of failing health, which increased
at intervals during the ensuing months,
not without provocation from repeated
indulgences, till, on the 21st of July,
179G, he breathed his last at his homo
in Dumfries. So fell at the age of
thirty-seven the greatest of Scotland's
poets,

CHARLOTTE COR DAY,

THE fair assassin heroine of tlie
French Revolution, Charlotte
Corday, was born iu the village of
Ligneres, near d'Argentan, in ISToi--
mandy, in 1768. She was of noble
family, — Marie Aune Charlotte Cor-
day D' Annans, as she was called be-
fore the revolution had extinguished
such titles, and she Avas the grand-
daughter of the great French dramatic
writer, Corneille. Her father, Francois
de Corday dArmans, was one of those
small landed proprietors of the old
system, whose privileges secured them
respect, while they were on the verge
of poverty. In the midst of his agri-
cultural labors, with a family growing
up about him, he felt the pressure of
Avant, and sharing the growing dis-
content of the times, enlisted himself
on the side of the refonn movement in
progress. Imbued with the new social
philosophy, he v/rote j^amphlets against
despotism and the law of primogeni-
ture. His daughter was thus indoc-
trinated in her infancy iu the princi-
ples of the coming era in France.
Her mother dying while her family of
five children were quite young, Char-
lotte was left with her two sisters, as
she is described by Lamartiue, to live

(218)

on for some years at Ligneres " almost
running wild, clothed in coarse cloth,
like the young girls of Normandy, and,
like them, working in the garden,
malving hay, gleaning and gathering
the apples on the small estate of their
father." At the age of thirteen she
became an inmate of an ancient and
well-appointed monastery at Caen,
where, with the enthiisiasm of her
nature and her pious disposition,
she would probably under ordinary
circumstances have heartily submitted
to the genius of the place ; but the
newborn philosophy of the times
had found its way in the popular
Avritings of the day into its retirement,
and Charlotte became deeply imbued
with its broad humanitarian spirit.
The convents, moreover, were being
suppressed, and she had to seek an-
other home. Thus, Avith new vicAvs,
but Avith old conserA^ative traditions
hanging about her, at nineteen she
was driven into the Avorld. Her fa-
ther had now become still poorer. Pier
tAVO brothers in the king's service had
emigrated : one of her sisters Avas dead,
the other managed her father's home
at Argentan. Charlotte Avas adopted
by an old aunt, Madame BrettcA'ille,

CIIAELOTTE COEDAY

219

and went to live with her in her old
home at Caeu. There, while assisting
in the domestic duties of the place,
she had abundant leisure to indulire
in her favorite reading of romances
and the writings of the philosophers
then in vogue. She became fainiliar
with the works of Rousseau and Eay-
nal, and entered heartily into the re-
vived study of Plutarch, l)y whose
lives of the heroes of antiquity France
was then fashioning herself . She had
soon the motive and incentive to ex-
press her visionary ideas in action.

It was early in 1703, and the Giron-
dists, who had tailed in their aspira-
tions to place liberty on a rational
foundation, Avere on the eve of their
final overthrow. Overpowered by the
fury of the Jacobins, flying from their
impending fate in Paris, numbers of
them had taken refuge in the depart-
ments and were endeavoring to rally
the nation to sustain them a<?ainst the
ultra revolutionary party, of which
the vulgar, blood-thirsty, remorseless
Marat had become the most olmoxious
leader. This fiend in human shape,
by the use of his pen in constant ap-
peals to the people in arousing their
prejudices, and by his authority in the
convention, was the unlliucliing oppo-
nent of the Girondins, and would be
satisfied with nothing less than their
extermination. His character, odious
at the best, was not likely to be look-
ed upon with other feelings than those
of the most intense hatred and dismay
by the political refugees from his fury,
gathered at Caen. Among the leaders
of the Girondins assembled there, were
Buzot, Salles, Pet ion, Barbaroux, Lou-
vet, who sedulously emj^loyed them-

selves in arousing opposition to the
new proscriptive party and in the en-
listment of volunteers for an army to
march upon Paris for its overthrow.
Charlotte listened eagerly to the ac-
cusations of the Girondins, and the
I^ortentous shape of Marat assumed
gigantic proportions in her mind, as
the one great enemy of the liberty of
France. The utmost ardor of her na-
tiire was excited by the spectacle of
tlie volunteers, whose departure she
witnessed from a balcony at Caen. A
youth who warmly admired her, and
to whom she had given her portrait,
was among the number. But patriot-
ism in her soul burnt with a keener
flame than the passion of love. As
she saw the battalion depart, Petion,
who passed at the moment beneath the
balcony, noticed her in tears. " Would
you then be hapjiy," said he to her,
" if they did not depart ?" She an-
swered nothing, blushed and withdrew.
Her resolve was taken, at all hazards,
herself, alone, to free France from the
human monster that appeared to her.

The prudence and secrecy with
which she went about the fatal work
proved the strength of her character.
It was necessary that she should pre-
pare herself by information from the
Girondiii leaders, and she sought their
presence without affording them the
least intimation of her intentions.
After various interviews she obtained
from Barljaroux a letter to Duperret
at Paris, one of the party who still
held his seat in the Convention. There
was nothing to comi)romise him in it.
It was simply a letter of introduction.
A greater seriousness was noticed in
her conversation and ihnneanor at this

220

CHARLOTTE CORDAY.

time. Questioned by her aunt, she said,
" I weep over the misfortunes of my
country, over those of my relatives, and
over yours. Whilst ^larat lives no one
can 1)0 sure of a day's existence." Her
aunt also afterwards called to mind
going into her room to awaken her in
the morning, and finding on her bed
an open Bible at a passage of the
book of Judith, of which she had
marked a verse with a pencil, describ-
ing the going forth of the daughter of
Israel in her beauty to deliver the land
from the hand of Holofernes. The
entire, vivid narrative " beyond all
Greek, all Koman fame," may well
have been her inspiration.

Armed with this resolve, on the 7th
of July of this memorable year, 1793,
when the revolution developed its pro-
foundest horrors, Charlotte visited
Argentan to take a final leave of her
father and sister, under the pretence of
joining the refugee emigrants in Eng-
land. Returning to her aunt she told her
the same story in expectation of her
departure on the morrow, which she
had privately arranged, by the Paris
diligence. Very touching are the in-
cidents of her last hours at Caen as re-
lated by Lamartine. They were "filled
with gratitude, attention and tender-
ness towards that aunt, to whom she
owed such long and kind hospitality,
and she provided, through one of her
friends, for the old servant who had
taken care of her in her youth. She
ordered and paid in advance, at the
tradespeople's shops in Caen, for some
little presents of dresses and embroidery
destined to be worn after her dej)arture
by some youthful companions of her
early days. She distributed her favorite

books amongst the young persons of her
acquaintance, and reserved none for her-
self but a volume of Plutarch, as if
she did not desire to scjiarate herself,
in the crisis of her life, from the society
of those great men "with Avhom she
had lived and wished to die. Finally,
on the 9th of July, very early in the
morning, she took under her arm a
small bundle of the most requisite ar-
ticles of apparel, embraced her aunt,
and told her she was going to sketch
the haymakers in the neighboring mea-
dows. AVith a sheet of drawing pa-
per in her hand, she went out to return
no more. At the foot of the stair-
case she met the child of a poor labor-
er, named Robert, who lodged in the
house, in the street. The child was
accustohied to play in the court. She
sometimes gave him little toys. ' Here !
Robert,' said she to him, giving him
the drawing paper, which she no lon-
ger required to keep her in counte-
nance, ' that is for you ; be a good
boy and kiss me ; you will never see
me asrain.' And she embraced the
child, leaving a tear upon his cheek.
That was the last tear on the thresh
hold of the house of her youth. She
had nothinsc left to sive l)ut her blood."
During the journey in the diligence
to Paris, there was nothing to excite
in her fellow-travellers any suspicion
of a disturbed or disordered mind.
She was perfectly mistress of herself
throughout. During the first day she
appeared to be simply entertaining a
little girl whom chance had thrown
by her side. The loud professions of
attachment on the part of the passen-
gers to the cause of the Mountain and
its grim hero Marat, did not induce her

by any unguarded word or look to be-
tray her own sentiments. Her beauty
attracted attention, and she was ques-
tioned as to her name and the object of
her journey to Paris ; she answered eva-
sively in few Avords, sometimes feign-
ing sleep, while her modesty proved to
her a sufficient guardian fi'om further
impertinence. A young man of the
party with a respectful freedom ex-
pressed his affection for her and talked
of marriage. She rallied him on this
sudden outburst of emotion and prom-
ised to let him hear from her at some
later time. In this way, winning the
regard of all around her, she entered
Paris on the lltli of July, at noon,
makinfj her residence at the Hotel de
la Providence, which had been recom-
mended to her by her friends at Caen.
She retired early and slept soundly till
the next day, when, attiring herself in
a ^simple dress, she presented herself
at the lodgings of Duperret with the
letter of introduction from Barbaroux.
The deputy was not at home and would
be away all day, as she learnt from his
daughters. She then returned to her
hotel and passed the time in solitude
till evening, when she found Duperret,
and requested him to present her to
Garat, the minister of the interior;
her object being on some pretext of
business to gain information, by con-
versation with the leading Girondists,
which might assist her in her ])uq)ose
to serve their cause. On i)arting with
Duperret for the night, she advised
him for his safety to quit Paris and
join his l)rothers of the party in Caen.
He replied that his post was at Paris
and he would not leave it. " You are
said she ; '* ily, fly, before to-

rn error,

morrow night." On the morrow, Du-
perret called on her at her lodging to
conduct her to Garat ; they found the
minister too much encrased to see her '
before evening. DupeiTct then led her
to her residence, where he left her at the
entrance. Leaving the hotel immedi-
ately, she made her way, inquiring
from street to street, to the Palais
Royal, where, without being diverted
fi'om her purpose by the frivolity and
gaiety of the scene, she found under
the galleries the shop of a cutler, where
she purchased a large knife which
might serve for a dagger, and conceal-
ed it under her dress. The weapon
was intended for Marat. She had at
first thought of reaching him when he
should make his appearance at the ap-
proaching ceremony of the federation,
in commemoration of the triumph of
liberty, to be held in the Champ-de-
Mars; but this being postponed, she
had then proposed to herself to strike
her victim in his seat at the convention
at the head of his party. Learning
from Duperi'et that he would not ap-
pear there, she Avas compelled to seek
him by stratagem at his private lodg-
ings.

Continuing the story in the Avords of
Lamartiue who has devoted a " Book"
of his "History of the Girondists" to
the career of this heroic Avoman, " she
returned to her chamber and Avrote to
Marat a billet, Avhich she sent to the
door of ' the friend of the people.' ' I
have just arrived from Caen,' she Avrote.
' Your love of country makes me pre-
sume that you Avill have pleasure in
hearinfj of the unfortunate events of
that portion of the republic. I shall
present myself at your abode about

one o'clock ; have the goodness to re-
ceive me, and grant luc a moment's
conversation. I Avill put you in a po-
pition to be of fjreat service to France.'
Charlotte, relying on the effect of this
note, went at the appointed hour to
Marat's door, but could not obtain ac-
cess to him. She then left with the
portress a second note, more pressing
and insidious than the former. ' I Avrote
to you this morning, Marat,' she said ;
'did you have my letter? I cannot
believe it, as they refuse me admit-
tance to you. I hope that to-morrow
you will grant me the interview I re-
quest. I rejDeat that I am just arrived
from Caen, and have secrets to disclose
to you most important for the safety
of the republic. Besides, I am perse-
cuted for the cause of liberty; I am
unhappy, and that I am so should give
me a claim on your patriotism.' With-
out awaiting his reply, Charlotte left
her chamber at seven o'clock in the
evening, clad with more than usual
care, in order, by a more studied ap-
pearance, to attract the persons about
Marat. Her white go-\vn was covered
over the shoulders l)y a silk scarf,
which, falling over her bosom, fastened
behind. Her hair was confined by a
Normandy cap, the long lace of which
played against her cheeks. A wide
green silk riliand was bound round
her brows, and fastened her cap. Her
hair fell loose down her back. No
paleness of complexion, no wildness of
gaze, no tremulousness of voice, re-
vealed her deadly purpose. With this
attractive aspect she knocked at Ma-
rat's door.

" Marat inhabited the first floor of a
dilapidated house in the Rue des Cor-

deliers, now Rue de 1' Ecole de Mede-
cine. His apartment consisted of an
ante-chamber and a writing-room, look-
ing out on a narrow courtyard, a small
room containing his bath, a sleeping-
room and dining-room looking on the
street. It was very meanly furnished.
Numerous jiublications of Marat's were
piled on the floor, — the newspapers of
the day, still damp from the press,
were scattered about on the chairs and
tables, printers' lads coming in and
going out incessantly, Avomeu employ-
ed in folding and addressing pamph-
lets and journals, the Avom steps of the
staircase, the ill-swept passages, — all
attested the movement and disorder
which surround a man much occupied,
and the perpetual crowd of persons in
the house of a journalist and leader of
the people. This misery, though a dis-
play, was yet real. Marat's domestic
arrangements Avere those of an humble
artisan. A female, Avho controlled his
house affairs, was originally named
Catherine Evrard, but was called Al-
bertine Marat from the time when the
friend of the people had given her his
name, taking her for his wife one day
in fine iveather, in the face of open sun-
sliine, after the example of Jean Jacques
Rousseau. One servant aided this
woman in • her household duties. A
messenger, named Laurent Basse, did
the out-door work. The incessant
activity of the wi'iter had not relaxed
in consequence of the lingering disease
which was consuming him. The in-
flammatory action of his blood seemed
to light up his mind. Now in his bed,
now in his bath, he was perpetually
writing, apostrophizing, inveighing
against his enemies, whilst exciting

CHAELOTTE CORDAY.

223

the Convention and the Cordeliers.
Offended at the silence of the Assembly
on the reception of his messages, he
had recently addressed to it another
letter, in which he threatened the Con-
vention that he would be carried in his
dying condition to the tribime, that he
might shame the representatives with
their cowardice, and dictate to them
fresh murders. He left no repose either
to himself or to others. Full of the pre-
sentiment of death, he only seemed to
fear that his last hour, coming on too
suddenly, would not leave him time to
immolate sufficient criminals. More
anxious to kill than to live, he hastened
to send before him as many victims as
possible, as so many hostages given by
the knife to the completed revolution,
which he desired to leave free from all
enemies after his death. The terror
which issued from Marat's house re-
turned thither under another form —
the unendin2; dread of assassination.
His companion and his intimate asso-
ciates believed that they saw as many
dacrcrers raised asjainst him, as he raised
over the heads of three huudi'ed thou-
sand citizens. Access to his residence
was forbidden, as it would be to the
palace of tyranny. None were admit-
ted to his presence but assured friends
or donouucers strongly recommended,
and who had submitted to inteiToga-
tories and severe examinations.

" Charlotte was not aware of these
obstacles, altliDUgli she apprehended
them. She alighted from the coach
on the opposite side of the street, in
front of Marat's residence. The day
was on the wane, particularly in the
quarter darkened by lofty houses and
narrow streets. The portress at first

refused to allow the young unknown
to penetrate into the courtyard. She
insisted, however, and ascended several
stairs, regardless of the voice of the
concierge. At these sounds Marat's
mistress half-opened the door, and re-
fused to allow a female whom she did
not know to enter. The confused
sound of the altercation between these
women, one of whom entreated that
she might be allowed to speak to the
friend of the feople., whilst the other
endeavored to close the door in her
face, reached Marat's ears, who com-
prehended, by the few indistinct words
that reached him, that the visitor was
the strancrer from v>hom he had re-
ceived two notes dui-ing the day. In
a loud and imperative voice he ordered
that she should be admitted. Alber-
tine, either from jealousy or distrust,
obeyed with much ill-will and grum-
bling. She showed the young girl into
the small closet where Marat was, and
left, as she quitted her, the door half-
open, that she might hear the lowest
whisper or the smallest movement of
the sick man. The room was faintly
lighted. Marat was in his bath, yet
in this forced repose of his body he
allowed his mind no leisure. A plank,
roughly planed, laid across the bath,
was covered with papers, open letters,
and half-written articles for his pub-
lication. He held in his right hand
the pen Avhich the arrival of the un-
known female had suspended on its
page. This was a letter to the Con-
vention, to demand of it the judgment
and proscrij)tion of the last Bourbons
tolerated in France. Beside tlie bath,
on a large block of oak, was a leaden
inkstand, of tlie meanest fabric — the

foul source Avhence, for throe years,
had ilowed so inauy delirious outpour-
ings, so many denunciations, so much
blood. Marat, covered in his bath
with a cloth filthy Avitli dirt and spot-
ted with ink, had only his liead, should-
ers, the upper part of his chest, and his
riofht arm out of the water. There was
nothing in the features of this man to
afiect a woman's eye with tenderness,
or give pause to a meditated blow.
His matted hair, Avrapped in a dirty
handkerchief, with receding forehead,
protruding eyes, prominent cheek-
bones, vast and sneering mouth, haiiy
chest, shrivelled limbs, and livid skin
— such was Marat. Charlotte took
care not to look him in the face, for
fear her countenance might betray the
horror she felt at his sight. With
downcast eyes, and her arms hanging
motionless by her side, she stood close
to the bath, awaiting until Marat
should inquire as to the state of Nor-
mandy. She replied Avith brevity,
giving to her replies the sense and tone
likely to pacify the demagogue's
wishes. He then asked the names of
the deputies who had taken refuge at
Caen. She gave them to him, and he
wi'ote them down, and when he had
concluded, said in the voice of a man
sure of his vengeance, ' Well, before
they are a week older, they shall have
the guillotine ! ' At these words, as if
Charlotte's mind had awaited a last
offence before it could resolve on strik-
ing the blow, she drew the knife from
her bosom, and, with superhuman
force, plunged it to the hilt in Marat's
heart. She then dreAv the bloody
weapon from the body of the victim,
and let it fall at her feet, ' Help, my

dear — help ! ' cried IMarat, and then
expired."

The cry l)rought Albertine and the
maid servant and Laurent into the
room, where Charlotte was standing,
without eftortat escape. Laurent struck
her to the ground with a blow on the
head from a chair, and Albertine tram-
pled upon her. The aroused popu-
lace of the neiGjhborhood demanded
that the assassin should be cast out to
them for speedy revenge. A body of
soldiers then entered, the hands of
Charlotte were confined by cords, and
in this position, amidst the impreca-
tions of the household of her victim,
and the crowd who were present, re-
plied to the usual preliminary interro-
gations of the officer of justice, calmly
confessing her deed. This proceeding
being ended, she Avas conducted in the
hackney coach which had brought her
to the house, to the Abbaye, the near-
est j^rison. An excited mob filled the
street, and she was with difficulty pro-
tected from their outrages. On a second
examination at the prison, she Avas
questioned minutely as to her motives,
proceedings, and accomplices. To this
she had a A-ery simjjle reply to make.
She had come from Caen with the de-
cided resolution of assassinating Marat,
and had communicated her intention
to no one. A folded paper was notic-
ed fastened in her dress. It j)roved to
be an address Avhich she had prepared
" to Frenchmen friendly to the laws and
peace." In this, the death of Marat AA-as
spoken of as already accomi^lished, and
her countrymen Avere called upon to
leave their unhappy diAUsions and arise
for the redemption of France.

Charlotte was presently removed to

CHARLOTTE CORDAT.

225

tte

of the Conciersrerie. She

prison vyi v^v. ^^^ — ^^
was allowed writing materials in her
prison, and addressed a long letter, re-
counting the circumstances of her jour-
ney, and avowing her detestation of
Marat, to Barbaroux. The epistle ex-
presses her strong enthusiasm and a
readiness to meet the fate she had invi-
ted in behalf of her country. Its hap-
piness, she said, was hers. " A vivid
imagination and a sensitive heart," she
adds with a philosophic self-conscious-
ness, "promised but a stormy life ; and
I pray those who regret me, to consid-
er this, and rejoice at it." Writing to
her father, she asked his pardon for
the course she had taken, while she
gloried in her deed. " I pray of you to
rejoice at my fate — the cause is noble.
I embrace my sister, whom I love with
all my heart
of Corneille,

Do not forsret this verse

Le crime fait lahonte etnon pas I'echafaud."*

The next morning, the 17th, was
that appointed for her trial. The hall
of the revolutionary tribunal was above
the prison. On being conveyed thith-
er in the opening scenes, as she had
done before, she frankly avowed her
act, and gloried in its motive and suc-
cess. Beino; asked how loner she had
entertained her design, she said, " since
the last day of May, when the de-
puties of the people were arrested. /
have killed one man to save a luindred
thousand. I was a rejyublican long he-
fore the Revolution.^'' The counsel who

* The crime and not tlie scaffold causes shame.
29

had been assigned her could urge only
in her behalf the excitement of politi-
cal fanaticism. She was not displeased
with his plea, for it did not lessen her
dignity or detract fi'om the attitude in
which she wished to appear before the
world. While in prison she had re-
quested permission to sit for her por-
trait, that her memory might be better
perpetuated. Observing an artist, M.
Hauer, in court, sketching her likeness,
she turned smilingly toward him, to as-
sist him in his purpose. The painter,
at her request, was allowed to follow
her to the prison to finish his work.
Before it was accomplished, the execu-
tioner knocked at the door, and the
painter, his work, interrupted, watched
the final preparations for the scaffold.
Charlotte, taking the scissors from the
executioner, cut off a lock of her long
hair, and gave it to the painter, who
was so struck by her appearance in
the red chemise, in which she was in-
vested for her death, that he subse-
quently painted her in that costume.
To a priest sent to offer the last ser-
vices of his order, she said, " I thank
those who have had the attention to
send you, but I need not youi' ministry.
The blood I have spilt, and my own,
which I am about to shed, are the
only sacrifices I can offer the Eter-
nal." So at eve of the day of her
trial, she was borne to the guillotine.
As she ascended the fatal cart, a vio-
lent stoiTu broke over the city, which
gave way to the rays of the setting
sun in the last scene upon the scaffold.

JOHANN WOLFGANG GOETHE

THE known ancestry of Goethe
on tlie paternal side ascends to
one Hans Christian Goethe, a farrier
in the middle of the seventeenth cen-
tury, in the little German town of Ar-
tern, in Tlmringia. His son Frederick
was apprenticed to a tailor, and in the
course of his travels from place to
place, according to the custom of the
country, reached Frankfort-on-the-
Maine, where he pursued his calling,
was admitted to citizenship, and " be-
in;)^ a ladies' man," married the dau^h-
ter of the master tailor. A second
marriage with the widow, keeper and
wealthy proprietor of a hotel changed
his vocation to that of the landlord.
By this union he had two sons, the
younger of whom, Johann Caspar, was
well educated, travelled into Italy, and
became an imperial councillor in
Frankfort. At the age of thirty-eiglit
he was married to Kathrina Eliza-
beth, a young lady of seventeen, the
daughter of Johann Wolfgang Textor,
of a distinguished family and the
chief magistrate of the city. A year
after this marriage, on the 28th of
August, 1749, their son, the poet, Jo-
hann Wolfgang Goethe, was born at
Frankfort.

(226)

Both parents were persons of notice-
able character. The father is describ-
ed by Goethe's latest and best biogra-
pher, Lewes, as " a cold, stern, foi-mal,
somewhat pedantic, but truth-loving,
upright-minded man. He hungered
for knowledge, and although in gen-
eral of a laconic turn, freely imparted
all he learned. In his domestic circle
his word was law. Not onlj^ imperious,
but in some respects capricious, he was
nevertheless greatly respected, if little
loved, by wife, children and friends."
From him the jjoet inherited the well-
built frame, the erect carriage and meas-
ured movement of his later life, with the
orderliness and stoicism which charac-
terized him through life. The mother
was of an excellent disposition and
genius, " her simple, hearty, Joyous and
affectionate nature endearing her to
all, — the delight of children, the fa-
vorite of poets and princes." Being
but eighteen when her son was born,
she was the companion of his youth.
" I and my Wolfgang," she said, " have
always held fast to each other, because
we were both young together." She
was well read in German and Italian
literature, of great vivacity of intel-
lect, inventing imaginative stories for

JOIIANN WOLFGAN'G GOETHE.

227

her children, in which she became as
much interested as themselves ; a cheer-
ful and happy woman, avoiding as far
as possible all that was unpleasant in
life and bearing its inevitable sorro\vs
with equanimity. It was from his
mother, says his biographer, that
Goethe " derived those leading princi-
ples which determined the movement
and orbit of his artistic nature; the
joyous, healthy temperament, humor,
vivid fancy, susceptibility, and the
marvellous insight which gathered uj)
the scattered and vanishing elements
of experience into new and living com-
binations." The home in which the
poet was born exercised its influence
upon his impressible nature. The pic-
turesque old city of Frankfort, with
its ancient associations, was of itself a
school for an imaginative cliild ; while
within the house in which he was born
the walls were hung with pictures of
the antiquities of Italy which his fa-
tlier had broucrht with him from his
travels. Under these and other influ-
ences of education there were numer-
ous precocious developments of the
boy's intellect. Taught mostly at
home at this early period, everything
which he learned seems to have had
an individual flavor. He was not one
of a class getting lessons ]»y rote, \mt
at once absorbed and put in practice
what he acquired. The anecdotes of
his attainments and of his reflective
powers are something marvellous. At
six his mind was stirred l)y thoughts
of Providence, excited by the over-
whelming disaster of the great earth-
quake at Lisl)()n, and in his next year
we are told that after listening to a
great deal of theological discussion in

the family he resolved to set up an
altar of his own. " For this purpose
he selected some types, such as ores
and other natural productions, and ar-
ranged them in symbolical order on
the elevations of a music stand; on
the apex was to be a flame tyjiical of
the soul's aspiration, and for this a
pastille did duty. Sunrise was await-
ed with impatience. The glittering of
the housetops gave signal ; he applied
a burning-glass to the jiastille, and
thus was the worship consummated l>y
a priest of seven years old, alone in
his bedroom." He very early acquir-
ed some knowledge of language, at
eight, writing exercises in German,
French, Italian, Latin and Greek, and
not long after attacking English and
even Hebrew. These were sometimes
in the form of dialogue, exliiljiting a
playful turn for humor. Among other
circumstances of his early life, of
which he has OTven an account in his
autobiography, he learnt much fi'om
the breaking up of the usual routine
of home by the occupation of Frank-
fort by the French in the Seven Years'
War. The troops were billeted
upon the inhalntants, an oflicer " of
taste and munificence " falling to the
lot of the Goethe house; while the
usual life of the town was greatly en-
hanced by military movements and the
opening of a cafe and theatre. Though
the boy was too young to imderstand
or appreciate the quickness of French
comedy he admired the display and
bustle, and if he did not learn much
before the scenes doubtless gathered
iq) more bcliind (liciii, forwefind him,
by tile aid of a braggart companion,
acquainted with the actors, '• a fre-

928

JOHAIO' "WOLFGANG GOETHE.

quenter of the green-room, and admit-
ted into the dressing-room, where the
actors and actresses dressed and un-
dressed with phihisophic disregard to
appearances, which from repeated vis-
its he learned to regard as quite
natural." This was al)Out the age of
ten ; before he Avas fifteen he was in
love with a certain Gretchen, the sister
of one of his vagrant associates at this
time, who appears to have given him
but moderate encouragement and fi'om
whose society he was withdi'a'^vn by
the mishap of some of her companions
getting involved in fraudulent prac-
tices, bringing them under the super-
vision of the law. Gretchen, the fa-
miliar designation of Margaret, long
haunted his imagination and furnished
the name for the heroine of Faust.
He was at first much hurt by this dis-
appointment of his youthful passion,
especially when he found that it had
awakened no very ardent emotion in
the subject of it, but he had too much
vivacity to suffer long from such a
catastrophe, and he soon turned his
mind to his favorite studies. With
much multifarious knowledge in his
head, and with some practice in writ-
ing, at the age of sixteen he entered
as a student the University of Leip-
gic.

It was his father's design that he
should devote himself to the study of
jurisprudence, and he accordingly on
his first arrival set himself vigorously
to work at the science under the guid-
ance of the learned professor Bohme.
But he was of too volatile a nature to
confine himself long to one pursuit.
Versatility was always the character-
istic of his attainments. He mi^ht.

particularly in his early years, have
said with Horace :

Nullius addictus jurare in verba magistri
Quo me cunque rapit tempestas deferor
hospes.

Diverted from the lectures on law by
his intimacy with certain medical stu-
dents who talked of nothing but medi-
cine and botany, he occupied himself
with these new studies, while, with his
usual ardour he entered eagerly intf>
society and soon accumulated a stock
of experience which, in one form
and another, he rendered into verse
and thus became an author. He had
come to Leipsic with some provincial
oddities about him ; with a peculiar
accent and a stock of colloquial
expressions interspersed with proverl)s
and biblical allusions, which sounded
strange in the politer society into which
he was thrown. His dress, moreover,
grotesquely made by one of his father's
servants, gave him an absurd appear
ance. But he soon cast off these in
cumbrances of mind and body, and
under the guidance of the accomplished
Fran Bohme, appeared to advantage
in the social circles of the town. It
was not his disposition, however, to be
contented with the usual amusements
and intercourse of what is called good
company. He demanded intense men-
tal activity and passionate emotion,
which he found in a literary circle
which gathered at the table d' hote of
one Schonkopf , a peculiar German com-
bination of the gentleman, wine mer-
chant, and tavern keeper. He discussed
poetry with the guests, got up private
theatricals with the family, and played
lovers' parts with the daughter, co-
quetting with her affection, and, in

tlie end, sometliiug to his mortification,
losing it. At this lie is said to have
hoen in despair, but it was a melan-
choly which soon found relief in the
composition of a few lyrics and a pas-
toral play in which he introduced his
lovers' quarrels — a solace to which he
often afterwards resorted in similar
circumstances, and which never failed
him. He is also said about this time
to have had some experience of a less
reputal )le kind of life, not at all of the
conventional order, where human na-
ture was to be seen in undress. The re-
sult of this kind of observation was a
dramatic piece which is puldislied in
his works entitled " The Fellow Sin-
ners," in which there is a striking com-
Ijination in wickedness on the part of
all the characters.

The theatre and the drama now oc-
cupied much of his attention, with a
new enthusiasm excited by his introduc-
tion to tlie spirit of Shakespeare, with
whom he first became acquainted in
the " Beauties," selected by the famous
Dr. Dodd. He was vividly impressed
by the bold, romantic character of the
great English dramatist, and his fear-
less reliance upon nature as distin-
guished from the artificial French
school — a powerful influence in the
formation and encouragement of his
literary convictions at this period. He
also acquired some knowledge of art,
taking lessons in drawing from Oeser,
an eminent connoiseur, who had T»een
the friend and instructor of Winckel-
mann. Falling in at the same time
with the " Laocoon " of Lossing, he
eagerly imbilicd the admirable ])hil()-
sophical distinctions laid down in that
work respecting the bounds and capac-

ities of poetry, painting and sculpture
To enlarge his knowledge of the sub-
ject he hurried off secretly to Dresden
to inspect its gallery of the old mas-
ters, where he was more impressed with
the pictures of everyday life of the
Dutch school than with the ideal of
the Italian. He made efforts in draw-
ing, dabbled in engraving, and would
have been an artist had nature second-
ed his aspirations ; but he never at-
tained any remarkable success in this
walk.

After about three years spent at
Leipsic, he returned to Frankfort, seri-
ously affected in health, which his bi-
ographer attributes to " dissipation,
bad diet (especially the beer and cof-
fee) and absurd endeavors to carry out
Rousseau's preaching about returning
to a state of nature." He had suffered
from a violent hemorrhage, now fol-
lowed on his recovery by a painful
tumor on his neck. After this had
yielded to surgical treatment, he was
afflicted with a troublesome stomach
disorder, for the relief of which the
family physician, who would appear
to have been something of a quack,
brought out as a final remedy a cer-
tain mysterious salt of which he had
come to the knowledge in his pursuit
of alchemy. The patient consented to
take the prescription and recovered;
when, as usual, profiting by chance
currents in the sea of learning, he
threw himself vigorously upon the
writings of Paracelsus, Van Helmont
and their associates in the vain search
after the philosopher's stone — a stu-
dent's experience reproduced in Faust.
His health being now restored, another
effort was to be made in the stud}- of

230

JOHA^^N WOLFGANG GOETHE.

jurisprudence, and witli the design of
gaining a doctor's degree, lie was sent
to Straslx)urg.

" He was now," says his biographer,
" turned twenty, and a more magnifi-
cent youth, never perhaps CLtered the
Strasbourg oates. Long before he was
celebrated, lie was likened to an Apollo ;
when be entered a restaurant, the peo-
ple laid down their knives and forks
to stare at him. Pictures and busts
give a very feeble indication of that
which was most striking in his appear-
ance ; they only give the cut of fea-
ture, not the play of feature ; nor are
they very accurate even in mere form.
The features were large and liberally
cut, as in the fine sweeping lines of
Greek art. The brow, lofty and mas-
sive, from beneath which shone large
lustrous brown eyes of marvelous
beauty, their pupils being of almost
unexampled size ; the slightly aquiline
nose was large and firmly cut; the
mouth full, with a short arched lip,
very expressive, the chin and jaw
boldly proportioned, and the head
restiuir on a fine muscular neck : — de-
tails which are, after all, but the in-
ventory of his appearance, and give no
clear image of it. In stature, he was
rather above the middle size ; but, al-
though not really tall, he had the as-
pect of a tall man, and is usually so
described, because his presence was
very imposing. His frame was strong,
muscular, yet sensitive. Excelling in
all active sports, he was almost a ba-
rometer in sensitiveness to atmospheric
influences."

AVith personal advantages like these,
and the varied education he had al-
ready acquired, Strasbourg readily be-

came a new theatre of mental acquisi
tions and of social conquests. Love
and learning, as at Leipsic, divided the
young poet's attention. Law, as be-
fore, was by no means his exclusive
mistress. We find him heartily en-
gaged also in the study of anatomy
and chemistry, paying particular at-
tention to the new wonders of elec-
tricity disclosed by Franklin. Mis-
tical philosophic writings occuj)ied his
time, with a special devotion to that
martyr of science, the pantheistic
Bruno ; while he gained a deeper spi-
ritual insight from an intimacy which
he formed with the relia-ious enthu-
siast, Jung Stilling, who ever after-
wards remained his friend — an associ-
ation of siti^nal honor to Goethe in
the estimation of his character. " In-
stinctively, he sought on all sides to
penetrate the mysteries of humanity,
and, by probing every man's experi-
ence to make it his own. Here was a
poor charcoal-burner, who, from tailor-
ing had passed to keeping a school ;
that failing, he had resumed his needle ;
and having joined a religious sect, had,
in silent communion with his own soul,
gained for himself a sort of culture
which raised him above the ordinary
height of men : — what was there in his
life or opinions to captivate the riot-
ous, sceptical, prosperous student '
There was earnestness, there was genu-
ineness. Sympathizing with Stilling,
listening to him, and dexterously avoid-
ing any interference with his religious
faith, he was not only enabled to be
his friend, but also to learn quietly and
surely the inner nature of such men."
Goethe formed another lasting ac-
quaintance at Strasbourg with Herder,

JOHANN WOLFGANG GOETHE.

231

who was five years liis senior — an im-
portant difference at that period of
life — who taught him a philosophical
admiration of the Hebrew and other
national poetry to its latest and then
fashionable exhibition in Ossian.

We read at this time of a certain
nervous iiTitability, in overcoming
which he exhibited an extraordinary
resolution and self-control. " Loud
sounds were disagreeable to him ; dis-
eased objects aroused loathing and
horror, and he was especially troubled
with giddiness, which came over him
whenever he looked down from a
heicrht. All these infirmities he re-
solved to conquer, and that somewhat
violently In the evening when they
lA'at the tattoo, he went close to the
drums, though the powerful rolling
and l)eating of so many seemed enough
to make his heart burst in his bosom.
Alone he ascended the highest pinna^
cle of the cathedral, and sat in what
is called the neck, under the crown,
for a quarter of an hour before ventur-
ing to step out again into the open air.
Standing on a platform, scarcely an ell
square, he saw before him a boundless
prospect, the church and everything
upon which he stood being concealed
by the ornaments. lie felt exactly as
if carried up in a balloon. These jiain-
ful sensations he re])eated \intil they
became quite indifferent ; he subse-
(piently derived great advantage from
tliis conquest, in mountainous excur-
sions and geological studies. Anatomy
was also of double value, as it taught
him to tolerate the most repulsive
sights while satisfying his thirst for
knowledije. He succeeded so well
that no hideous sight could distm-b

his self-possession. He also sought tc
steel himself against the tei'rois of
imasjinatiou. The awful and shudder-
ing impressions of darkness in church-
yards, solitary places, churches and
chapels by night, he contrived to
render indifferent — so much so, that
when a desire came over him to recall
in such scenes the pleasing shudder of
youth, he could scarcely succeed even
by th". strangest and most terrific
images." The Strasboui'g Cathedi-al,
which was thus turned to account in
fortifying his nerves was a perpetual
school of ai-t to him while residing in
the city. It was the inspiration and
centre of a group of ideas, the repre-
sentative to him of the entire world of
Gothic art.

Valuable, however, as may have
been his studies at Strasbourg, there
were other lessons than those of books
and architecture which he was learning.
His devotion to anatomy and physiolo-
gy was extended to the intellect and
affections in their living representa-
tions. It would doubtless be unfair
to charge him with deliberately engag-
ing the affections of the young ladies,
with whom he was thrown in contact,
for the purpose of a scientific experi-
ment, a vivisection of the tenderest
emotions of the heart. It is more na-
tural to suppose that he fell in love
with the reall)' lovable from the force
of sympathy, i)assion and admiration ;
but we must still be im})ressod with
the frequency of these attachments, and
the cool superiority which he maintain-
ed in conductiuiT and abandonim^ thom,
taking care to preserve, for available
literary purposes, the memory of all
their incidents jxnd entanglements. The

233

JOHAXX AVOLFGAXG GOETHE.

progress of these early love affairs, par-
ticularly at Strasbourg, occupies an un-
usually large proportionate space in
his biography. There is the dramatic
story of his adventure with the two
daughters of his dancing master, with
one of whom he was in love, while the
other was in love with him, a game of
cross proposes ending in l)reaking off
the connection ^vith the family in a
highly di'amatic style. Another intima-
cy seemed at one time likely to lead to
more important results — the acquaint-
ance with a certain Frederika, the
daughter of the clergyman of a village
in the \'icinity of Strasbourg. It origi-
nated in a kind of masquerading frolic
in a visit to the family, which formed it-
self in the mind of Goethe, as the coun-
terpart of that described by Goldsmith
in the Vicar of Wakefield — a simple-
minded pastor, two daughters and even
the boy Moses. The intercourse which
ensued exhibited some very pretty am-
atory scenes, charming in themselves,
delightful in a painting or a romance,
furnishing most fascinating pages for
future books ; but by no means to be
developed in the sober graces of matri-
mony. For a time these entanglements
of the affections had a strong hold up-
on him, if we may Judge by the declar-
ations of his correspondence and the
sympathizing utterances of his friends.
But it must be remembered that these
things were occurring in a singularly
demonstrative period, when it appears
to have been the habit of the educated
people of the country to indulge in the
greatest freedom and openness in the
expression of eveiy feeling and senti-
ment of the heart, whether relating to
love or friendship. Such revelations

Avere characteristic of the time and in
fected its literature. They prevailed
to a great extent in France and Ger-
many, but they have always been alien
to the English mind and character. The
tendency which always exists where
there is much talkino; about a thinff was
to excess and exaggeration. Words
soon outrun realities. Sentiment rap-
idly grew into sentimentality. It is
not, perhaps, after all, that these loves
of Goethe are so very much more re-
markable than the common flii*tations
of other ardent young philosophers, as
that they have an exceptional inter-
est in his case from the freedom with
which he laid them bare to his friends
and to the public in the thin disguise
of his writings. As it is, we may study
the man in his works and his works in
the man. The analytic process is that
of the critic ; the synthetic is that of
the biographer.

After a residence in Strasbourg of
something more than a year, Goethe
returned home with the degree of Doc-
tor of Laws, not, however, to settle
down to the practice of jiu'isprudence,
but to throw himself ^vith greater fervor
upon literaiy composition. His study
of Shakespeare had impressed him with
the capabilities of the drama in the re-
vival of ancient historical incidents,
while the spirit of the past had been
brought vividly to his mind by his in-
timate sympathy with the medieval as-
sociations of the old cathedral city in
which he had been living. A third
element of interest was combined with
these in the subject which he chose for
the first important exercise of his pow-
ers. This was the rough daring spirit
of independence, fascinating his youth-

JOnAKN WOLFGANG GOETHE.

233

ful energy and enthusiasm, wLicli he
found in the career of Gottfried von
Berlichingen, of the Iron Hand, as he
was called, a lawless feudal Gennan
baron of the Robin Hood or Rob Roy
order, of the sixteenth century. The
story of the exploits of this warrior
chieftain Goethe found written in an
old chronicle which he had dramatized
somewhat after the fashion of Shakes-
peare's historical plays, adding several
striking characters of his own of a pure-
ly romantic or melodramatic interest.
He made it not a great tragedy, but a
grand picturesque bustling narrative,
bringing past events with startling
effect before the mind of the modern
spectator. It was original in its con-
ception as it was vivid in expression,
and with all its imperfections, it be-
came the acknowledged precursor of
two great divisions of our recent liter-
atui'e, the modern historical drama, and
the historical novel. " Gotz von Ber-
lichingen" was first published in 1773.
Six years later it appeared in an Eng-
lish translation from the pen of Walter
Scott, and was no unimportant means
of fastening his attention upon the
themes and treatment of his subsequent
historical poems and novels.

The next memorable work of Goethe,
for he was all the while engaged in mi-
nor literary compositions, in occasional
writings and contributions to the aes-
thetic journals of the day, was also to
create quite as extraordinary an impres-
sion on the times. Tliis was the famous
" Sorrows of Werther." After he had
written " Giitz," and previously to its
publication, Goethe, witli the ostensi-
ble purpose of ])ursuiiig tlie practice
of the law, resided for a short time at
30

Wetzlar, where, as usual, he gave him-
self up unreservedly to literature, so-
ciety and friendship. Though, from
his own account, he had hardly di-
gested his inconsequential passion for
Frederika, he was readily disposed,
perhaps the more on that account — to
fill up the gap in his affections — to fall
into a new attachment. The attractive
object was, at this time, no other than
the original of the heroine, in his tear-
ful, sentimental romance, — a certain
Charlotte Buff, a joyous maiden of
sixteen, interesting rather than beau-
tiful, of rare modesty and worth, and,
happily, of a high degree of self-pos-
session, for she was already betrothed
to Kestner, a friend of Goethe, and,
notwithstanding the excessive admira-
tion and exquisite attentions of the
latter, honorably maintained fidelity
to her engagement. Nor did this per-
severing gallantry interfere with the
friendship between the husband elect
and the ardent lover. On the contrary,
he generously looked upon him, not
with the jealoiisy of a rival, but with
the sympathy of a philosopher, griev-
inir that he should be distressed in so
hopeless a way.

This was the very magnanimity of
friendship, and proof of a noble nature;
it shows too that Goethe's conduct,
allowinir him the limits of a Platonic
attacliment, was not dishonorable.
Goethe left Wetzlar, Charlotte Avas in
due time married to Kestner, and the
first fruit of the union, in compliment
to the distinguished inamorato, was
named Wolfgang. So far, the story
of Werther, like that of his fondness
for Frederika. could have furnished to
the poet only a few idyllic scenes, an-

234

JOHAKN WOLFGANG GOETHE.

otter slcetch for his boolcs of graceful
female teuderiiess. But Wetzlar was
to furnish another incident, a tragic
catastrophe to be inwoven with the
plot. There was in the town, at the
same time with Goethe, a certain youth
with Avliom he became acquainted,
named Jerusalem. He was attached
to the Brunswick legation, was well
educated, of a philosophic turn of in-
tellect, and of a melancholy tempera-
ment, lie, too, formed a passionate
attachment to the wife of a friend,
was mortified by being refused admis-
sion to the house, and being already
in a diseased state of mind, committed
suicide. Combining the two circum-
stances, with Jerusalem for the unhap-
py hero and Charlotte for the subject
of his passion, Goethe, blending with
the two a certain poetic and passionate
melancholy of his own at this period,
produced the " Sorrows of Werther."

The book in which all this was wi'it-
ten — a long melancholy wail of pro-
found, yet sickly sentimentality, re-
lieved by pictures of nature and idyl-
lic scenes of the natural affections, of
simple, human eveiyday life- — seemed
to strike at once the heart of the
world in giving expression to the deep
discontent which was beginning to
prevail in Europe, and which found
its cure at last in the blood-letting at-
tending the French Revolution and the
subsequent wars of Napoleon, when
there was something more practical on
hand than dyspeptic sighing and la-
mentation. For the time, however, its
effect was transcendent. The book ran
the circuit of the reading world ; its
progeny in one shape or other would
fill a library. It was something for a

young man of twenty-three thus, in
the i)roduction of " Gutz Von Berli-
chingen" and the "Sorrows of Wer-
ther," to have founded two great schools
of popular literature.

There were several other literary ef-
forts of Goethe about this time savor-
ing of honest thought and experience
— a projected drama on Mahomet, a
striking conception fully planned, but
of which only one song was written
out ; a satire on Wieland for his mod-
ern misrepresentation of the heathen
gods, and " Clavigo," a dramatic version
of an adventure of Beaumarchais, writ-
ten at the playful command of another
of the author's Platonic lady loves, the
fascinating Anna Sybilla Miinch. Still
another flame, Anna Elizabeth Schone-
mann, celebrated in his poetry as
" Lili," an arrant coquette, furnished
him soon after with emotional experi-
ence sufficient for an opera, "Erwin
and Elmira," in which he took his
revenge in verse. The affair-, however,
was resumed, and a marriage seems at
one time to have been determined on,
which came to nothing without much
difficulty. There was another play
turning on the passion of love, " Stella,''
of the melodramatic order, the English
translation of which suggested to Can-
ning and Frere their famous parody,
" The Rovers ; or, the Double AiTange-
ment," in the An ti- Jacobin. His mental
activity, with the force of his genius,
which impressed itself upon whatever
he undertook, had now gained him the
respect and fi'iendship of most of the
eminent literati of Germany. He num-
bered among his friends and corres-
pondents, Klopstock, Herder, Lavater,
Jacobi, and others of distinction, and a

JOHAKf^ WOLFGAXG GOETHE.

235

greater and more intimate than all,
Schiller, was soon to be added to the
numl^er. His talents, moreover, had
gained him the marked attention of
Karl August, the Duke of Saxe Wei-
mar, who now invited him to pass some
time at his court. He went, towards the
close of 1775, and the capital of the lit-
tle duchy became his home for life.

Weimar was then a very plain little
town, as yet without its beautiful park,
its city walls inclosing under six or
seven hxiudred roofs, a population of
about seven thousand. The manners
of the court were formal and provin-
cial. An aristocratic system of exclu-
siveness prevailed. But there appears
to have been, judging from the free
rollicking career Goethe led there, a
groat deal of sportive life in the place.
The Dowager Duchess Amalia, a niece
of Frederick the Great, was of a happy
temperament, fond of pleasure, well in-
structed in varioiis accomplishments, a
patron of Wieland, who taught her to
read Aristophanes, and fond of haxdng
men of letters in her company. The
Duchess Luise was a woman of deci-
ded character, and her husband, the
duke, was worthy by his talents and
disposition to be the friend and com-
])aTuon of Goethe. They were both in
those early days at Weimar young to-
gether, sympathized heartily with each
other in a passion for nature and ad-
venture, liad a common love of litera-
ture, with a permitted freedom of in-
tercourse which took away all pretence
of patronage on the one side, or risk of
servility on the otlicr. It was truly " a
merry, laughing, quailing and unthink-
ing time " which Goethe passed at that
period with this versatile Prince Hal,

in frolics, private theatricals and social
amusements, not unmixed with graver
duties of the petty state when he was
appointed, contrary to all precedent,
to the distinguished post at the court,
of Geheime Legations Rath, with a
seat in the privy council and a salaiy
of twelve hundi-ed thalers. The duke
also soon presented him with an at-
tractive little " garden house" for a
residence, within the precincts of the
present park, where the poet could
enjoy a most delightful rural seclusion
in the immediate vicinity of the toAvn,
Here he studied, wrote and indulged
in sentimental reveries over a new
passion, this time a lady of three and
thirty, the mother of seven children,
the accomplished woman of the world,
who knew well how to take care of
herself even with so charming an ad-
mirer, — the Frau von Stein of the
court, wife of the Master of the
Horse. A gallant mutual admiration
and exchange of sensibilities was kept
up between them for ten years.

The age of thirty is marked by
Goethe's biographer, INIr. Lewes, as a
turning point in his career, the period
at which he began seriously to think of
life as something to be rigidly control-
led and regulated for the most perfect
application of his faculties and acquire-
ments. The pre\nous time had been a
period of turbulence and unrest, of
fluctuations of feeling and passion, of
experiment in the trial of his powers ;
for the future lie would realize the
ideal, in the full and mature use of all
his powers. The fruits of his candid in-
trospection and noble resolve arc to ])0
seen througliout his subsequent life and
writings. Hi-s demeanor becomes more

230

JOIIANN WOLFGANG GOETHE.

reserved ; his participation in the fro-
licsome vanities of the day is gradually
abandoned ; we no longer hear of him
as engaged in such careless personal
exhiljitions of liimself as that recorded
by his biographer, when he was seen
" standing in the market-jilace with
the duke by the hour together, smack-
ing huge sledge whips for a wager."
On the contrary, his influence is employ-
ed in restraining the wild follies of that
reckless and dissipated uol)le personage
and in guiding to a greater degree his
literary and philosophical pursuits. If
Goethe had sometimes heretofore play-
ed the part of Falstaff to Prince Hal,
the cast was now reversed and Fal-
staff appeared, as he doubtless always
had been in reality, the leader in so-
briety and judgment. But it is in
the finish and completeness of his lite-
rary works that the effect of this pro-
founder consciousness and more dili-
gent application is to be seen. The
artist henceforth predominates, sub-
duing and concentrating in classic
forms the iiTegularities of passion and
emotion. "The Iphigenia in Tauris,"
jiroduced in 1779, a modern transfu-
sion of an ancient di'amatic story, is a
masterpiece of art, profound and orig-
inal in conception.

The drama of " Iphigenia " was fol-
lowed at intervals by "Egmont," in
which we are introduced to some of
the most striking scenes in the war
waged by the Netherlands against the
tyranny of Spain, and " Torquato Tas-
so," a dramatic version of the poet's
life-history in its inner consciousness.
These works were produced in a
period of about ten years, from 1778
to 1 788. Within that time the poet

had been elevated to the nobility, pur
sued various scientific studies in bota-
ny, natural ])hilosophy, anatomy, seek-
ing not the mere knowledge of facts,
but the discovery of principles and
the hidden laws of organization, and
had perfoi-med a memorable tour in
Italy. That he might j^ursue his jour-
ney with the greater freedom and in-
dependence, he laid aside his nobility
for the tour and travelled incognito
with the assumed name of Ilerr Moller.
Venice, Rome, Sicily, engaged most of
his attention. He followed up his lit-
erary and philosophical studies by the
way, and made some lal)orious efforts
to accomplish himself as a painter,
sufficient to satisfy him that he was
not bom for the art. The influence of
the tour, which lasted a year and a
half, was felt in his subsequent tastes
and culture. An expei'ience of a cam-
I^aign or t\vo in France a year or two
after was less in accordance with his
disposition, when he accompanied his
friend,the duke, in the expedition across
the frontier of the Duke of Brunswick,
in the vain attempt of the allies to
stay by force the onward movement of
the Revolution. We hear of nothinsr
more remarkable occurring to him
during this adventure than the expe-
rience ^\'hich he sought of the seusa-
tious of a soldier under fire of the ene-
my, an experiment to ascertain what
sort of a thing the " cannon fever," as
it was called, might be, and of which
he wrote a vivid description.

On his return from Italy, Goethe
had been absolved by the duke from
the discharge of his active duties about
the court as President of the Chamber
and Director of the War Department,

JOHANN WOLFGANG GOETHE.

237

while he still retained the privilege of
a seat in the council and the superin-
tendence of all scientific and artistic
institutions, including the theatre. As
his salary had been increased and he
was in receipt of a handsome addi-
tional income after the death of his
father, which occurred in 1781, to say
nothing of the proceeds of his writ-
ings, his j^ecuniary circumstances were
in the most favorable condition. In
fact, he was in a perfectly independent
position to pursue, with the gi-eatest
advantages, the system of intellectual
culture upon which he had set his
heart. The small rustic "garden-
house," in which he had for some time
resided, had been succeeded by a resi-
dence in the town, granted him by the
duke, which was rebuilt for him during
his aljsence in the French campaign.
This house became thoroughly identi-
fied with the man, being gradually
furnished and adapted according to
his tastes and inclinations. He lived
in it for the remainder of his life, and
after his death, like the Abbotsford of
Sir Walter Scott, it was regarded as a
kind of living monument to the man.
To comjjlete the picture of the
poet's home, it is necessary to refer to
an important member of his family,
the lady whom he had taken to his
house as his acknowledged mistress,
who became the mother of his children,
and, after eighteen years passed in this
irregular rehition, was made liis wife
by marriage. This Avas Christiane
Vulpius, with whom he became ac-
quainted in a noticeable manner. As
he was walking, one day, in the axi-
tumn of ITiSS, in the park at Weimar,
a petition was presented to him by

Christiane, " a fi-esh, young, bright-
looking girl," asking his influence in
procuring a post for her brother, the
author of the celebrated romance,
"Rinaldo Riualdini." This was fol-
lowed by the attachment which re-
sulted, a year after, on her bearing him
a son, in her formal introduction to
his house, to the scandal, as may be
supposed, of good society at Weimar.
There is but little to l^e said by the
greatest admirers of Goethe in apology
for this flagrant violation of morality.
His biographer, ]VIr. Lewes, speaks of
his "abstract dread of marriage,"
which, in the discussion of such a
question, sounds very much like a jest,
and of the disparity in social station,
which can hardly be considered of
much greater consequence with a man
so accustomed and privileged to act
independentl3% There are two pic-
tures presented to us, of her youth,
when Goethe Avrote poems in celebra-
tion of her charms, and of her woman-
hood when her beauty was spoiled by
intemperance. Of the first it is writ-
ten, " her golden-brown locks, laughing
eyes, ruddy cheeks, kiss-provoking
lips, small and gracefully rounded
figure, gave her ' the appearance of a
young Dionysos ! ' Her naivete, gayety
and enjoying teni])('rameut completely
fascinated Goetlie, who recognized in
her one of those free, healthy speci
mens of nature which education had
not distorted with artifiOe. She was
like a child of the sensuous Italy he
had just (piitted with so much regret ;
and there are few poems in any lan-
guage wliich appr<)ach the passionate
gratituik' of those in which he recalls
the happiness she gave him." In tho

238

JOHAXX WOLFGANG GOETHE.

account of her some fifteen years later
we read, "Years and self-indulgence
have now made havoc with her cliarms.
The evil tendency, which youth and
animal spirits kept within excess, has
asserted itself with a distinctness
vhich her birth and circumstances
may explain, if not excuse, Ijut which
can only be contemplated in sadness.
Her father, we know, ruined himself
by intemperance ; her brother impair-
ed fine talents by similar excess ; and
Christiane, who inherited the fatal
disposition, was not saved from it by
the checks which refined society im-
poses, for she was shut out from socie-
ty by her relation to Goethe. Fond of
gayety, and especially of dancing, she
was often seen at the students' balls
at Jena; and she accustomed herself
to an indulgence in wine, which rap-
idly destroyed her beauty, and which
was sometimes the cause of serious
domestic troubles." It was in this
later period, at an odd time, five days
after the battle of Jena, when all Wei-
mar was in confusion and the French
with Napoleon were in possession of
the town, that the marriage took place.
The union, ten years after, in 1816,
was terminated by the death of the
wife.

Succeeding Goethe's more important
dramatic productions, came his art
novel, gathering up many years of
thought and experience, " Wilhelm
Meister's Apprenticeship and Travels."
The motive of this work, which grew
out of the author's active engagement
in the superintendence of the court
theatre at Weimar, was a representa-
tion of the dramatic life, in its trials
and capabilities ; as it was continued

it assumed a symbolical cast and was
less an exhibition of the actual world.
Having been translated by Carlyle, it
is one of the best known to English
readers of the author's works.

In " Herrmann and Dorothea," which
appeared in 1797, Goethe gave to the
world one of the most perfect and
thoi'oughly satisfactory of all his works.
It is a series of idyllic pictures, a tale
of lov^e and affection, set in the frame-
work of German village life, enriched
by humor and sentiment, with the
back-ground of the French revolution.
The poem, tripping lightly on with
the ease and strensrth of the hexame-
ter in the hands of a master, is at once
simple, quaint, picturesque and pro-
found in feeling, and truthful in ex-
pression. Art and nature were never
united in a happier composition.

The first part of the tragedy of
" Faust," the consummate fruit of the
genius of the author in his various at-
tainments, was given to the world in
1806. It was the patient growth of
thirty years of intellectual labor and
passionate experience. Traces of all
his previous life-history appeared in it.
The history of its composition is thus
given by his biographer. " The Faust
fable was familiar to Goethe as a child.
In Strasbourg, during 1770-71, he con-
ceived the idea of fusing his personal
experience into the mould of the old
legend ; but he wrote nothing of the
work until 1774-75, when the ballad
of the King of Thule, the first mono-
logue and the first scene with Wagner,
were written ; and during his love
affair with Lili, he sketched Gretchen's
catastrophe, the scene in the street, the
scene in Gretchen's bed-room, the

JOHAXN WOLFGAXG GOETHE.

239

scenes between Faust and Mepliisto-
ptieles during the walk, and in tlie
street, and the garden scene. In his
Swiss journey, he sketched the first
interview with Mephistopheles and
the compact ; also the scene before
the city gates, the plan of Helena, the
scene between the student and Mephis-
topheles, and Auerbach's cellar. When
in Italy, he read over the old manu-
ecrijjt, and wrote the scenes of the
witches' kitchen and the cathedral ;
also the monologue in the forest. In
1797, the whole was remodelled.
Then were added the two prologues,
theWalpurgis night,aud the dedication.
In 1801 he completed it as it now
stands, retouching it, perhaps, when it
was published." A second part of
Faust, syml)olical, mystical and ob-
scure, was the latest literary work of
the author's closing years. Both por-
tions, but more particularly the latter,
have furnished inexhaustible materials
for critics and commentators. The
main work is sufficiently simple in its
general design, setting forth with all
the force of poetry and imagination

the failure of the human mind in its
pursuit of knowledge to satisfy the
demands of the soul, and the triumph
of sensuality over the distracted powers
of life. The whole work has recently ap-
peared in English in a justly admired
translation from the pen of Bayard
Taylor.

In 1825, the fiftieth anniversary of
Goethe's an-ival at the court was cele-
brated at Weimar with imposing cere-
monial and the most fervent personal
attentions. Less than three years af-
ter, his old friend, the duke, was taken
away, to be followed shortly by his
wife, the grand duchess. Goethe bore
himself through these trials with equa-
nimity, according to his habit, and
thouo^h suffering fi'om the effects of
age, was still employed in his literary
labors. His last work was the com-
pletion of Faust, already mentioned,
in his eighty-second year. In the
spring of 1832 he was taken ill ^vitb
a cold, bringing on a nervous fever
which, within a week, on the 2 2d ol
March, resulted in his death. His last
audible words were " More light."

JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE.

THE records of the Kemble family
are the most brilliant in the an-
nals of the British stage. There was
a shadowy claim or tradition among
them of a member of the race, a Kem-
ble, who, in the great civil war, fought
on the royal side at Worcester ; and of
another, a Roman Catholic priest, who
innocently suffered death at Hereford,
a martyr to the fears of England in
the panic consequent on that dar-
ing imposition on religious credulity,
known as the Titus Gates plot.
Before he went to the scaffold, it is
said, he called for a pipe of tobacco,
and smoked it, which was commemo-
rated in the region where he suffered,
by a last pipe being called " Kemble's
pipe." Henry Siddons claimed that
the name Kemble and Campbell were
originally the same, which opened an
early and distinguished Scottish ances-
try ; but as this was in a conversation
with the author of " The Pleasures of
Hope," it may only have been thrown
out in a spirit of mutual compliment.
The known dramatic ancestry in the
long lineage of players of the tribe,
carries us back in the early days of the
eighteenth centiiry to a person named

(240)

"Ward, an actor of some reputation, a
contemporary of Betterton, who, in
1723, took a leading part on the London
boards in the production of the amia-
ble poet Fenton's " Mariamne." He
subsequently became a strolling man-
ager, his daughter, Sarah, acting with
him before the country audiences. In the
course of this random life, she fell in
love with, and married — it was a run-
away match, without the consent of
her parents — Roger Kemble, a subor-
dinate member of the company, a man
of some education, with a gentle dispo-
sition, of fine personal apj^earance, an-
swering to her own beauty, of the us-
ual poverty of his profession, and a
Roman Catholic. Her father was re-
luctantly reconciled to the marriage,
humorously expressing his forgiveness
in a jest, at the expense of the bride-
groom — " Sarah, you have not disobey-
ed me, I told you never to marry
an actor, and you have married a man
who neither is, nor ever can be an ac-
tor." Notwithstandinof this facetious
anathema, Roger Kemble seems in his
way to have played well his part, and
when, at the age of seventy, brought
into notice by his illustrious children,

JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE.

241

he appeared for the first time before
the London public, at the Ilaymarket
Theatre, on occasion of his daughter-in-
hiw, Mrs. Stephen Kemble's benefit, he
accpiitted himself with credit in the
character of the Miller of Mansfield.
When Boaden, the dramatic biogra-
pher, visited Roger Kemble and his
wife in their old age, the latter fondly
spoke of her husband, sitting apart in
the room unconscious of her remarks,
as the only gentleman Falstaffi she had
ever seen.

Returning to their early married life,
it was while Kemble was in charge of
his father-in-law's itinerant company, to
the management of which he had suc-
ceeded, that their eldest son John Philiji
was born, the 1st of February, 1757, at
Prescot, in Lancashire. He was the
second child, a sister Sarah, the Sid-
dons of the British stage, having pre-
ceded him in the summer of 1755. The
father being a Roman Catholic, and the
mother a Protestant, it was arranged in
the family that the sons were to be
brought up in the former faith, the
daughters in the latter. The stage, in
the shiftless experience of the family,
was not regarded as a desirable call-
ing for either. Brother and sister, how-
ever, were both in tlieir childhood on
the boards, to which in that strolliuir
life access was so easy, and from which
in the struggles of poverty, escape was
hardly possible. From a play-bill of
the year 17(57, when the boy was Init
ten, it appears that they acted togeth-
er at Worcester in Ilavard's once ad-
mired tragedy, " Charles L," a play,
freighted with the solemnity of a na-
tion's grief, then celebrated for its pa-
thetic interest. In this performance,
.SI

John took the part of the Duke of
York, and his sister that of Elizabeth,
the children of the royal martyr. The
passionate life of the stage was thus
blended with their earliest thoughts
and affections, and its influence never
left them. John Kemble, indeed, was
separated from it for a time in his
youth in the pursuit of a very different
class of studies, apparently with a view
of adopting the clerical calling, being
sent by his father, after a juvenile
course at a school at Worcester, to the
Roman Catholic seminary of Sedgeley
Park, in Staffordshire, and thence to
the notable Enfjlish college of the
same church, at Douay, in France.
This new mode of life did not end in
making Kemble a priest ; but it gave
him the training and accomj^lishments
of a scholar, with a taste for lettered re-
finements which long afterwards colored
his professional career. He became fa-
miliar with the Fathers of the church,
made the acquaintance of Greek and Ro-
man authors, while he did not neglect
the literature of his own land, acquii-ing
at the college a reputation for his grace-
ful and harmonious recitations from
the English poets. The actor, in fact,
was not crushed, but developed by
what he learnt at Douay. Returning
to England, contrary to the wishes and
expectations of his father, deliberately
choosing the stage as a profession, he
made his first appearance in a strolling
company at Wolverhampton, as the
hero in Lee's tragedy, " Theodosius."
This was in January, 1776, the year
of Garrick's retirement from the thea-
tre. No one suspected that this hum-
ble novice was to be his successor in
fame, though in a very different style

243

JOHN" PIITLrP KEMBLE.

of acting. Kemhle was then at the
age of nineteen, and had much to learn
in fate and discipline before his fortune
culminated in his established position
at the head of the British stagre. He
was for several years at the beginning
a strolling player, sharing the inclem-
encies attending the craft. A rollick-
ing Irish actor named Watson, whose
life was spent in the provincial thea-
tres, related to that amusinc: stase gos-
siper, Michael Kelly, how, at this ear-
ly period, Kemble and he "lived, or
ratlier starved together." " At one
time, in Gloucestershire," says Kelly,
" they were left penniless ; and, after
continued vicissitudes, Watson assured
me, such was their distress, that at that
time they were glad to get into a turnip
field, and make a meal of its produce
uncooked ; and, he added, it was while
regaling on the raw vegetable, that
they hit upon a scheme to recruit their
finances ; and a lucky turn-up it turned
out. It Avas neither more nor less than
that John Kemble should turn Metho-
dist preacher, and' Watson perform the
part of clerk. Their scheme was orga-
nized ; and Tewkesbury was their first
scene of action. They drew together
in a field a numerous confrregation :
and Kemble preached with such piety,
and so much effect, that, positively, a
large collection rewarded his labors.
This anecdote Kemble himself told me
was perfectly true."*

After acting with some credit at
Manchester and Liverpool, Kemble, at
the close of 1778, in the lau-^uage of
Sir Walter Scott, " like Robinson Cru-
soe in his escape from the raging ocean.

* Reminiscences of Michael KeUy, Second Edi-
tion, II. 95.

began to touch ground." In other
words, he was promoted to a settled en-
gagement in Tate Wilkinson's theatrical
company, with its head-quarters estab-
lished at York. He was at first engacr-
ed in playing such comedy characters as
Captain Plume and Archer, in Farqu-
har's plays, but soon found his way in-
to his appropriate sphere of tragedy,
appearing as Macbeth, Orestes, in which
he was afterwards painted by Stuart,
and other parts of serious declamation
Meanwhile, he had been somewhat en-
gaged in authorship, producing " Belis-
arius," a tragedy. In 1780, he publish
ed, at York, a small collection of juve
nile verses, entitled " Fugitive Pieces,"
copies of which, in after years, he was
in the habit of destroying, whenever
he could lay his hands iipon them.
Kemble also produced at York a year
earlier, a comedy of his own composi-
tion, " The Female Officer," the repre-
sentation of which upon the stage was
attended by an act of courtesy on the
part of Lord Percy, subsequently Duke
of Northumberland, famous in the
early scenes at Concord and Lex-
ington, of the American war of Inde-
pendence. Kemble had cast his eye
upon a company of his lordship's dra-
goons at York as serviceable in a stage
procession, and had been refused the
loan of the soldiers by the officer on
duty. Appealing directly to Lord
Percy, the favor was granted. Thus
early was established the lasting friend-
ship, founded on esteem for his talents,
between the actor and this noble house.
Taylor, in " Records of my Life," lays
the scene of this story at Dorcester, on
occasion, of the performance of Kem-
ble's play " Belisarius," when he re-

JOim PHILIP KEMBLE.

243

quired the men to attend the entrance
of his hero into Eome. At York, Kem-
ble also gave recitations from the po-
ets, Mason, Gray, and Collins, and the
pathetic tales of Sterne. He deliver-
ed with much effect at Edinburgh, a
lecture written by himself on sacred
and profane oratory. A less happy
undertaking at this time, was a whim-
sical alteration of Shakespeare's Come-
dy of Errors, which he entitled, " Oh !
It's Impossible," his notion being still
further to confound the Dromios in the
eyes of the spectators by making them
black servants. Fortunately, this com-
position never was printed. After
fui'ther distinguishing himself at York
in Hamlet and other characters, he
closed his engagement with Wilkinson
in the summer of 1781, with the part
of Juffier, in Venice Preserved.

At this time, Kichard Daly, a bust-
ling Ii'ish actor of good education and
of success on the stage, was about en-
gaging in his undertaking, which soon
became quite famous, of the revival
and management of the Smock Alley
Theatre, as it was called in Dublin.
On the look out for ability, he lighted
upon Kerable at York, perceived his
merits and secured his services for his
new enterprise. His salary was fixed
at five pounds a week, which was then
considered a handsome remuneration.
Shortly after the opening of the the-
atre he ai)])eared in Hamlet, which had
already become one of his best accred-
ited parts. He also played Alexander
the Great in Lee's drama, and made a
decidrd liit with his audience in liis
performance of Captain Jej)hson's
Count of Narbonne, a tragedy based
on Horace "VValpole's Castle of Otrau-

to. Jephson was a wit and humorist,
with a military prestige, reputation
as a brilliant speaker in the English
parliament, and of recognized ability
in literature ; he was withal a great
social favorite in Dublin, so that Kem-
ble's graceful and animated perform-
ance in his play was doubly apjjreci-
ated. Jephson took him by the hand
and at his hospitable mansion, Black
Rock, introduced him to the best com-
pany of the capital. This advantage
of moving in good society, for which
his manners, disposition and education
eminently fitted him, attended Kemble
wherever he went. Among other parts
in Ireland, during his two yeai's' so-
journ there at this time, he played
Othello, Macbeth and Juba in Addi-
son's tragedy to the Cato of Digges,
" the gentleman actor," as he was call-
ed. In his last season in Dublin, in
the summer of 1783, Kemble was join-
ed in Daly's company by his more il-
lustrious sister, Mrs. Siddons. The
extraordinary reputation which she
had acquired on the London stage
drew attention to other members of
the family ; the name of Kemble was
becoming known, and the following
season John Philip and his brother
Stephen were both engaged for the
metropolis.

Stephen Kemble, the thii'd child of
the family, born the year after John,
in 1758, was intended by his father
for the medical 2)rofession, but, like
Dick the apothecary in the farce, soon
abandoned the pestle and mortar for
the stage. After serving the usual ap
j)ri'nticeship in strolling com])anios,
following his In-other, he had found
his way to a small theatre in Dublin

244

JOHN PHTLIP KEMELE.

where he made a first appearance in
Shylock. While the managers of
Drury Lane were negotiating with
John Philip, Harris, the manager of
the rival Covent Garden, secured Ste-
phen, mistaking him, it is said, for
the great Kemlile," in which, if avoii--
dupois had been a substitute in the
scales for talent, he would have been
perfectly right. In this capacity, with
much preliminary puffing, he was
brought out a week in advance of his
brother in the part of Othello, which
he acted with some ability, though the
critics were not long in discovering the
difference between physical and mental
greatness. No force of managerial pre-
tension could maintain him in tragedy
in the presence of Mrs. Siddons and
John Kemble ; but he appears to have
held his own in comedy at the Hay-
market, where he played Sir Christo-
pher Curry in George Colman's " In-
kle and Yarico." He subsequently
became manager at Edinburgh and at
Newcastle-upon-Tyne ; appearing oc-
casionally in London, where he had the
distinction among the Falstaffs of the
stkge of playing the part without stuf-
fing. He died near Durham, in 1822,
and was buried in the cathedral of
that city. He bore an amiable char-
acter. The poet Campbell, who had
met him in his youth, when the actor
touched a tender chord in quoting some
of the poet's early verses, speaks of
him with affection. " I have seen him,"
he writes, " often act in Edinburgh in
my boyish days, and, if it was the pre-
possession of youth and strong per-
sonal friendship to believe him an un-
paralleled comedian, I would go a
gi'eat way to enjoy the same illusion

again. Joy comes to my heart at the
recollection of his Falstaft' and Villase
Lawyer ; and the memory of the man,
who was pleasantness personified,
touches me with still deeper feelings."
John Philip Kemble made his first
appearance in London at Drury Lane
Theatre, September 30th, 1783, in the
character of Hamlet. It is noticeable
in the accounts of this performance, of
which there are several interestinsr con-
temporary records, that though the
actor had arrived only at the age of
twenty-six, he had already acquired the
leading characteristics which marked
his later and maturer powers. His
acting was even then the reflection of
an educated mind, and of a strong vig-
orous nature. All genuine art, of what-
ever kind, whether in literature, paint-
ing, sculpture, oratory, is but a trans-
lation of the man — the man with hia
peculiar disposition, talents and ao-
qiiirements in action, a representation
of his moral and intellectual capacity.
Garrick, with lively French blood
running in his veins, compact, graceful
in person, nimble and forgetive in in-
tellect, versatile in his powers, quick
in a2:)2:)reciation, rapid in execution, il-
lustrated on the stage the variety and
prodigality of nature. Kemble, of a
loftier build, dignified, yet graceful,
slow and measured, arriving at results
rather by study than intuition, was to
exhibit, spite of defect of utterance, the
perfection of declamation and statu-
esque power in what may be called
the heroic style of acting. The critics
on his first London performance ad-
mired and yet were somewhat " put
out" by his course. It had the ad-
vantage and the disadvantage of being

JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE.

245

original, and in the end, as is usual,
tlie originality triumphed. His " new
readings " were commented upon and
discussed; he was pronounced "too
scrupulously graceful." l£ the pres-
tige of the success of his great sister,
who had preceded him by a year in
London, had not been in his favor, he
might still have had a hard struggle
for fame. As it was, the star of the
Kembles was already in the ascendant,
though it had not yet risen to its height
in the theatrical firmament.

Kemble repeated Hamlet five times
within the month. His next Shake-
spearian part was Richard IH., early
in November, followed by Sir Giles
OveiTeach ; but he was generally kept
to inferior characters, and, at this pe-
riod of his career, had seldom the op-
portunity of appearing with his sister,
Mrs. Siddons, who was then perform-
ing at Drury Lane. Like every actor
who has attained distinction in London,
he found, at the start, the stage occu-
pied by some claimant who, by merit
or custom, had acquired a species of
prescriptive right to most of the lead-
ing parts. A kind of conservatism, in
consonance with the genius of the
British institutions, long prevailed in
the management of the theatres. The
new actor, whatever his merit, required
both effort and patience before he
could displace the old. Kemble on
his arrival found Henderson and
William Smith in possession of the
leading tragic characters; the former
of the natural and impulsive school of
Garrick, capable of genuine passion
though laboring under defect of per-
son ; the latter, " Smith the genteel,
the airy, and the smart," as he is de-

scribed in the verse of Chiu'chill, of an
easy commanding figure, accepted in
Richard, Macbeth and other tragic per-
sonations, but far better qualified for
the comedy of Farquhar and other po
lite witty plays, in which, in Archer,
Captain Plume and the like, he had
trained his title, " Gentleman Smith."
He had been long upon the London
stage, now for thirty years, having
commenced his career there immedi-
ately on his expulsion fi-om Cambridge
University, from which he had been
driven by some youthful irregularities.
Garrick had brought him from Covent
Garden to Drury Lane, where he was at
this time firmly established in public
favor. When Mrs. Siddons performed in
Lady Macbeth, Isabella in Measure for
Measure, it was Smith and not Kemble
who was called upon for Macbeth and
the Duke. There was one character,
however, which Kemble enjoyed from
the beginning, Beverley, in the " Game-
ster," in which Mrs. Siddons, as the
wife, sustained one of her most im-
passioned parts. He had also the op-
portunity, by royal command, of acting
Kino; John with his sister's Constance.
In due time the value of their joint
performances was fully recognized.
Meantime, Kemble was perfecting him-
self by study and discipline. Among
other performances, he was greatly ad-
mired in a masque, entitled "Arthur
and Emmeline," an alteration of Dry-
don's "King Arthur." He acted in
this with Miss Farren. There is a
l)eautiful small engraving by Heath,
after a drawing by Stothard, of a pa-
thetic scene in this play, where they are
introduced together, with an air of
equal gallantry and refinement.

246

JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE.

In the spring of 1785, Kemble acted
Othello, with Mrs. Siddous as Desde-
mona. His dress was the uniform of
a British general officer; his perform-
ance seems to have been marked by
dignity rather than emotion, even the
celebrated pathetic farewell to his oc-
cupation, " coming rather coldly from
him." Subsequently, a year or two
after, he made a decided impression in
Lear, Mrs. Siddons playing Cordelia.
Boaden says he never again achieved
the excellence of that first perform-
ance of the part ; " subsequently, he
was too elaborately aged, and quenched
Avith infirmity the insane fire of the
injured father. The curse, as he then
uttered it, harrowed up the soul : the
gathering himself together, with the
hands convulsively clasped, the in-
creasing fervor and rapidity, and the
suffocation of the conclusive words, all
evinced consummate skill and original
invention. The countenance, too, was
finely made up and in grandeur ap-
proached the most awful impersonation
of Michael Ansjelo."

We have seen the younger brother
Stephen on a London stage ; about the
time of John Kemble's first appearance,
there were also two other members of
the family, besides Mrs. Siddons, act-
ing in the metropolis, Frances the
fourth, and Elizabeth, the fifth child,
respectively at the ages of twenty-four
and twenty-six. Like the other Kem-
bles, they were distinguished for their
beauty, and were not unsuccessful on
the stage. Frances was married in
1786, to Francis Twiss, brother to
the better known traveller of the name
and compiler of an Index to Shakes-
peare, " a most respectable man, though

of but small fortune, and I thank God
that she is off the stage," wrote ]\Ii's.
Siddons to her friend, Dr. Whalley,
shortly after the event. Kemlde acted
with Elizabeth in Shirley's " Edward
the Black Prince," in his first season at
Drury Lane. She remained in the
stock company, performing inferior
parts till her marriage with Charles
Edward Whitelock, god-son of the
Pretender, who had given him his
name, the manager of the theatre at
Newcastle-upon-Tyne. She came with
her husband to America in 1794, and
remained in the country several years,
playing at Philadeljjhia, where she
moved the great Washington to tears,
at Charleston, New York and Boston.
Returning to London, she revisited
America in 1802 and again in 1812,
Her latter days were passed in retire-
ment in England, where she died in
1835, at the age of seventy-four.

IMr. Kemble, at the age of thirty,
made up his mind to matrimony. He
had on one or two occasions, it is said,
been peculiarly impressed with female
charms in his stage career. There was
a rejiort of something more than ten-
derness in his regard for the amiable
and romantic Mrs. Inchbald, a creature
formed for the tender passion ; and
much was also said of his admiration
of the beautiful Miss Phillips, as she
a2:)peared at the same time with him
in Dublin, the delightful singer sub-
sequently known as Mrs. Crouch, of
whom a great deal is to be read in the
" Reminiscences " of her friend and com-
panion, Michael Kelly. There was also
a rumor in circulation of a strong pas-
sion entertained for him by the daugh-
ter of a noble earl, which he was too

JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE.

24Y

much of a gentleman to take any ad-
vantage of. Whatever wounds Le may
have received fi-om or inflicted on these
attractive personages, his choice at last
fell upon a young widow, Mrs. Brereton,
an actress at Drury Lane, of a stage
family, her mother being a clever per-
former in old ladies' characters, and
her father for several years discharg-
ing the useful office of prompter at the
theatre. As Miss Priscilla Hopkins, to
distinguish her from an elder sister, to
whose parts on her marriage with a
gentleman of fortune she had succeed-
ed, she had become known as a pleas
ing actress of such characters as Peggy
in the " Country Wife," Selima in
" Tamerlane," Aura in the " Country
Lasses." She had then married Brere-
ton, a young actor who had been in-
structed by Garrick, begun his career
in Loudon at seventeen in the part of
Douglas, and been brought into prom-
inent notice as Jaffier, when Mrs. Sid-
dons played Belvidera. lie was taken
ill with some afflictive malady accom-
panied by loss of reason, and after a
year in this condition, died in Febru-
ary, 1787. Kemble had noticed the
quiet virtue of the mfe under these
unhappy circumstances, admired her
disposition, and before the year was
out, proposed to her. They were mar-
ried early la December, and a few eve-
nings after the ceremony, appeared to-
gether in Sir Giles Overreach and Mar-
garet, in Massinger's tragedy.

In 1 788, Mr. Kemble, on King's retire-
ment, became manager of Drury Lane,
and was, of course, free to choose his
characters and regulate liis own ap-
pearances. Nor had he any prominent
rival at this time to encounter. Hen-

derson, still in his youthful prime, died
a few years Ijefore, at the age of thirty
nine, and was buried in Westminister
Abbey ; and the veteran Smith having
married a fortune, had just closed his
long career on the stage, taking leave
of the public in his original part of
Charles Surface. Macbeth was now
T)rought on the stage with increased
effect, Kemble, of course, acting with
Mrs. Siddons. To this, among other
leading personations, succeeded his
Lear in Massinger's " Kule a Wife and
Have a Wife." Henry VHL was pro-
duced with great brilliancy, with INIrs.
Siddons as Queen Catharine, Kemble
gracefully retaining Bensley in his es-
tablished character of Wolsey, and aid-
ing his sister in the subordinate Crom-
well and Griffith. Henry V. was also
revived after a stage neglect of twenty
years, Kemble playing the King. This
was followed by the Tempest, in which
he acted Prospero. Somewhat later he
appeared in Charles Surface, a charac-
ter certainly ill-suited to his constitu-
tional gravity. Sheridan professed to
admire. Boaden, his biographer and
eulogist, quietly remarks, " I should
better have liked to see him in Joseph."
A friendly newspaper critic of the day
called the perfonnance " Charles' Res-
toration ;" another, less li'iendly, said
that it should ratlier be described as
" Charles' Mart jTdom." This, and some
other freaks of Keml)le's genius, are,
doubtless, to be classed among the po-
et's " follies of the wise."

The management of Drury Ltme,
thoujrh it had its advantages to the
interests of the Kembles, proved not
alto<fether a bed of roses to the illus-
trious incumbent. He once fairly risk-

248

JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE.

ed his life in a duel with a worthy but
over spirited member of his corps
James Aiken, who called him out for
some fancied aftrout. Kemble met his
antagonist in the field, received his shot,
and magnanimously fired his own pistol
in the air. The affair thus ended in a
friendly manner.

A^Tiatever, however, may have been
the internal difficulties of the manage-
ment, there was one trancendent scene
in the eye of the public which sur-
passed them all. This was the pro-
duction in April, 1796, of the cele-
brated Vortigern, the culmination of
the numerous Ireland Shakespearian
forgeries which, with an audacity never
perhaps equalled, had, during the pre-
vious two months, been heaped upon
one another in reckless profusion and
extravagance of invention. The easy
faith of antiquarians is an old subject
of satire. On this occasion they seem-
ed determined to verify all the jests
which had ever been levelled at them.
What was in the besjinniuof but the
fi'eak or silly counterfeit of a young
lawyer's clerk of eighteen, amusing
himself at his desk with, to adopt the
most charitaltle supjiosition, the weak
credulity of an aged parent, was speed-
ily developed into an affair of national
importance. It began with the produc-
tion of an alleged lease, followed by a
Protestant Confession of Faith, in the
handwriting of Shakespeare, purport-
ing to be derived from the family jja-
pers of a descendant of a brother ac-
tor of the great dramatist. Curiosity
after curiosity of the most inviting
character, among other things an epistle
of the poet to Cowley, a love letter,
with verses and a lock of hair to Ann

Hathaway, a miniature, fragments of
manuscript plays never published, and
finally the complete historical tragedy
of Vortigern, ancient king of Britain,
were produced. Various literary com-
mittees, composed of the respectabili-
ties of literature, in which clergymen
were well represented, sat upon these
revelations, examined the documents
and pronounced them genuine. The fa-
mous Di". Parr, learned in Greek, with
his profound critical acumen, was
among the loudest in their favor.
When it was understood that a play
capable of being acted was found with
the treasures, there was quite a contest
for it by the rival theatres. Sheridan
secured it for Drury Lane by the pay
ment of three hundred pounds and the
promise of half the receij^ts for sixty
nights, which it was surely expected
to run. It was cast with the whole
strength of the company, with the ex-
ception of Mrs. Siddous, who begged
to be excused, and hajjpily the favor
was granted to her. Kemble appear-
ed as the hero ; his brother Charles
was in it, with Bensley, Mrs. Powell,
Mrs. Jordan and others not altogether
forgotten. A large and distinguished
audience assembled to witnesss this
extraordinary performance. The re-
sult was as might have been expected.
The play was irretrievably damned on
the instant ; though the comjiany en-
dured the flatulent dulness till toward
the close it fell to Kemble to deliver
a description of death, a mongrel trav-
esty of several Shakespearian passages,
in which occurred the line —

And when this solemn mockery is o'er.

This was delivered by the tragedian
in his most sepulchral tone and was

the signal for the final explosion, which
came, says a person who was present,
in "the most discordant howl that
ever assailed the organs of hearing."
When, after some minutes, it subsided,
Kemble again pointed the moral of
the whole by repeating the line with his
utmost solemnity. He had never com-
mitted himseK to the authenticity of the
play ; he was too good a scholar for that ;
his ear was too well attuned to the
language of Shakespeare, and he had,
besides, a prudent adviser in his friend
Malone, who had been unsj^ariug in
his contempt and indignation at the
whole L'eland proceedings. He had
been simply passive in the affair ; but
it cost him much vexation in the
squabble of the day over this absurd
business.

To return to his more les^itimate
performances during the twelve years
in which, with the exception of a short
interval, he was connected with the
management of Drury Lane. The
theatre in that time had been rebuilt
and witnessed the growth and devel-
opment of his great dramatic triumphs.
He introduced many improvements on
the stage in scenery and costume. In
" Coriolanus," " AU's Well that Ends
"Well," "Measure for Measure," and
" Cymbeline," in which he played the
part of Pusthumas, and otlier revivals
already mentioned, he had, with the
powerful assistance of the Siddons,
and the resources of his " so potent
art," awakened a new interest in the
Shakespearian drama. He had pro-
duced the utmost effect in his original
parts of Octavian, the Stranger, and
Kolla, in which his fine jihysical j)ow-
ers and impassioned declamation were
.■?2

carried to the highest pitch. One of
his finest attitudes in the piece, that
in which he bears aloft the child at a
crisis of the action, is even at this day
familiar to the admiration of the pub-
lic in the engravings after a picture
painted by his friend, Sir Thomas
Lawrence. Li these, as in all his best
performances, like his sister, Mrs. Sid-
dons, he was tennbly in earnest. He
was slow, deliberate and painstaking
in study and preparation, but in the
moment of action he impressed all his
powers upon his work. He could not
otherwise have been a great actor.
Some of his peculiarities, however,
continued to afford food for the critics
and wits, who wrote epigrams at his
expense.

Many were the jests popularly
current, levelled at the slowness of
his utterance, tragic solemnity and
occasional somewhat pedantic refine-
ments in delivery. Talking over with
Sheridan some proposed piece for the
stage, that arch wit is said to have ad-
vised him to introduce music between
the pauses. Kelly, the privileged Irish
actor, once disturbed liis silent gravity
in company with an appeal from Ham-
let, " Come, Kemble, ' ope thy ponder-
ous and marble jaws' and give us an
opinion !" George Colman said of his
performance of Don Felix in the
" Wonder," that it had too much of
the Don and too little of the Felix.
But the greatest efforts of the wits
were directed at his pronimciation of
" aches " in a line in the " Tempest " —

Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar.
Following the reciuirement of the me-
tre he made this a word of two sylla-
bles, pronouncing it aitchcs. The pit

250

JOHN PUILEP KEMBLE.

demurred, but Kemble persisted, and
tvlieu, in the absence of the manager in
consequence of an attack of rheumatism,
Georije Frederick Cooke Avas called
upon to play tlie part, he got over the
difficulty by omitting the passage alto-
gether. Like numerous actors and
many persons of eminence off the
stage, Kemble was attracted to attempt
the very opposite of that which was
suited to his genius, and in which he
was most successful. "VVe have noticed
his performance of Charles Surface,
with the sport of the wits on that oc-
casion. He had his eye for a while
steadily on Falstaff, whom he proposed
to relieve of his usual grossness on
the boards and introduce in his intel-
lectual and gentlemanly capacity as
" SLr John to all Europe." He even
got so far as to make choice of a beard
for the character ; but he never brought
it on the stage. Sir Walter Scott tells
a story of his imperturbal)le self-com-
mand while engrossed with this favor-
ite idea. They were siting together at
the annual entertainment given by the
artists at the private opening of the
Royal Academy Exhibition. Kemble
was in the midst of a dissertation em-
bodying his views of Falstaff, when
the huge chandelier above the table
descended, crushing glass and china,
and tkreatening the illustrious com-
pany with destruction. All was panic
and confusion save in the mind and
speech of Kemble, and Scott, as he
confesses, meditating retreat, was firm-
ly held to the lofty analysis of the
humorous old knight.

At the close of the season in the
summer of 1802, Kemble finally with-
drew from the management of Drury

Lane, with a view of becoming one of
the proprietors of Covent Garden. Be-
fore entering upon this new field, he
employed an interval of leisure in a
trip on the continent : on his way to
Paris, he visited Douay, the scene of
his early studies, and found it suffer-
ing sadly from the disorders of the
country, in a state of ruin, poverty and
desolation not to be described. " I
had not the heart," he writes in a let-
ter to his brother Charles, " to go up
to my old room." Paris he paints in
few words: — "such a scene of mag-
nificence, filth, pleasure, poverty, gai-
ety, distress, virtue and vice, as consti-
tutes a fjreater miracle than was ever
chronicled in history." Here he moved
in the best English society, of which
Lord and Lady Holland were the lead-
ei"s, and became acquainted with many
of the French actors, particularl}' with
Talma, who expressed a desire to
adapt Pizarro to the French stage.
Passing thence to Spain, he spent some
time at Madrid, perfecting himself in
the Spanish language. At this place
he was informed of the death of his
father, the venerable Eoger Kemble,
who passed away at the age of eighty-
two. Writing to Charles, who had
communicated the event to him, he
expressed the most tender feelings of
sympathy with his mother, and says
of his father with a kindly touch of
nature : "How in vain have I delighted
myself in thousands of inconvenient oc-
currences on this journey, with the
thought of contemplating my father's
cautious incredulity while I related
them to him. Millions of things un-
interesting, it may be, to any body else,
I had treasured up for his surprise and

JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE.

251

scrutiny. It is God's pleasure that lie
is goue from us ; once more, the peace
of the Just be with him."

Having perfected the Covent Garden
arrangement by the purchase of a share
of one-sixth of the property for twenty-
three thousand pounds from the vet-
eran comedian, Lewis, the stage man-
ager, Keml>le became his successor,
making his first appearance at the
theatre in September, 1803, in his
favorite character of Hamlet. Mi's.
Siddons was again with him, and no
less a personage than George Frederick
Cooke, who for two or three years had
been established at Covent Garden as
somet'.iincr of a rival of Kemble. This
did not prevent the manager from giv-
ing him every opportunity for the ex-
ercise of his extraordinaiy powers.
Komble acted Richmond to Cooke's
llichard, one of his great parts; old
Norval to Cooke's Glenalvon, IVIrs. Sid-
dons acting Lady Randolph ; and An-
tonio to Cooke's Shylock. Here was
a brilliant opportunity, but Cooke's
irregularities were in the way of any
advantage to his reputation. Li the
midst of the efforts of the new man-
ager for the reputation of the stage, in
the winter of 1804, came the Master
Betty flurry, when that juvenile prod-
igy came heralded from the provinces
to create an unprecedented excitement
among the jdaygoersof Covent Garden
and Drury Lane, for he acted at both
theatres. The representative for the
time on the Lontlon stage of Douglas,
Romeo and Hamlet, in the presence of
Kemble, was a boy of thirteen. After
this was over, there was a return to
more legitimate perlnrmances, and
Kemble and Siddons were again su-

preme in the Shakespearian drama.
The great Roman plays, Coriolanus
and Julius Caesar, with which must be
included Addison's Cato, became now,
in these later years of his career, more
than ever the stronghold of his genius.
His powers were admirably suited to
them ; they afforded, in theh* calm com-
posure and bursts of passion, fine scojie
for his stately dignity of mien, his
graceful attitude and studied declam-
ation ; he was greatly admired in them
by the best judges, and in them he has
had no successor.

An actor's life is exposed to many
vicissitudes. The destniction of Co-
vent Garden Theatre by fire in Sep-
tember, 1808, faii'ly tested the philoso-
phy of our stoic performer. He had
now to put the j)rinciples in action he
had so often feigned upon the stage.
At first he appears to have been
somewhat overcome, if we may so in-
terpret the peculiar stage language in
which he expressed his feelings. Boa-
den visited the family in Great Rus-
sel street the morning after the fire.
IVIrs. Kemble was in tears at the pros-
pect of beginning life over again in
the repairs of their shattered fortunes ;
Charles Kemble sat in silence ; King
John seemed totally absorbed in the
contemplation of affairs, but was feed-
ing his imagination with the melan-
choly details. At last he broke out
with tliis pattern declamation, — " Yes,
it has perished, that magnificent the-
atre, which for all the pur})oses of ex-
hil)itiou or comfort was tlie first in
Europe. It is gone, with all its treas-
ures, that library whicli contained all
those immortal prt)ductions of our
countrymen, prepaied for the purposes

252

JOim PHILIP KEMBLE.

of representation ! That vast collec-
tion of music, composed by the greatest
geniuses in that science — by Handel,
Arne and others ; — most of it manu-
script in the original score ! That
wardrobe, stored with the costume of
all ages and nations, accumulated by
uuAvearied research, and at an incred-
ible expense. Sceneiy, the triumph
of the art, unrivalled for its accuracy,
and so exquisitely finished that it
might be the ornament of your draw-
ing-rooms, were they only large enough
to contain it. Of all this vast treasure
nothing now remains but the arms
of England over the entrance of the
theatre, and the Eoman ea£:le standins:
solitary in the market place." The
Roman eagle he no doubt felt to be
typical of himself

A noble friend came to the rescue.
Lord Percy, who assisted him with the
company of soldiers for his stage per-
formance at Alnwick at his settincr out
in the world, was now the Duke of
Northumberland, and felt under some
obligation to Kemble for insti-uctine:
his son, another Lord Percy, in elocu-
tion. The duke, ever an admirer of
Kemble's ability, with prompt sym-
pathy for his misfortune, placed the
sum of ten thousand pounds at his dis-
posal. Kemble accepted it as a loan,
upon which interest was to be paid.
The corner-stone of the new theatre
Avas, in due time, laid by the Prince of
Wales, with brilliant ceremonials, and
at the dinner which followed, his grace
of Northumberland crowned the fes-
tivities by sending the cancelled bond,
as he expressed it, to light the bonfire
on the joyful occasion. It was a mu-
nificent gift, and felt to be no less a

tribute to the actor's genius, than to
his necessity. When the theatre was
finished, as if to offset the felicity of
the occasion, on the very opening night
arose that unprecedented commotion,
famous in English theatrical history as
the O. P. riots. The improvements and
decoration of the new theatre having
involved a \'ast expense, to secure some
adequate remuneration an additional
portion of the house was set apart for
private boxes, and the tickets of admis-
sion were raised, a shilling for the boxes,
and sixj^ence for the pit. The house
opened on the 18th of September, 1809,
wdth Kemble and Mrs. Siddons in
Macbeth, but the performance was in-
terrupted from the beginning by hide-
ous noises. The actors went throusrh
their parts, but not a sentence was suf-
fered to l)e heard. There Avas an ef-
fort to put an end to the disturbance
by the police, and it proved insufll-
cient. The next nis^ht the disorder
was renewed. The mob, paying for
their tickets, demanded the al)olition
of the boxes, which interfered with
the galler}^ privileges of the people,
and set up the cry O. P. or Old Prices.
The theatre, for no fewer than sixty-
six nights, was turned into a scene, a
very pandemonium, of the wildest rev-
elry and riot. The proprietors intro-
duced prize-fighters into the arena to
quell the ruffians. This only exaspe-
rated them the more. It became a
nightly entertainment for the worst of
all mobs, a British mob. A respect-
able lawyer, named Clifford, who ima-
gined he was serving the cause of Eng-
lish liberty, led and fomented the agi-
tation, and when he was arrested by
the box-keeper, one Brandon, was dis

JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE.

253

charged by the court, and instituted
an action for false imjirisonment, in
which he was successful. The O. P.
riots in the theatre, with the O. P.
fiongs and dances, became the mania
and fashion of the day, as brutality in
large cities is apt to become. It was
for the time a kind of Tom and Jerry
life, acted in the pit instead of upon
the stage — a rare opportunity for the
fancy shop boys and disreputable row-
dies of the metropolis, who managed
with great adroitness, spite of every
precaution, to introduce into the house
various cumbrous instruments of of-
fence, — watchman's rattles, dustman's
bells, postl)oy's horns, trombones, blud-
geons and gigantic placards. Kemble
was jeered and insulted by every form
of caricature and annoyance, and at
length, to the disgrace of the muni-
cipal law and police of the city, was
compelled to yield. The private boxes
were reduced to their old number and
the pit admission to its old rate ; the ex-
tra shilling for the boxes was permitted
to stand ; but the spirited door-keeper,
Brandon, was meanly recpiired to be
dismissed, and oflensive personal apol-
ogies were exacted from Kemble. The
next yeai", when a few private boxes
were again added, the riot broke out
anew, and Keml)le, with his lirother
j)n>prietors, were again ol)ligcd to suc-
ciuiili to the portentous outcry, O. P.

Keiul)le continued, with an interval
of absence from London, several years
longer on tlie stage, illustrating the
period, though it was a season of failing
fortunes with tlie theatre, by his mag-
nificent performance of his great Ro-
man plays. In King John, PenrmUloek,
Ila'ulet, Wolsey and Macbeth he held

his own to the last. As the time
which he had determined upon for his
retirement approached, he visited Ed-
inljurgh and gave a series of perfor-
mances, closing with MacTteth, when he
recited an epilogue written for the
occasion by one of his noblest appre-
ciators, Sir Walter Scott. His fare-
well performance on leaving the stage
took place at Covent Garden on the
23d of June, IS 17, when he acted Cor-
iolanus before one of the most distin-
guished audiences ever gathered in the
metropolis. A dinner given in his
honor by his friends and brother ac-
tors followed, memorable for the array
of genius which was present. Lord
Holland presided, supjjorted by the
Duke of Bedford. The French actor.
Talma, was among the guests. Re-
marks were made by West, the Pres-
ident of the Royal Academy; Young,
the inheritor on the stage of the depart-
ing actor's honors; Charles Mathews;
and others of hardly less renown. Flax-
man, the sculptor, was present and had
contributed the design for the silver
vase presented to Kemble on the occa-
sion. But the most enduring memorial
of the evening is the noble ode written
by the poet Campbell and recited to
the company by Young.

"Prido of the British Stage

A long and hist adieu.

* * * <^ *

Time may again revive,

But no'or efTace the charm,
When Onto spoke in liiin aUve,

Or Hotspur kindled warm.
What soul was not resign'd entire

To the deep sorrows of the Moor f
What Kn^rlish heart was not on tire,

With him at .\gineourt ("

Kemble, worn in health, suffering
from an asthmatic affection, which is

254

JOHN rniLip kemble.

said to ha^•e imparted that peculiar
hoarse and sepulchral tone which at
times marked his delivery, turned
asrain to the continent for recreation
and repose. Benefited in health, he
passed several seasons with his wife at
Toulouse, till the acrimony of the
French political parties of the place,
and their general dislike to English-
men drove him to Switzerland. Pre-
viously to settling down in his new
abode he visited England on business
connected ^vith his interest in Covent
Garden, and made arrangements for the
sale of his fine library, which it was
not convenient for him to carry with
him abroad ; while the money which
it produced was an object to him, in
the increase of a somewhat narrow
income. Like Garrick he had been
a diliarent and successful collector
of old plays. This portion of his
library was sold to the Duke of
Devonshire for two thousand pounds.
His miscellaneous books, under the
hammer of Evans, brought as much
more, and his theatrical engravings
about three hundred pounds.

The Swiss residence, which contin-
ued his home for the remainder of his
life, was a delightful villa at Lausanne,
on the edge of the town, overlooking
the lake, vnth. fine views of Mont
Blanc and the surrounding mountains.
The cultivation of his garden, with his
enjoyment of his usual intellectual

I pursuits and the excellent society ol
tlie place, filled up the outline of a life
doubtless peopled also with many
strange and exciting visions of the
past. Mrs. Siddons came to visit him
in this retirement. " Both he and Mrs.
Kemble," ■wrote her daughter, who ac-
companied her, " seem as perfectly hap-
py as I ever saw two human beings.
Their situation is a blessed one." In
the winter of 1822, Kemble with his
wife visited Italy and observed with
interest the historical monuments of
Home, but in no pedantic spirit ; he
was more moved by the degradation
of the people, under the influences of
bad government in the present. Fail-
ing health began to press sorely upon
him. He returned to Lausanne with
difiiculty, and a few months after, on
the 26th of February, 1823, died sud-
denly of apoplexy. His remains Avere
interred in a graveyard at Lausanne.
They might worthily have found their
rest by the side of Garrick in West-
minster Abbey. He is represented,
however, in that national gathering of
English heroes, by a statue, sketched
by Flaxman, in which he is exhibited
in his personation of Cato. His "vvife,
making her home in England, survived
him twenty-two years, dying in 1845,
at the age of ninety. She had retired
from the stage a few years after her
marriage, her last performance being
in 1796.

J Jj.

a^j

ABIGAIL ADAMS,

THE wife of John Adams, second
pi'esiilent of the United States,
was born at Weymouth, Massachusetts,
November 22d, 1741. Her maiden
name was Al)igail Smith, and she
came from the old stock of New-Eng-
land colonists. Her father was the
Congregational minister at Weymouth
for more than foiiy years; and on her
mother's side, tlie Quincy family, she
inherited a claim to belong to those
who were distinguished and prominent
in the educational and relia:ious move-
ments of the early Puritans. Abigail
was the second of three daughters, and
when a girl, being rather delicate, was
not sent to school with other girls of
her age and position. Her education
and training, consequently, consisted in
great measure in a somewhat discur-
sive course of reading, and she owed a
deep and abiding debt of gratitude to
her grandmother, Eliza1)eth Quincy,
who c()iitril)uted largely towards form-
ing and inipri)ving her taste aixl judg-
ment, and assisting her in learning les-
sons of practical wisdom and goodness.
Mrs. Adams, however, we are assured
by her son, John (Juincy Adams, was
well versed in the best literature of the
period, and was possessed with a warm

relish for the beauties and high moral
principles of the poets and moralists
of the reign of Queen Anne. Abigail
and her sisters " were familiar with the
pages of Shakespeare and Milton, of
Dryden and Pope, of Addison and
Swift, no less than with those of Til-
lotson and Berkeley; nor were they
unacquainted with those of Butler and

Locke Perhaps no writer of

any age or nation ever exercised a
more beneficent intluence over the taste
and manners of the female sex, than
Addison, by the papers of the Specta-
tor, Guardian and Tatler. With these
the daughters of Mrs. Smith were, from
their childhood, familiar. The senten-
tious energ}^ of Young, sparkling amid
the gloom of his Night Thoughts, like
diamonds from the lamp of a sepulchre ;
the patriotic and profound sensi1)ilitie3
of Thomson and Collins, j)rer'mlnently
the poets of freedom, kindling the love
of country with the concentrated ra-
diance and si)lendors of imagination.
Were felt and admired l)y Mrs. Ailams,
in her youth, and never lost their value
to lier mind in mature asfe." Trained
under sucli influences, the superior na-
tive j)(>wers and faculties of Mrs. Ad-
ams, found their full development, and

256

ABIGAIL ADAMS.

she became the wisest, safest and most
reliable counsellor of lier husband in
the busy and somewhat stormy career
of political life. Iler marriage took
place October 25th, 1704, and John
Adams being at the time an active
and rather ambitious young lawyer,
she spent the first eight or ten years
of wedded life in the discharge of
home duties and in full sympathy
with the patriotic movements which
soon after led to a collision between
the colonies and the British govern-
ment.

Entrance into the public service seem-
ed almost a necessity at this period
to a man of John Adams' native capa-
bilities and prominent position. The
course of events which brought Boston
into the forefi'ont in the strus^ffle with
the mother country, naturally aroused
every man of note and character in
New England. Adams was chosen as
one of a committee to meet other public
spirited men in a Congress at Philadel-
phia, September, 1774, in order to con-
sult upon existing and threatened dan-
gers, and to provide as far as possible
for combined effort in the common be-
half. Beginning at this date, and con-
tinuing all through life, as far as occa-
sion permitted or re(;[uired, Mrs. Ad-
ams and her husband kept up a regu-
lar confidential coiTespondence, in which
she bore her full part and justified the
high praise we have bestowed upon her.
" I must entreat you," Adams wrote,
" my dear partner in all the joys and
sorrows, prosperity and adversity of
my life, to take a part with me in the
struggle. I pray God for your health,
and entreat you to rouse your whole
attention to the family, the stock, the

farm, the dairy. Let every article of
expense, which can j)Ossibly be spared,
be retrenched. Keep the hands atten-
tive to their business, and let the most
prudent measures of every kind be
adopted and pursued with alacrity
and spirit."

Mrs. Adams, at this time, while her
husband was absent at Philadelphia,
was residing at their cottage at Brain-
tree, with four little children, the eld-
est not ten years old. The battle of
Lexington had taken place, and the
whole country around Boston was
alive with men eager to besiege the
king's troops, and bring the contest to
a distinct issue. Danger was imminent,
and no one could tell from what quar-
ter it might come, or say where the
hand of the depredator might strike.
Writing to her husband, under date of
May 24th, 1775, Mrs. Adams gives a
graphic account of the alarm just then
occasioned l)y the ajijiroach of a small
body of British soldiers. " Our house
has been, upon this alarm," she says,
" a scene of confusion. Soldiers com-
ing in for a lodging, for breakfast, for
supper, for drink, etc. Sometimes ref-
ugees from Boston, tired and fatigued,
seek an asylum for a day, a night, a
week. You can hardly imagine how
we live My best wishes at-
tend you, both for your health and
happiness; and that you may be di-
rected into the wisest and best meas-
ures for our safety, and the security
of our prosperity. I wish you were
nearer to us. We know not what a
day will bring forth, nor what distress
one hour may throw us into. Hither-
to I have been able to maintain a calm-
ness and presence of mind ; and hope

ABIGAIL ADAMS.

257

I sliall, let the exigency of the thne be
what it will." •

The value of John Adams' presence
and services were so great in Congress,
that he could not be spared, and con-
sequently Mrs. Adams was called up-
on to exercise all her fortitude, and
bear up, in great measure alone, under
the terrilile trials of war, pestilence and
such like evils. Yet she did not mur-
mur, and she sympathized fully in the
glowing words of her husband, who
had been the great and eloquent de-
fender of the Declaration of Independ-
ence in July, 1770. "You will think
me transported with enthusiasm," he
writes, " but I am not. I am well
aware of the toil and blood and treas-
ui"e that it will cost us to maintain this
declaration, and support and defend
these States. Yet, through all the
gloom, I can see the rays of ravishing
light and glory. I can see the end is
more than worth all the means, and
that posterity will triumph in that
day's transaction, even although we
should rue it, which I trust in God we
shall not."

Early in the spring of 1778, Mrs. Ad-
ams was under the necessity of parting
with her husband and eldest son for a
season. Adams was sent to France to
join with Franklin and others in efforts
to induce the government to extend aid
to tlie United States, Adams returned
home in the summer of the next year,
and was again dejtuted to foreign ser-
vice. After a tedious and dangerous voy-
age, he reached Paris, in February,
1780 ; thence he proceeded to Holland,
and accomi)lished there what his grand-
son terms "the greatest triumph of his
life," in persuading the Dutch to give
33

material aid to our country, and to enter
into a treaty, October, 1782, between
the ancient republic and its newly bom
sister. IVIrs. Adams did not accompany
her husband at this time, but remained
at her post at home, in the cheerful dis-
charge of the duties incumbent upon
her, and in both waitina; and watching
for the future of her native land.

The public service requiring Adams to
remain abroad, his wife and only daugh-
ter joined him, on the continent, in the
summer of 1784. "Her arrival com-
pletely altered the face of his afPairs.
He forgot the ten years of almost con-
stant separation which had taken place,
and became reconciled at once to a lono:-
er stay abroad. No man depended
more than he upon the tranquil enjoy-
ments of home for his happiness. He
took the house at Auteuil, near Paris,
to which he had been removed in the
preceding year for recovery from his
illness, and returned to a state of life
placid and serene. "With his Avife, his
eldest son, John Quiucy, then just ris-
ing into a youth of the greatest prom-
ise, and a daughter, in whom any body
would have felt a pride, about him
near the society of a cultivated me-
tropolis, into which his official position
gave him free admission, he had little
to do but to enjoy the day as it passed,
heedless of the morrow. Some little
notion of his way of life may be gath-
ered from the fresh and sprightly let-
ters of Mrs. Adams, addressed, during
this time, to her friemls and relations
at home, which have been already giv-
en to the world."

In the spring of 1785, Sirs. Adams
accom])anied her husband to England,
he having been appointed the first

258

ABIGAIL ADAMS.

American Minister to the Court of St.
James, It was a position of no little
difficulty as well as importance to both
Mr. and Mrs. Adams. The pride and
haughtiness of the nol)ility, the stulo-
born will of George III., the entirely
undefined position and rank of an am-
bassador just arrived and coming from
a land recently in subjection to the
British crown, all portended difficul-
ties and annoyances not altogether
easy to endure ; and in addition, so
far as his wife was concerned, the
lofty assumptions of the leaders and
rulers of society, and their ill conceal-
ed contempt for jyarvenu^, like Ameri-
cans, foreshadowed trials quite as dif-
ficult in their way to be borne, as those
to which Adams was subjected.

It is a marked confirmation of the
high estimate which we have expressed
respecting Mrs. Adams, that she bore
herself with most admirable skill and
spirit in her difficult position. A true
and genuine Christian lady, without
pretension or affectation, claiming
nothing for herself beyond what every
lady is entitled to, and expecting and
requiring from the haughtiest the con-
sideration due to her rank as represent-
ing the women of her native country,
she seems to have charmed the nobili-
ty and votaries of fashional)le life by
her unaffected simplicity, gentleness,
refinement and courtesy, and fully to
have sustained the character which her
countrywomen may well have admired.
Annoyances there were, it is true, and
enough of them ; but Mrs. Adams al-
ways proved herself equal to every
emergency, and never tarnished the
fair fame of the people to whom she
belonged.

Her letters, as we have noted, give a
clear insiorht into matters of interest
and value to herself and her native
land. "Writing to her sister, on one
occasion, she says : " When I reflect
on the advantages which the people of
America possess over the most polished
of other nations, the ease with which
property is obtained, the plenty which
is so equally distributed, their personal
liberty and security of life and pro-
perty, I feel grateful to heaven who
marked out my lot in this happy land ;
at the same time I deprecate that rest-
less spirit, and that baneful ambition
and thirst for power, which will finally
make us as wretched as our neigh-
bors."

In the spring of 1788, IVIrs. Adams,
with her husband and family, bade
adieu to Europe, and returned to the
United States. Adams was elected
vice-president, and for eight years dis-
chargjed the duties of his office with
dignity, conscientiousness and success.
Mrs. Adams, who had so well sustain-
ed her difficult position abroad, was
now fully alive to the present duties
and obligations. Abundant evidence
exists of the admirable way in which
she presided in her residence at New
York and afterwards at Philadelphia,
and displayed those superior excel-
lences of mind and temper for which
she was distinguished. Her hus-
band's reliance upon her sympathy,
her judgment, her clear insight, was
unbounded, and it cannot be doubted
that she exercised an influence over him
most happy and beneficial in its effects.
On taking up his abode in New
York, Mr. Adams secured the beauti
fnl rural residence of INIi-s. Jephson at

ABIGAIL ADAMS

259

Richmond Hill. It was, we are assur-
ed, the most agreeable place on the
island, and admirably adapted to the
views of both the vice-president and
his wife.

In the autumn of 1790, Mrs. Adams
was 8ul>jected to the annoyance of su-
perintending the removal of her house-
hold to Philadeljihia, this city having
been selected for the national capital
during the following ten years. It
was a tedious and toilsome operation,
but was bravely endured and success-
fully accomplished. Writing to her
daughter, she says : " Though there
remains neither bush nor shrub upon
it, and very few trees, except the pine
grove behind it, yet Bush Hill (her
new residence), is a very beautiful
place ; but the grand and the sublime I
left at Richmond Hill. The cultiva-
tion in sight and the prospect are su])e-
rior ; but the Schuylkill is no more
like the Hudson than I to Hercules."

Society in Philadelphia, at this date,
was distinguished for its 1>rilliancy
and liveliness. The number of beau-
tiful women was unusually large,
and as, in addition to personal attrac-
tiveness, there were superadded the
higher elements of intellectual culture,
the Quaker City was more gay than it
has ever been since, or is ever likely
to be again. " I should spend a very
dissipated winter," Mrs. Adams ^v^ote,
" were I to accept one-half of the invi-
tations I receive, particularly to the
routs or tea-aud-cards."

During the recess of Congress, and
when occasion served, or the state of
her health required, Mrs. Adams was
absent from the seat of govcrnmi'nt,
and sought rcbixation and pleasure in

her country home at Quincy, Massa-
chusetts. She kejit up a regular cor-
respondence with her husband, and
was always the cheeiful, genial, saga-
cious wife and counsellor.

Writing to his wife, in February,
1794, Adams said : " You apologize for
the length of youi- letters, and I ought
to excuse the shortness and emi:)tines3
of mine. Yours give me more enter-
tainment than all the speeches I hear.
There are more good thoughts, fine
strokes, and mother wit in them than
I hear in the whole week. An ounce
of mother wit is worth a pound ot
clergy; and I rejoice that one of my
children, at least, has an abundance of
not only mother wit, but of his moth
er's wit. It is one of the most amia
ble and striking traits in his composi-
tion. If the rogue has any family
pride, it is all derived from the same
source." To this JMrs. Adams replied,
in a like genial strain : " You say so
many handsome things to me, respect-
ing my letters that you ought to fear
making me vain ; since, however, we
may appreciate the encomiums of the
woi'ld, tlie praises of those whom we
love and esteem are more dangerous,
because we are led to believe them the
most sincere."

John Adams having been elected
successor of Washington in the first
and highest office in the country's gift,
his wife wrote to him in terms of so
great womanly digTiity and appreci-
ativeness, that we give her letter in
full. It was dated at Quincy, Febm-
ary 8th, 1797:

" Tho sun is dressed iu brightest beams,
To give honor to tljo diiy.

" And may it prove an auspicious

260

ABIGAIL ADAMS.

prelude to each ensuing season. You
have this day to declare yourself head
of a nation. * And now, O Lord, my
God, thou hast made thy servant ruler
over the people. Give unto him an
understanding heart, that he may know
how to go out and come in before this
great people ; that he may discern be-
tween good and bad. For who is able
to judge this, thy so great a people ? '
were the words of a royal sovereign ;
and not less applicable to him who is
invested with the chief magistracy of a
nation, though he wears not the crown
nor the robes of royalty,

" My thoughts and my meditations
are with you, though personally ab-
sent ; and my petitions to Heaven are
that ' the things which make for peace
may not be hidden fi-om your eyes.'
My feelings are not those of pride or
ostentation upon the occasion. They
are solemnized by a sense of the obli-
gations, the important tnists and nu-
merous duties connected with it. That
you may be enabled to discharge them
with honor to yourself, with justice
and impartiality to your country, and
with satisfaction to this great people,
shall be the daily prayer of your

"A. A."

During the somewhat tempestuous
administration of the second president,
Mrs. Adams was called upon to exer-
cise all her admirable powers in sooth-
ing, quieting, encouraging her husband,
and in moderating and in a measure dis-
arming the violence of political parti-
zanship and struggles. Her health suf-
fered materially in the early part of
Adams's administration, and for a long
time she lay stretched on the bed of
illness, flickering between life and

death, at her home in Massachusetts.
Her recovery was slow, and her health
remained but delicate thenceforward.
Her husband's allusions to this dis-
tressing part of his trials are frequent
and touching : " Your sickness last
summer, fall, and winter, has been to
me the severest trial I ever endured."
" Oh, how they lament Mrs. Adams's
absence ! She is a good counsellor ! "

In the summer of the year 1800, by
direction of President Adams, the pub-
lic ofiices, papers, etc., were removed to
the new federal city on the banks of
the Potomac, where Congress was to
hold its next session, on the third Mon-
day of November. In this connection,
Mrs. Adams's letter to her dauo-hter
may aptly be quoted, giving, as it
does, a graphic description of the city
of Washington in the days of its in-
fancy. The letter was written in No-
vember, 1800. "I arrived here," she
says, " on Sunday last, and witliout
meeting any accident Avorth noticing,
except losing ourselves Avhen \\e Id't
Baltimore, and going eight or nine
miles on the Frederick Road, by w hich
means we were oblio-ed to jjo the other
eight through the woods, where we
wandered two hours without fiudini'
a guide or the path. Fortunately a
straggling black came uj:) with us, and
we engaged him as a guide to extricate
us out of our difficulty ; but woods ai-e
all you see, from Baltimoi-e, until you
reach the city, — which is only so in
name. Here and there is a small cot,
without a glass window, interspersed
among the forests, through -which you
travel miles without seeing any human
being."

Her account of the president's offi-

ABIGAIL ADAMS.

261

cial residence is equally entertaining.
"The bouse is upon a grand and su-
perb scale, requu-ing about thirty ser-
vants to attend and keep the apart-
ments in proper order, and perform
the ordinary business of the house and
stables; an establishment very well
proportioned to the president's salary !
The lighting the apartments, fi-om the
kitchen to parlors and chambers, is a
tax indeed ! and the fires we are obliged
to keep, to secure us from daily agues,
is another cheerinsr comfort !

" If they will put me up some bells,
(there is not one hung in the whole
house, and promises are all you can ob-
tain !) and let me have wood enough
to keep fires, I design to be pleased.
I could content myself almost any-
where three months ; but, surrounded
with forests, can you believe that
wood is not to be had ? — because peo-
ple cannot be found to cut and cart it !
Briesler entered into a contract with a
man to supply him with wood ; a small
part (a few cords) oidy has he been
able to get. Most of that Avas ex-
pended to dry the walls of the house
before we came in ; and yesterday the
man told him it was impossible to pro-
cure it to bo cut and carted. He has
had recom'se to coals ; but we cannot
get grates made and set. We have
come indeed into a 'new country,'
The house is made habitable, but there
is not a single apartment finished, and
all withinside, except the plastering,
has been done since Briesler came.
We have not the least fence, yard, or
other convenience without, and the
great unfinished audience-room I make
a drying-room of, to liang up the
clothes in. The principal stairs are

not up, and will not be this winter.
Six chambers are made comfortable ;
two are occupied by the president and
Mr. Shaw; iwo lower rooms, one for
a common parlor, and one for a levee-
room. Up-stairs there is the oval-
room, whicb is designed for the draw
incc-room, and has the crimson furni
ture in it. It is a very handsome
room now; l)ut when completed, it
Avill be beautiful."

There was not, certainly, much of
the pomp of royalty in such an official
residence as this : and Jefferson and
other captious critics might have dis-
covered many wiser reasons than those
which were suggested, for Adams's
manifest reluctance to take up his
abode, for a few months, in a house
which was acce'i^ible by little better
than a " blazed track," and where there
was no fuel to be had, nor a bell hung
and not even a yard for the president's
wife " to hang up the clothes in " to
be dried. Domestic trials and trib.
ulations, bowevcr, like every thing else
in this world, come to an end in due
time. In this case, only a few months
sufficed, and in the latter part of Feb-
ruary, 1801, Mrs. Adams returned to
her home at Quincy, never to leave
it again. The retiring president was
chagrined and vexed to such a degree by
the result of the fierce political strug-
gle, which placed Thomas Jefferson in
the presidential chair, that he could
not bring himself to remain in Wash
ington long enough to see his astute
rival safely seated, on the 4th of March,
in the coveted post of honor. Hence
he hurried his family away, and settled
down at Quincy, in close seclusion
and almost obscurity.

262

ABIGAIL ADAMS.

Mrs. Adams was now approaching
three score years, and having served
her country well, and having dischar-
ged for many years the duties of her
station, with a faithfulness Avorthy
of all praise, she was well satisfied
to retire into this heaven of rest,
and spend the remainder of her
life in the quiet, unobtrusive duties
of home. There was no mur-
muring or complaining on her part, no
longing for high position or gay so-
ciety, of which she had had so large
experience ; she was at peace with the
world, and withoixt ambition ever to
enter into its busy occupations again.

Her eldest son, John Quincy
Adams, returned home after eight
years' diplomatic service abroad, and
became Secretary of State under Pres-
ident Monroe. It was, no doubt, a
great gratification to his mother as
well as father, to have a son whose up-
rightness of character, and abilities as
a statesman, were fully and freely rec-
ognized ; and had her life been spared
but a few years longer, she would
have seen that son elevated to the
same high position which his father
once filled. But it was not so to be.
Mrs. Adams was spared to live beyond
the tliree-score years and ten of mor-

tal existence, and the summons of de*
partui'e came in a good old age.

This was the severest affliction which
had ever befallen John Adams. " Ilia
wife, who had gone through the vicis-
situdes of more than half a century
in his company ; who had sympa-
thized with him in all his aspirations,
and had cheered him in his greatest
trials; who had faithfully preserved
his worldly interests, when he was
unable to be present to guard them
himself; who had enlivened his homo
and had shared his joys and his pains
alike, was taken ill with a typhus fever
in the autumn of 1818, and died on
the 28th of October. He was at this
time eighty-three years of age, and of
course had little reason to expect long
to survive her; but to him her loss
was a perpetually recurring evil ; for
she had been the stay of his house-
hold. Her character had adapted it
self to his in such a manner as to im
prove the good qualities of both, so
that her loss threw over his manner
ever afterwards a tinge of sadness not
natural to him ; and the sprightly hu-
mor, which made so agreeable a part
of the letters addressed to her in her
lifetime, as it did of his daily conver
sation, ceased in a degree to appear."

GILBERT-MOTIER DE LAFAYETTE

THE family of the Marquis de La-
fayette carries its ancestry far
back into the old nobility of France.
It boasts a marshal of the early part
of the fifteenth century, who distin-
guished himself in defence of his coun-
try in the war carried on against it by
England. In the seventeenth, it claims
that eminent literary personage, Ma-
dame de Lafayette, the novelist and
memoir writer, the friend of Madame
de Si'vigno, and the admired of the
Parisian salons, when they were fre-
quented by such celebrities as Lafon-
taine and Menage. The Marquis de
Lafoyette, the father of our American
hero, was a gallant young officer of the
armies of Louis XV. He was engaged
in the Seven Years' War waged on the
continent between Frederick the Great
and united France and Austria, and
fell, a colonel of the grenadiers, at the
battle of Minden, at the age of twenty-
foui', a few months before the birth of
his illustrious son.

That SOD, Gilbei't-Motier, Marquis de
Lafayette, was born at Chavaniac, in
the ancient province of Auvergne, in
the present department of the Haute
Loire, in the south of France, Sejitem-
ber 6th, 1757. He was brought up

by " tender and revered relations," in
Auvergne, and at the age of twelve
was sent to Paris to the College du
Plessis. His mother and her father
died immediately after, leaving the
youth heir to an immense estate. Proof
against its temptations, and the lax
society of the metropolis, he was pre-
served from suiTounding corruptions
by his ingenuous disposition, turning
a lively temperament to the love of
liberty and the family affections. A
mere schoolboy, by royal favor he had
received a commission in a regiment of
musketeers, when he began life, at six-
teen, by marriage with the daughter
of the Duke d'Ayen, of the family of
Noailles. The lady was two years
younger than himself — a hazardous al-
liance, under ordiuary circumstances,
but in this case approved by some-
thing more than the usual advantages
of a match of policy. The young cou-
ple lived to share one another's; honors,
and strengthen one another in trials of
great severity.

A place at court was the natural
position at tliat day in F'rance for a
)oung nobleman of Lafayette's station
and influence. He was accordingly
})ut forward by his nv^v connections

(2G8)

264

GILBERT-MOTIEK DE LAFAYETTE

for an honorary post in the household
of the Count de Provence, afterwards
Louis XVIII. ; but the young man,
who seems already, even from his
school-days, to have been agitated by
a love of liberty and independence,
showed no inclination to the service.
The method ^vhich he took to relieve
himself of its honorable burden was
characteristic of the times. Meeting
the count at a masqiierade, and read-
ily detecting his disguise, he availed
himself of the opportunity to pour
into the ear of the prince, under that
convenient license, views and opinions
which he knew to be unpalatable at
court. His strata2;em was not thrown
away ; the count took offense, and, it is
said, never forgave the slight. Noth-
ing more, of course, was heard of the
situation at court.

The next incident in the career of
Lafayette, was his seizure by a passion
to participate in the struggle for Amer-
ican liberty on this side of the Atlantic,
which then, in its early movements,
began to attract attention in Europe.
Oddly enough, he was indebted for
his first decided impulse in this direc-
tion to a brother of the King of Eng-
land. It was in the summer of 1776,
at a dinner at Metz, where Lafayette
was stationed as an officer in the French
army, that he met the Duke of Glou-
cester, in whose honor the entertain-
ment was given. The royal duke had
just received dispatches from England,
announcing the progress of affairs in
America. As he detailed the circum-
stances of the Declaration of Inde-
pendence, and other incidents, the
young officer was caught by the sound,
and, pursuing his inquiries, before he

left the table began to think of going
to America and offering' his services in
the cause. The idea still clinging to
him, he went to Paris full of the reso-
lution. It was a project not to be
talked of in public, in the existing re-
lations between England and France ;
nor could he expect to carry it on witli-
out opposition fi"om his family. As a
hint to others, as well as an encourage-
ment to himself, he tells us, in a frag-
ment of autobiography, he adopted, as
a de\ace on his arms, the suggestive
monosyllables. Cur non f — Why not ?
Two of his young friends and relatives,
whom he admitted into his confidence,
the Count Segur and Viscount de No-
ailles, gave the scheme their approval,
but refused to join in it for family
considerations. The Count de Broglie,
a marshal in the army, a more mature
adviser, at first endeavored to check
his ardor, and then gave his acqui-
escence. He introduced him to Baron
de Kalb, who had afready visited
America, by whom he was carried to
the American commissioner, Silas
Deane. The latter perceived the moral
effect of the acquisition to the cause of
a l)rilliant young nobleman, in cheer-
ing the spirits of his coiintrymen at
home, and leadius: others to imitate
his example abroad; he gave his en-
couragement, and it was arranged that
Lafayette — his family, fortune, and in-
fluence, compensating for his extreme
youth — should receive from Congress,
on his arrival in America, the rank of
major-general. Aid was already being
secretly sent to the insurgents, as they
were called, and Lafayette was to sail
in the vessel employed in the service.
At this moment the news of the battle

GILBERT-MOTIEK DE LAFAYETTE.

265

of Long Island, and its disastrous se-
quel of events, came to hand to dash
all hopes and interrupt the expected
succors. Lafayette, however, was not
to be turned from his project. The
more need, thought he, so much the
more honor. He resolved to purchase
a ship at his own expense, and proceed
in it, with his companions and supplies,
to America. Even the prudence of
Franklin could offer nothinsr in resist-
ance to a proposition of this generous
character. The measures of Lafayette
were accordingly taken to procure the
requisite vessel at Bordeaux. In the
meantime, to obviate suspicion, and
fulfil an engagement with his friend,
the Prince de Poix, he made a brief
tour of three weeks to London, where
his uncle, the Marquis de Noailles, held
the post of French ambassador. The
journey was made with no reference to
obtaininji' information of the English
plans or resources in their war with
the colonies; on the contrary, the
chivalrous Lafayette declined to take
advantage of ojtportunities of the kind
which lay in his way. He made no
secret of his liT)eral views, and rejoiced
at the news of the success at Trenton,
and had the honor of an invitation to
bi'eakfast, in recognition of his opin-
ions, from Lord Shelbiirne, a distin-
guished meml)er of the opposition. He
returned hurriedly to the French cap-
ital, concealed himself at Chaillot, saw
only a few friends, and, in a few days,
set out for Bordeaux, where he found
his vessel not quite ready. The court,
meanwhile, as he became aAvare, had
learnt of his intended dc])arture, and
fearing interru])tion, he sailed to the
neighboring Spanish port of Passage.

The whole court, the English minister
and his family, were loud in their out-
cries at this discovery. He Avas re-
called by a lettr'e de cachet fi-om the
king, and he accompanied the officers
to Bordeaux. His family was urgent
that he should join them in a tour to
Italy. Seeming to consent to this ar-
rangement, he declared his intention
to proceed to Marseilles, and was suf-
fered to depart. He had scarcely left
the city, however, when he disguised
himself as a courier, and hastened,
with his companion, an officer named
Maui'oy, also bent on an American
campaign, towards the Spanish fron-
tier. At Bayonne, Lafayette, to pre-
serve his concealment, rested on straw
in a stable. At St. Jean de Luz, a lit-
tle village on their course, he was re-
cognized by a young girl, the daughter
of the keeper of the post-house. A
timely sign from him induced her to
keep silence, and, by her false infoi-m-
ation, perplex his pursuers in the chase.
He reached Passage, and in company
with Baron de Kalb, and other officers
for the service, was borne safely to sea.
The papers of the vessel were taken
out for the West Indies, and her cap-
tain had some reluctance, on approach-
ing the American coast, to turn from
his course. Lafayette insisted on his
landing him on the main land by urg-
ing his ownership of the vessel, and
finally, on learning the secret of the
captain's reluctance, in his hesitation
to risk an important venture of his
own on board, jDledged his ju'ivate for-
tune to make all losses good. The
ship was then steered for the coast of
South Carolina, where, running the
gauntlet of the British cruisers, aland-

266

GILBERT-MOTIEE DE LAFAYETTE.

ing was happily effected at the harlior
of Georgetown. Ascending the river
in a boat, Lafayette, Avith some of his
officers, aliijhted in the nisrht near the
residence of Major Benjamin Hiiger,
where, upon making themselves known,
they were received with warm-hearted
hospitality. During the voyage, La-
fayette had penned an affectionate
epistle to his wife, whom he had loft
about, a second time, to become a
mother; he now added to it a post-
script, announcing his arrival, which
message was just in time to be sent
home by a vessel leaving for France.
His epistle is dated June 15, 1777, and
records his first impressions. " The
manners," says he, " in this part of the
world are simple, polite, and worthy in
every respect of the country in which
the noble name of liberty is constant-
ly repeated." A few days later, at
Charleston, in another letter, he re-
peats his satisfaction with the equality,
kindness, love of country, which every-
where prevail. All is charming to his
eyes. The absence of poverty, the
neatness and ease of manners of the
ladies, particularly strike him. It is a
political Arcadia, with which the Pa-
risians, in those days, were delighted,
but which they found it very difficult
to imitate.

Shortly after, the party left Charles-
ton for the North, travelling on horse-
back, through North Carolina and Vir-
ginia. Arrived at the seat of govern-
ment, at Philadelphia, where Congress
was then in session, Lafayette placed
his letters in the hands of Mr. Lovell,
of Massachusetts, Chairman of the
Committee on Foreign Affairs. L^pon
waiting on that gentleman the next

day, he was informed that such was
the crowd of foreign applicants for em
ployment in the army, and such the
state of the national finances, that there
was little hope of his request being
regarded. Upon this, not at all dis-
concerted, he sat down and addi-essed
a note to Congress, in which he claim-
ed the right, after the sacrifices he had
made, to serve on t'wo verj simple con-
ditions — to be at his own expense, and
to engage first as a volunteer. This
direct as well as reasonable petition
caused immediate attention to his let-
ters. They were read at once, and,
on the instant, the following reso-
lution was passed : " ^^Hiereas, the
Marquis de Lafayette, out of his great
zeal to the cause of liberty, in which
the United States are engaged, has left
his family and connections, and at his
own expense come over to offer his ser-
vices to the United States, without
pension or particular allowance, and is
anxious to risk his life in our cause ;
resolved, that his service be accepted,
and that, in consideration of his zeal,
his illustrious family and connections,
he have the rank of Major General in
the army of the United States." This
resolution, confening this high rank
on a youth of nineteen, was adopted
July 31st, 1777.

Washington being expected shortly
in the city from the camp, Lafayette
awaited his arrival. Their first meet-
ing was at a dinner-party, at the close
of which Washington, who was favor-
ably impressed at the outset with the
new guest of the nation, took him
aside, complimented him on the ardor
he had shown and the sacrifices he had
made, and ended by inviting him to

GILBERT- ArOTIER DE LAFAYETTE.

2G7

make the head-quarters of the array his
home, and consider himself a member
of his family. It was the beginning
of a life-lojg intimacy, a friendship
which Washington bequeathed to the
nation.

In a review of the troops, which took
place not long after, at which Lafayette
was present, Washington remarked,
" We must feel embarrassed to exhil:)it
ourselves before an officer who has just
quitted French trooj^s." " It is to learn,
and not to teach, that I come hither,"
Avas the modest repl}'. Lafayette was
with the army as a volunteer, till the
month of September, when he took
part in the battle of Brandywine. He
was in the thickest perils of that en-
gagement, in the centre of the com-
mand of General Sullivan, which was
exposed to the fiercest onset of Corn-
wallis. Seeing the ranks broken, he
dismounted from his horse, and sought
to rally the flying troops. While thus
engaged, a musket ball passed through
his leg, haj^jjiily without touching the
bone. In his excitement, he did not
perceive the wound, till his aid called
his attention to the blood running from
his boot. He then mounted his horse ;
his wound was bandaged by a surgeon,
and he rode to Chester, where he was
cared for, and the next day taken to
Pliiladeljihia. Thence he passed to
Bristol, where he was met by Mr.
Henry Laurens, who, happening to go
through the ])lace o!i tlie adjournment
of Congress, conveyed him in his car-
riage to the happy settlement of the
Moravians, at Bethlehem, at whose
quiet reti-eat he jiassed two months,
waitin<jf for the healin<; of his wound. ,

The peaceful influences at Bethle- i

hem, however, did not turn his atten
tiou from the thoun'hts of war. He,
on the contrary, employed his leisui'e
in sending communications to the
French governor at Martinique, urg-
ing an attack u23on the British islands,
under American colors, and wrote, be-
side, to M. de Maurepas, advising an
attack on the English factories of the
East Indies. The old minister thought
the latter a good project, though he
declined it as inexpedient.

The young soldier, chafing in his con-
finement, had but LmjDerfcctly recover-
ed from his wound, when he joined the
camp, and accompanied General Greene,
as a volunteer, into New Jersey,
Though gifted with the title of Major
General, he, as yet, had no separate
command. He was, however, eager for
the fight, and with juvenile impetuosi-
ty, sought every opportunity for ac-
tion. This was shown in a spirited
afl^air which he conducted while lead-
ing a reconnoitering party of Greene's
troops in November, to the neighbor-
hood of the Delaware, where he was in
danger of being cut off; he escaped,
however, and had a verj^ pretty conflict
with a strong Hessian outpost of the
enemy, which he alighted upon, in-
flicting serious loss, and taking some
twenty prisoners. His exhilaration in
this encounter is indicated in hi:i letter
to Washington describing the engage
ment. " I never saw men," he wi-ote,
" so merry, so spirited, and so desirous
to go on to the enemy, whatever force
they might have, as that small party in
tliis little fight." General Greene ^vrotc
to Washington, " The Marquis is deter-
mined to be in the way of danger."
In communicatina: the iutelliceuce to

268

GILEERT-MOTTEE DE LAFAYETTE.

Congress, Wasliingtoii urged some pro-
vision for the military euijiloyment of
Lis friend. " I am convinced," he wrote,
" he possesses a large share of that
military ardor which generally char-
acterizes the nobility of his country."
Congress upon this seconded the re-
commendation, and he was accordingly
given the command of the division,
mostly of Virginians, vacated by the
removal of General Stephens.

The winter quarters of the army that
year were at Valley Forge, and there
Lafayette shared the councils, and par-
took of the anxieties of Washington.
He has left us a piteous account of the
condition of the unfurnished troops in
that inclement season, of their need and
their sufferings, and has told us how
" he adopted in every respect the
American dress, habits and food, wish-
ing to be more simple, frugal and
austere than the Americans them-
selves." It was the period, too, of
those machinations in Congress, grow-
ing out of disaffection to Washington,
which threatened at the moment great-
ly to impair the efficiency of the army.
Gates, flushed with his victory at Sara-
toga, was set up at the head of the
newly constituted Board of War, and
it became the fashion with a certain
class to praise him at the expense of
the commander-in-chief. In the course
of this intrigue, it was attempted to
emljroil Lafayette, by diverting him
from Washington, to the separate com-
mand of an expedition, planned in
Congress, against Canada. The scheme
was concocted by Gates and his friends,
without consulting the commander-in-
chief, who did not hear of it until La-
fayette was informed of his appoint-

ment. A formal letter, asking his ad
vice, was then sent to Washington,
Avho wished the affair success, and en-
couraged Lafayette, of whose fidelity
he was assured, to undertake it. The
conspirators had caught a Tartar in
the French marquis, whom they had
fancied a sho\vy head for the expedi-
tion, with the real authority in the
hands of their tool, Conway, who was
to be second in command.

Lafayette, however, appointed his
friend. Baron de Kalb, to the expedi-
tion, whose commission, being of an
older date, superseded CouAvay. Hav-
ing arranged this and other stipula-
tions, the Marquis set out on his wintry
journey, in February, to the rendez-
vous at Albany. The prospect was not
very cheering, if we may judge from
his letter, Avritten on the way, to Wash-
ington. " I go on slowly," he says,
" sometimes drenched with rain, some-
times covered with snow, and not en
tertaining many handsome thoughts
about the projected incursion into
Canada. Lake Champlain is too cold
to produce one sprig of laurel ; and, if
I am not starved, I shall be as proud
as if I had gained three l)attles." The
prospect was not at all improved at Al-
bany. Men and equipments Avere alike
Avanting. In fact, the Avhole enterjjrise,
greatly to the mortification of the Mar-
quis, was abandoned. He expressed
his fears of the ridicule Avliich might
attach to such a fruitless undertaking,
frankly to AVashiugton, but the latter
chose to see in it at least an honorable
appointment, and consoled his anxious
young friend accordingly. The Mar-
quis returned Avith De Kalb to Valley
Forge, Avhere, in the month of May

they had the satisfaction of finding
their "winter of discontent" turned
into " glorious summer " by the news
of the French alliance, which was cel-
ebrated at the camp with unusual fer-
vor, in consequence of the presence of
Lafayette.

A few days after this festivity, the
Marquis was sent forward with a con-
siderable detachment of the army to a
position midway between the camp
and the British at Philadelphia. He
was thus stationed at Barren Hill, on
the Schuylkill, when Clinton planned
an expedition, in three divisions, to
surround and capture him ; and the
plan at one moment promised to be
successful, when Lafayette, by an adroit
movement, relieved his force from its
perils by a masterly retreat. The Brit-
ish withdrew from Philadelphia not
long after, and were intercepted on
the march to New York l)y the battle
of Monmouth. The command of the
advance, in the movements preceding
this engagement, was, on Lee's declin-
ing it, given to Lafayette, who yielded
it again when that eccentric officer re-
pented of his indecision and claimed it.
When the armies were brought to-
gether, Lafayette bore his part in the
affaii's of the day in his command of
the second line. The next incident of
his military career was his employment
in Rhode Island, under the command
of General Sullivan, where he was en-
gaged in important conferences Avith
the French fleet of the Count d'Estaing,
and sulisequently at Boston, urging his
countrymen to action, and, when the
opportunity had gone by, reconciling
the animosities which grew out of tlie
neglect. At the end of the campaign,

considering it to be his duty to offer
his services to his country in the war
which had broken out between that
nation and England, he requested from
Congress leave of absence to return to
France, which was granted, mth thanks
and the compliment of decreeing him a
sword for his many services. He car-
ried, moreover, an extraordinary letter
of recommendation addressed by Con-
gress to the King of France.

On his way to Boston, to sail in the
fi'igate Alliance, he was detained by
serious illness at Fishkill. The deten-
tion, however, was alleviated by the
care and visits of Washington, and ear-
ly in January, 1779, he was enabled
to embark. After a rough voyage,
aggravated by an attempt at mutiny
on the part of some British prisoners
shipped with the crew, the Alliance
entered Brest. In France, an enthusi-
astic reception awaited him. After a
few days' formal expiation of his pre-
vious neglect of the royal mandates, in
retirement, he was every^vhere received
with triumph. He did not, we may
be sure, neglect the interests of Ame-
rica in this season of favor, but turned
his influence to account in promoting
her fortunes. He was mainly instru-
mental in forwarding the army of
Rochambeau, and so great was his
eagerness in pushing his applications
for men and money, that the venerable
Count de Maurepas said that to clothe
the armvhe would willin<rlv unfurnish
tlie palace of Versailles. The remark
had a flavor of prophecy in it unsus-
pected by the old minister.

Tlie cause of America being thus
strengthened by his services abroad,
he returned to take piu't again in its

270

GILBERT-MOTIER DE LAFAYETTE.

conflicts, after only a few months' ab-
sence, lie was lauded in Boston by a
French frigate, in April, and became
immediately engaged in adjusting the
reception and cmplopnent of the new
troops fi-ojH his country. It was while
thus occupied with Washington in a
journey to meet Rochambeau, that the
treason of Arnold occurred ; and at the
suljsequent trial of x\.ndre, Lafayette sat
as one of the board of general officers
which composed the court. When Ar-
nold made his appearance in Virginia,
Lafayette was sent to co-operate with
Steuben and the expected French fleet
to cheek his incursion. The movement,
in consequence of the non-arrival of the
ships, which had been damaged in an
encounter with the British, proved un-
successful, but it was renewed with
better resources and success on the ap-
proach, from the South, of Cornwallis.
On this last occasion, to fit out his
troops in Maryland, Lafayette raised
two thousand guineas on his own credit
at Baltimore. lie ^vas at this time en-
abled to offer important protection to
Richmond, and shortly after to take
part in the movements which hemmed
Cornwallis in at Yorktown — an efficient
rejily to the boast of the British gene-
ral shortly before, in a letter to Clin-
ton, " The boy cannot escape me." In
the operations of the siege, Lafayette
commanded the detachment of light
infantry in the attack upon the re-
doul)t, in which Colonel Hamilton so
gallantly led the advance.

The active operations of the war
being now virtually at an end, Lafay-
ette, a second time, requested leave of
absence, to visit his f^xmily in Europe.
Congress acceded to his wish, with

even more than the previous compli
ments, enjoining the Secretary of State
to direct the foreign ministers of the
country on the continent of Eurojie, to
confer with him in reference to their
movements. His majesty, Louis XVI.,
was so pleased with his participation in
the Virginia compaign, that he raised
him to the rank of field-marshal in the
French service. On this visit to France
he was again active in promoting the
interests of America, and was speeding
on the equipment of a huge fleet, to be
commanded by the Count d'Estaing,
carrying a land force, of which he was
to take the command, being already at
the rendezvous, at Cadiz, when a gen-
eral treaty of peace was signed at
Paris. The first news of this event
was forwarded to Congress by General
Lafayette himself, in a letter dated
Cadiz, February 5th, 1783, "I am not
without hopes," he wi'ote, when the
French admiral had, at his request, as-
signed a vessel, the Triumj)h, to carry
the message, " of giving Congress the
fii'st tidings of a general peace ; and I
am happy in the smallest opportunity
of doing anj^hing that may prove
agreeable to America." He would
have brought the news in person, had
he not been called to Madrid to render
an important service to the American
minister at that capital.

The next year, 1784, he came to
America for the third time, landing at
New York on the 4th of August. His
arrival had l:)een looked for, and Wash-
ington, in the spring, had written to
him, urging him to bring Madame La-
fayette with him. Indeed, the warm-
est gallantry of Washington's heart
was poured forth in an epistle to the

GILBERT-MOTIEE DE LAFAYETTE.

271

lady herself. Lafayette, notwithstand-
ing this pressing invitation, came alone.
But he hastened, immediately upon his
arrival, to Mount Vernon, where he en-
joyed twelve days of such welcome as
it is rarely the lot of man to receive,
at the end of which a brilliant public
reception at Baltimore awaited him.
Thence his journey was continued to
New York, and by the Hudson Biver
to Albany, whence he accompanied the
commissioners about to execute a treaty
with the Mohawks and Senecas at Fort
Schuyler. He was a favorite with the
Indians of Western New York, whom
he had addressed in council in 1778,
when he was engaged in the ill-planned
expedition of Gates to Canada. They
had a certain sympathy with him, as a
representative of the old French race
to which they had been allied.

From New York Lafayette journey-
ed through the New England States,
embarking at Boston, in the French
frigate Nymphe, for the Chesapeake.
He was landed at Yorktown, and visit-
ed Williamsburg and Bichmond, where
the legislature, then richly composed
of the elder worthies of the State,
gave him a public reception. Wash-
ington, also, was there to meet him,
and the two friends journeyed together
to Mount Vernon. After a week's rest
at tliis hosj)itable mansion, he was ac-
companied by Washington to Annap-
olis, where these eminent men, wlio
entertained so strong a regard for one
another, parted, never to meet again.
At Trenton, Lafixyette was welcomed
by the American Congress, and, after
the example of AVashiiigton, surren-
dered his commission to the President
of that body. Proceeding thence to

New York, he sailed on Christmas day
in the Nymphe for France.

For the next two years he employed
himself in forwarding the interests of
the American Confederacy, and in phi-
lanthropic efforts connected with his
own countrymen. He united with
Malesherbes in an attempt to secure
the civil rights of Protestants in France,
protested against the slave-trade, pur-
chasing a plantation in Cayenne, to
carry out a plan of gradual emancipa-
tion, and projected a comprehensive
league of the European powers to
check the pirates of the Barbary
States. These pursuits sufficiently in-
dicate the bent of his mind, which was
toward practical reforms in govern-
ment. In the initial measures of the
French Bevolution he consequently
became a leader. He was a member
of the Assembly of Notables, convened
in 1787, to provide relief for the ruin-
ed finances, when he raised his voice
ao-aiust the use of the lettre de cachet
advocated other reforms, and proposed
the assembly of the States-General.
That body met ^'n 1780, when he took
a prominent pan in its deliberations,
and, on the fall of the Bastile, when
the preservation of civil order fell into
the hands of the Assembly, was cre-
ated commander-in-chief of the national
guards of Paris. It is to him that
France is indebted for the tricolor, as
a badge of freedom. Blue and red,
the old colors of the capital, had been
adopted by the peoj)le as a sign of op-
position to the court, when he dexter-
oxisly added to them the royal wliite,
prophesying to the people, as he first
placed tlie cockade in his hat, that it
Avould be a badge to g-^ round the

273

GILBERT-MO TIER DE LAFAYETTE.

world. As a token of the first fniits
of this newly acquired freedom, he sent
to Washington a memorial of the past,
which still remains among the trea-
sured relics of Mount Vernon. " Give
me leave, my dear general," he wrote,
on the 17th of March, 1790, "to pre-
sent you with a picture of the Bastile,
just as it looked a few days after I
had ordered its demolition, with the
main key of the fortress of despotism.
It is a tribute, which I owe as a son to
my adojjted father, as an aid-de-camp
to my general, as a missionary of lib-
erty to its patriarch." At the same
time, with a consciousness of the calm,
impartial glance of the man whom he
was addressing, the protector of lib-
erty, who was not to be deceived by
any of its false appearances, he quali-
fies somewhat his ex|)ectations of the
new era. " Our Revolution," says he,
" is getting on as well as it can with a
nation that has attained its liberty at
once, and is still liable to mistake li-
centiousness for fi'eedom." To his
glowing enumeration of " abuses and
prejudices " destroyed, he adds a res-
ervation in the sentence : " this revolu-
tion, in which nothins; will be wantina:
but energy of government, as it was in
America." True enough, for there had
been danger also at home in the ab-
sence of that consolidated system of
law and order, that wisdom of the
Constitution, which even then "Wash-
ington and his companions were shap-
ing and cementing. When that letter
was written, Lafayette had still in his
recollection a scene which he could
never forget, a most instructive lesson
of the dangers of relaxed authority,
the march of the populace to Versailles

of the previous 5th of October. It
had been a day of riot in the city, de-
manding all the influence of Lafayette,
in his position as commander of the
National Guard, to check disorder.
Late in the afternoon he leamt that
the mob had proceeded vnth arms to
Versailles, whither he hastened with a
detachment to protect the royal lamily.
He reached the palace at ten o'clock,
and, though he offered himself as a
protector, was received with suspicion.
"Here comes Cromwell," was the ex-
clamation, as he entered the court.
" Cromwell," was his answer, " would
not have come here alone." Desirous
of stationing his guard for the night,
he asked that all the avenues to the
palace should be put under his care.
The etiquette of the court forbade this,
and he anxiously took such measures
as he could, leaving the royal troops
to provide for the safety of their
charge. He did not retire to rest till
five in the morning, and was soon after
summoned by word that the mob had
entered the palace and sought the life
of the queen. Hastening to the spot,
he succeeded in protecting the royal
family. The mob, meanwhile, was
raging without, and loud in its out-
cries against the queen. With hajipy
instinct, or by an admu'able knowledge
of his countrymen, he proposed to her
to appear with him on the balcony ac-
companied by the dauphin. It was
but a scene in dumb show before the
tumultuous crowd, but it was success-
ful. Kissing her hand in a silent act
of homage, the leader of the people
recalled their old feeling of allegiance,
and their vague hostility was turned
into positive enthusiasm toward the

GILBERT-MOTIER DE LAFAYETTE.

273

object of their hatred. Cries of, Long
live the queen ! Long live the gene-
ral ! arose from the mob. For that
time, at least, Marie Antoinette was
saved.

The part taken by Lafayette in these
early scenes of the Revolution, was
eminently disinterested. lie seconded
the proposition in the Assembly al)ol-
ishing titles of nobility, and never after,
through all the vicissitudes of govern-
ment and society which he experienced,
bore his title of Marquis. He asked
no re^vard for his services, and would
receive none. Opposed to all unneces-
sary delegation of power, he provided
that the command of the National
Guard, his institution, which had been
extended throughout the nation, should
l)e limited to the districts. The direc-
tion of the whole would, otherwise,
have l)een conferred upon him. It was
his desire that the nation should enjoy
the blessings of a Constitutional Gov.
ernment ; for this end, he first intro-
duced the Declaration of Rights in the
States-General, and labored for the
adojition of the Constitution. In the
great act of ratification of that instru-
ment in the Federation of the Chamj)
de Mars, one of the most extraordinary
pageants ever enacted, next to the
king, to whom he swore allegiance, he
bore the mo.st conspicuous part. At
war with the Jacobins, a friend to con-
stitutional monarchy, Lafayette was
exposed to misapprclieusion on all
sides. It was not a position which
could be long sustained in the rapid
movement of events. The flight of the
kinf; brouijrht out all its dilliculties ;
the people suspectetl him for aiding
it ; the royal family hated him for ar-
35

resting it. What wonder then, that,
having no passion for po^ver, he sought
retirement ? Feeling that he had dis-
charged his part in his labors for the
constitution, he resigned his command
of the Guard, and sought the repose of
home.

Next came war with Austria, de-
clared by Louis XVI. himself in April,
1792. Lafayette was appointed one of
the three-major generals to command
on the frontier, and was advancing to
the work assigned him — the invasion
of Belgium — when his movements were
arrested by the machinations of the
Jacobins, who opposed his authority.
His own course was at once taken.
He denounced this faction in a letter
to the Assembly, "their usui-pations,
disorganizing maxims and insensate
fury," and, to strengthen the impres-
sion which his remonstrance had made,
appeared himself before that body. It
was too late, however, for eloquence or
reason to prevail. The constitution, on
which he rested all his hopes, was a
thing of the past. The army itself
was no longer faithful. Revolution
had swallowed up all sober reforma-
tion. Denounced in the Assembly,
and knowing well that life was no
longer possible for him in France, he
resolved on the only course left for
him — to leave the country. Accord-
ingly, a few days after the massacre at
the Tuileries, of the 10th of August,
he rode away from the army witli half
a dozen comj)ani()ns, and crossed the
frontier to the enemy's outposts at
Rocliefort, with the intention of mak-
ing his way to IloUaml. Frankly ap-
plying for pass2)orts, and expecting at
least the rights of prisoners of war,

274

GILBERT-MO TIER DE LAFAYETTE.

they were treated, by the Austrian gen-
erals with the greatest indignity. They
were asked for information which
would betray their country, and even
called upon to surrender the wealth
which, it was supposed, they had
brought with them. Nothing could
be more unworthy, save the cruelty
which followed. Lafayette was car-
ried from Luxembourg to a miserable
dungeon at Wesel, in the Prussian ter-
ritory ; thence to Magdeburg, the scene
of the imprisonment of the famous
Baron Trenck; thence to Neisse, in
Silesia; thence to the Austrian dun-
geon at Olmutz, in Moravia.

The imprisonment at Olmutz, at all
times exceedingly rigid, for a time was
so severe as to prove injurious to the
health of Lafayette. He was confined
alone ; the atmosphere of the place was
unhealthy ; he was not allowed to cross
its threshold, nor was he permitted
any communication with his family or
friends by letter. They were not even
to know of his existence. It was some
time before they learnt that he was
alive.

By the aid of Count Lally Tolendal,
a French refugee, in London, Dr. Erick
Bollmann, a Hanoverian, who had ef-
fected the escape of Count Narbonne
fi'om Paris, was engaged to visit the
continent, to learn something of the
fate of Lafayette. He could at first
ascertain only that the Prussians had
determined to give him up to Austria.
The following summer of 1794, he was
sent again, and, becoming acquainted
with the fact that there were several
state prisoners at Olmutz, convinced
himself they could be no other than
Lafayette and his companions. He

contrived, through the surgeon of the
post, without exciting the suspicion of
that officer, to acquaint Lafayette with
his intentions to effect his rescue. So
patient was he in his efforts, that he
resided six months at Vienna, with a
view to carry out his project. There
he met a young American, Francis K.
Huger, of South Carolina, son of the
Major Huger, at whose house, at
Georgetown, Lafayette had first land-
ed in America. A plan for rescuing
the prisoner was arranged between
them. It had been ascertained that in
consequence of his broken health, La-
fayette was taken out by an oflicer
into the country for an airing. It was
while thus at large that he was to be
seized and earned off on horseback be-
fore the alarm could be given. They
were in hoj^es to conduct him to the
town of Hoff, some twenty-five miles
distant, where their carriage would be
in waiting. The preparations were
made with no little skill. As there
would be three travelers, in case they
succeeded at the outset, and but two
horses, one of these was trained to car-
ry two persons. The first week of
November, 1794, Dr. Bollmann and
]VIi\ Huger were at the inn at Olmutz,
on the pretence of visiting the sur-
geon, to whom they represented them-
selves as travellers on their way to
England. Waiting their opportunity
when Lafayette should be taken out,
they followed the carriage in which he
was conveyed till it was stopped in an
open plain, a few miles from the town.
The prisoner then alighted, and walked
arm in arm with the officer. The two
friends now made their attempt at the
rescue. Quickly coming up and alight-

GILBERT-MOTIER DE LxiFAYETTE.

275

ing, a struggle ensued with the officer,
mth whom Lafayette was already en-
gaged. It ended in the deliverance of
the latter, who was placed upon a horse,
and directed by Mr. Huger to proceed
to Hoff. Losing the aspirate, the Gen-
eral thought it was a simple injunction
to be off. It was necessarily a confus-
ed affair altogether, without time for
explanation or concert, in a region en-
tirely unknown to Lafayette, who was
unacquainted, except by the precon-
certed signal which they had made —
raising their hats and wiping their
foreheads— with the persons of his de-
liverers. To add to the perplexity, the
horse intended for Lafayette had bro-
ken from his bridle, and got away dur-
ino: the scuffle. So he was mounted
on the animal trained to carry the oth-
er two, while they lost time in regain-
ing their steed, and when they attemj)t-
ed to ride him together were both
thrown off. Huger then magnani-
mously bade Bollmann to ride on to
the assistance of the general, while he
made his way on foot. The little par-
ty was thus separated ; Huger to be
immediately captui-ed in the neighbor-
hood, Bollmann to proceed to Hoff,
waiting in vain, till he was arrested,
and Lafayette himself to wander to the
frontier, an object of suspicion, till he
was in a few days reclaimed by the
guard of his j)rison. All three were
tlien immured in Olmutz, in separate
dungeons, ignorant of one another's
fate. For six months Bollmann and
Huger were sulyected to a most cruel
imprisonment, when they obtained
their release by the aid of a friendly
noljloman. Count Metrowsky. Tlie
treatment of Lafayette was equally

severe. Stripped of the few comforts
which had been allowed him, he was
ignominiously chained and maltreated
till his health sank under the inflic-
tion. To add to his calamities the last
horror of mental suffering, his few days
of freedom in the outer world had
brought him the sad news of the reign
of terror in France. But his imagina-
tion, left to work upon that material,
could not transcend the dread reality.
The worst that he could fear, was
equalled in the execution which had
taken place of his wife's grandmother,
her mother and sister, while she herself
with her daughters awaited the fatal
day. Happily the fate of Robespierre
came in time for her preservation. By
the aid of Washington, who was do-
ing everything in his power to procure
her husband's release, and the Ameri-
can minister at Paris, Mr. Monroe, she
was provided with funds, which ena-
bled her, acccompanied by her daugh-
ters, to travel through Germany to
Vienna. There she sought an inter-
view with the Emperor Francis II.,
and appealed to him by the services of
her husband to the French monarchy,
by the I'ecital of the sufferings of her
family, and other tender considera-
tions, to grant his release. His name
was yet too formidable to the court to
allow this favor, but permission was
civen to the wife and dauo;hters to
share his imprisonment, with the hard
condition, however, that if they once
entered those walls, tliey were never
to leave them. When her health fails
her in the dungeon, and she asks for
leave to visit the capital for relief and
medical aid, she is reminded of the

she

cruel stipulation. If she

go,

276

GILBEET-MOTIEE DE LAFAYETTE.

must not retui-n. The wife of his
youth had endured too long the ago-
nies of separation in that tearful time
to risk the privation again. She would
not accept the indulgence on those
terms, but remained to suffer in the
dungeon.

Before leaving Paris, by the kind-
ness of some American friends, per-
mission had been procured for the de-
parture of her son, George "Washington
Lafayette, to America, where a friendly
reception awaited him from General
Washington, in whose family he be-
came established at Mount Vernon.
He reached America in the summer of
1795, and remained with Washington
till the first report came of his father's
liberation, when he hastened to France,
in the autumn of 1797, to meet him.

That liberation, long deferred, which
had been urged by all the influence of
Washington and by the liberal party
of the English House of Commons, by
Wilberforce and by Fox, was at length
granted to a rougher request in the
authoritative demand of General Bona-
parte, when he dictated terms of peace
after his first brilliant successes in com-
mand of the army of Italy. Lafayette
and his family were thus released in
September, 1797, Just five years from
the date of his falling into the hands
of the Austrians, and nearly two years
after his wife and daughters had joined
him in his imprisonment. The health
of Madame Lafayette, though she sur-
vived ten years, never recovered from
the effects of that captivity.

From Olmutz, Lafayette was attend-
ed by a military escort to Hamburg,
where he was j^laced under the pro-
tection of the American consul, Mr.

John Parish. From Haml)urg, he
passed, in a few days, to the neighbor-
ing territory of Holstein, where he was
estaljlished with his family in peace-
ful retirement for nearly two years at
the castle of Lemkhuleu, in the vicinity
of Wittmold, whence he removed to a
residence in Holland. Changes, mean-
while, were going on in Paris, tending
to the consolidated sfovernment of Na-
poleon. Lafayette waited only the es-
tablishment of order to return. The
overthrow of the Directory gave him
this opportxiuity. He hastened to
Paris on that event, secured his rights
as a citizen, was offered a seat in the
senate, but declined it, refusing to
sanction the usurpations of Napoleon.
He preferred to wait in retirement the
hoped-for arrival of the constitutional
government, to which he was pledged,
and to which he remained constant to
the end. His retreat was at that es-
tate of Lagrange, which became so well
knowTi to Americans as the seat of an
elegant hospitality. It was a portion
of the family property of his wife,
which, preserved entire during the
Revolution, was now restored to its
owners. Situated about forty miles
from the metroi^olis, in the department
of Seine-et-Marne, it was distant enough
to be out of the vortex of city life, and
near enough to share the liberal society
of the capital. There from time to
time assembled authors, artists, poli-
ticians, eminent trav^elers; always re-
ceived with welcome by the genial host
and his family.

The whole of the period of the rule
of Napoleon was thus passed l)y Lafay-
ette in dignified retirement, nor could
he be withdra\vn from his farm by any

GILBERT-MOTIER DE LAFAYETTE.

277

desire for preferment on the restoration
of the BourT>ons. When Bonaparte
returned fi-om Elba, he was induced,
by the prospect of liberal measures, to
participate again in public affairs as a
representative of the people. Here he
acted again, as usual, an independent
part, voting supplies for the defence
of the country, but opposing the des-
potic projects of Napoleon, who, in his
extremity after the battle of Waterloo,
was bent upon superseding the Cham-
ber by a last effort at dictatorship.
After the abdication which Avas ad-
vised by him took place, Lafayette was
employed in an ineffectual negotiation
to arrest the advance of the allies. On
their taking possession of the capital,
he retired to Lagrange. After a while,
he was again elected to the Chainber
of Deputies, where he quietly main-
tained his ground in favor of liberal
measures as opportunity arose.

In 1824, this life of unobtrusive
attention to his public and private
duties was varied by a fourth visit to
the United States. An invitation had
been given him by Congress, and a na-
tional vessel placed 1)y the President,
Mr. Monroe, at his disposal. He pre-
ferred, however, the ordinary passage
in a Havre packet, and reached New
York by that means on the fifteenth of
August. He was accompanied only by
his son, George Washington, and his
secretary. Ilis journey through the
country was ever}'wliere a triumph.
He visited the eastern, middle, southern
and western States, traversing the laud
from Maine to Louisiana, from tlie sea-
board to St. Louis. From the oajiitol
at Washington to the humblest village
tlu'ough which he passed, every oue did

him honor. It was a national jubilee
of hospitality and enthusiasm. The
eloquence of Henry Clay, the Speaker
of the House of Representatives, greet-
ed him on his introduction to Congress ;
he took part in the celebration on the
field of Yorktown, of his old victory;
he visited the tomb of Washington,
and knelt in tears by his coffin ; at
Charleston he saw again the gallant
Huger, who had been imprisoned in
his cause at Olmutz ; he was hailed by
Webster as he participated in the cere-
mony of laying the corner-stone of the
monument at Bunker Hill. Eveiy-
where interestina; incidents of the most
heart-stirrine: character arose in his
path, as the hero of the Revolution
visited the battle-fields where he and
his brethren had fought, the homes
whose hospitality he had shared with
Washington — the man of a new o-ener
ation, whose fathers had l>^en his illus-
trious companions. He f^w in their
dwellings at Monticello, Montpelier
and elsewhere, five Presidents of the
Union — John Adams, Jefferson, Madi-
son, Moni'oe, and John Quincy Adams.
The history of his progress through the
country, minutely related, would pre-
sent to the reader all the distiniruished
men of America of the period, an ex
hil)itiou of its education, arts, industry,
agriculture, manufactures, its ha])pi-
ness and prosperity — for all were made,
in some way or other, to minister to
this reception. Nor was the occasion
suffered to passed a^ay without a sub-
stantial addition to the fortunes of the
nation's guest. Congress handsomely
aj)propriated the sum of two hundred
thousand dollars, and a grant of twenty
four thousand acres of land, as a testi

278

GILBEKT-MOTIER DE LAFAYETTE.

moTiy to him of the national gratitude.
At length, after a year spent in these
recej^tions and festivities, he took leave
of the country, with the parting bene-
diction of the President at "Washing-
ton, embarking in a national vessel,
the Brandywine, on the Potomac. His
last farewell was to the home of Wash-
ington.

On his return to France, in the au-
tumn of 1825, Lafayette earned with
him the prestige of his importance in
America. He became more prominent
in the Chamber of Deputies. He was
the available leader of the popular
party, as the rule of Charles X. revived
the despotic principles of his race.
A tour to his birthplace, in the sum-
mer of 1829, was the occasion of a
striking popular manifestation. "Wher-
ever he appeared, crowds and a wel-
come attended him ; towns were bril-
liantly illuminated ; there was a gi"eat
demonstration at Lyons — all signifi-
cant, not only of the personal regai'd in
which he was held, but of the ap-
proaching downfall of the government.
The next year the course of Charles X.,
and his minister, Polignac, brought af-
fairs to a crisis. The Three Days of
July, of barricades and popular out-
break, ended in the dethronement of
the king. Lafayette, who, as in 1789,
had been called to the command of the
National Guard, and was a prime
mover in the revolution, was acknowl-
edged master of the position. An in-
fluential popular party would have
made him president of a republic. He
preferred to fall in with the views of his

brethren in the Chamber of Deputies,
and call the Duke of Orleans to the
throne, which he designed should be a
monarcliy, surrounded by republican
institutions.

Lafayette survived but a few years
the accession of Louis Philippe. One
of the last scenes in which he was
prominently before the public, was at
the funeral of General Lamarque, in
1832, when a popular manifestation
was attempted. The people removed
liis horses from his coach and woiild
have dragged him in triumph to the
Hotel de Ville, but he had no taste for
irregular movements of this kind, and
quietly managed to get conducted to
his home, while the government was
calling out all its forces to suppress an
insurrection, of which he was supposed
to be at the head. He survived this
event about two years. Another fune-
ral which he attended, of a colleague
of the Chamber of Deputies, was the
cause of his death, from the exposure
to which he was subjected. He took
a cold, which settled on his lungs, and
after an illness of more than two
months, aggravated by a relapse, died
in Paris, May 20th, 1834, in hi.? seven-
ty-seventh year. He was buried in a
humble, quiet cemetery, in an out-of-
the-way part of the city, by the side
of his beloved wife. A plain, reclin-
ing slab, with a simple inscription,
marks his grave. There are few Ame-
ricans who visit Paris, who do not turn
for a few moments from its pomp and
gaieties to visit this unpretending
spot.

THOMAS JEFFERSON

IN his Autobiography, written to-
wards the close of his life, the au-
thor of the Declaration of Independ-
ence, thinking, doubtless his new po-
litical career a better passport to fame
with posterity than any conditions of
ancestry in- the old society which he
had superseded, while he could not be
insensible to the worth of a respect-
able family history, says of the Ran-
dolphs, from whom he was descended
on the mother's side, " they trace their
pedigree far back in England and Scot-
land, to which let every one ascribe
the faith and merit he chooses." What-
ever value may be set by his biogra-
phers upon an ancient lineage, they
cannot overlook the fact — most im-
portant in its influence upon his future
history — that he was introduced by
his family relationships at birth into
a sphere of life in Virginia, which gave
him many social advantages. The lev-
eller of the old aristocracy was by no
means a self-made man of the people,
struggling upward through difficulty
and adversity. His father, Peter Jef-
ferson, belonged to a family originally
from Wales, \vliich had been among
the first settlers of the colony. In
1619, one of the name was seated iu

the Assembly at Jamestown, the first
legislative body of Europeans, it is
said, that ever met in the New World.
The particular account of the family
begins with the grandfather of Thomas
Jefferson, who owned some lands in
Chesterfield County. His third son,
Peter, established himself as a planter
on certain lands M'hich he had " pat-
ented," or come into possession of 1)y
purchase, in Albermarle County, in •
the vicinity of Carter's Mountain,
where the Rivanna makes its way
through the Eange; and about the
time of his settlement maiTied Jane,
daughter of Isham Randolph, of Dun-
geness, in Goochland County, of the
eminent old Virginia race, to which
allusion has ah-eady been made, a stock
which has extended its branches
through every department of worth
and excellence in the State. Isham
Randolph Avas a man of talent and
education, as well as noted for the
hospitality practiced by every gentle-
man of his wealthy position. His
memory is gratefully preserved in the
correspondence of the naturalists, Col-
linson and Bartram. The latter was
commended to his care in one of hia
scientific tours, and enjoyed his hearty

(279)

280

THOMAS JEFFERSON.

welcome. His daughter, Jane, we are
told, "possessed a most amiable and
affectionate disposition, a lively, cheer-
ful temper, and a great fund of hu-
mor," qualities which had their influ-
ence upon her son's character. Her
marriage to Peter Jefferson took place
at the a2;e of nineteen, and the fruit of
this union, the third child and first
son, was Thomas, the subject of this
sketch. He was born at the new fam-
ily location at Shadwell, April 2d (old
style), 1743.

Peter Jefferson, the father, was a
model man for a fi'ontier settlement,
tall in stature, of extraordinary strength
of body, capable of enduring any fa-
tigue in the wilderness, with corres-
ponding health and vigor of mind.
He was educated as a sm-veyor, and
in this capacity engaged in a govern-
ment commission to draw the bound-
•ary line between Virginia and North
Carolina. Two years before his death,
which occuiTed suddenly in his fiftieth
year, in 1757, he was chosen a member
of the House of Burgesses. His son
was then only fourteen, but he had
ali'eady derived manj^ impressions from
the instructions and example of his
father, and considerable resemblance
is traced between them. Mr. Eandall,
in his biography, notices the inherit-
ance of physical strength, of a certain
plainness of manners, and honest love
of independence, even of a fondness for
reading — for the stalwart surveyor was
accustomed to solace his leisure with
his Spectator and his Shakespeare.

The son was early sent to school,
and, before his father's death, was in-
structed in the elements of Greek, and
Latin, and French, by Mr. Douglass, a

Scottish clergyman. It was his pa
rent's dying wish that he should re-
ceive a good classical education ; and
the seed proved to be sown in a good
soil. The lessons which the youth
had already received, were resumed
under the excellent instruction of the
Rev. James Maury, at his residence,
and thence, in 17G0, the pupil passed
to William and Maiy College. He
was now in his eighteenth year, a tall,
thin youth, of a ruddy comjilexion, his
hair inclining to red, an adept in manly
and rural sports, a good dancer, some-
thing of a musician, full of vivacity.
It is worth noticing, that the youth of
Jefferson Avas of a hearty, joyous char-
acter.

Williamsburg, also, the seat of the
college, was then anything but a scho-
lastic hermitage for the mortification
of youth. In winter, during the ses-
sion of the court and the sittin2:s of
the colonial legislature, it was the
focus of provincial fashion and gayety ;
and between study and dissi])ation the
ardent young Jefferson had before him
the old problem of good and evil not
always leading to the choice of virtue.
It is to the credit of his manly percep-
tions and healthy tastes, even then,
that while he freely partook of the
amusements incidental to his station
and time of life, he kept his eye stead-
ily on loftier things. "It was my
great good fortune," he says in his
Autobiography, " and what probably
fixed the destinies of my life, that Dr.
William Small, of Scotland, was then
professor of mathematics, a man pro-
found in most of the useful branches
of science, with a happy talent of com-
munication, correct and gentlemanly.

THOMAS JEFFERSON.

281

maniior>;, and an enlamed and liberal
mind." His instructions, communi-
cated not only in college hours, hut in
familiar personal intimacy, warmed
the young student with his first, as it
became his constant, passion for nat-
ural science. This happy instructor
also gave a course of lectiu'es in ethics
and rhetoric, which were doubtless
equally profitable to his young pupil
in the opening of his mind to knowl-
edge. He had also an especial fond-
ness for mathematics, " reading off its
processes with the facility of common
discourse." He sometimes studied, in
his second year, fifteen hours a day,
taking exercise in a brisk walk of a
mile at evening.

Jefferson was only two years at col-
lege, but his education was happily
continued in his immediate entrance
upon the study of the law with George
Wythe, the memorable chancellor of
Virginia, of after days, to whom he
was introduced by Dr. Small, and of
whose personal qualities — his temper-
ance and suavity, his logic, and elo-
quence, his disinterested public virtue
— he AATote a worthy eulogium. The
same learned ii-iend also made him ac-.
quainted with Governor Fauquier, then
in authority, "the ablest man," says
Jeft'erson, " who ever filled the office."
At his courtly table the four met to-
gether in familiar and liberal conver-
sation. It was a privilege to the youth
of the first importance, bringing him,
at the outset, into a s])liere of })ublic
life which he was destined afterwards,
in Europe and America, so greatly to
adorn. He passed five years in the
study of the law at Williamsburg, aiid,
without intermitting his studies, at his
36

home at Shadwell. Nor, diligent as he
was, is it to be supposed that his time
was altogether spent in study. He yet
found leisure, as his early tell-tale cor-
respondence with his friend Page, af-
terwards Governor of Virginia, shows,
to harbor a fond attachment for a fair
" Belinda," as he called her, reversing
the letters of the name and writing
them in Greek, or playing upon the
word in Latin. The character of the
young lady. Miss Rebecca Burwell, of
an excellent family, does credit to his
attachment, for it was marked by its
religious enthusiasm, but nothing came
of it beyond a boyish disappointment.*
In 1767 he was introduced to the
bar of the General Court of Viro^inia
by his friend Mr. Wythe, and imme-
diately entered on a successful career
of practice, interrupted only by the
Revolution. His memorandum books,
which he kept minutely and diligently
as Washington himself, shov/ how ex-
tensively he was employed in these
seven years ; while the dii'ections which
he gave in later life to young students,
exhibit a standard of application, which
he had no doubt followed himself, of
the utmost proficiency. His " suffi-
cient groundwork " for the study of
the law includes a li1)eral course of
mathematics, natural philosophy, eth-
ics, rhetoric, politics, and history. His
puisuit of the science itself ascended
to the antique founts of the profession.

♦Ifr. John Estfu Cooke, of Virjrinin. nutlior
of the euiiiioutly judicious bioj;raphy of Jolfer-
pon in Applotou's nowCyclopirdin, lias sketched
tliis lovo utfiiir in ii pleasant pajjer on the " Eivrly
years of Thomas Jell'er.son." The "Page" cor
respondenco is printed iu Professor Tucker's
Life of JelTorson.

282

TKOMAS JEFFEESON.

He was a well-trained, skillful lawyer,
an adept in the casuistry of legal ques-
tions — more distinguished, however,
for his ability in argument than for
his poAver as an advocate. He Avas
throughout his life little of an orator,
and we shall find him hereafter, in
scenes where eloquence Avas peculiarly
felt, more powerful in the committee
room than in the debate.

His first entrance on political life
was at the age of twenty-six, in 1769,
when he was sent to the House of
Burgesses from the County of Albe-
marle, the entrance on a troublous
time in the consideration of national
grievances, and we find him engaged
at once in preparing the resolutions
and address to the governor's message.
The House, in reply to the recent de-
clarations of Parliament, reasserted the
American prineii:)les of taxation and
petition, and other questions in jeop-
ardy, and, in consequence, was prompt-
ly dissolved by Loixl Botetourt. The
memljers, the next day, George Wash-
ington among them, met at the Raleigh
tavern, and pledged themselves to a
non-importation agreement.

The next year, on the conflagration
of the house at Shadwell, where he
had his home with his mother, he took
up his residence at the adjacent "Mon-
ticello," also on his own paternal
grounds, in a portion of the edifice so
famous afterwards as the dwelling-
place of his maturer years. Unhap-
pily, many of his eai'ly papers, his
books and those of his father, were
burnt in the destruction of his old
home. In 1772, on New Year's Day,
he took a step further in domestic life,
in marriage with INIrs. Martha Skelton,

a widow of twenty- three, of much
beauty, and many winning accomplish-
ments, the daughter of John Wayles, a
lawyer of skill and many good qual-
ities, at whose death, the following
year, the pair came into possession of
a considerable property. In this cir-
cumstance, and in the management of
his landed estate, we may trace a cei'-
tain resemblance in the fortunes of the
occupants of Monticello and Mount
Vernon.

Political affairs were now again call-
ing for legislative attention. The re-
newed claim of the British to send
persons for state ofl:ences to England,
brought forward in Rhode Island,
awakened a strong feeling of resistance
among the Virginia delegates, a por-
tion of whom, including Jefferson, met
at the Raleign tavern, and drew up
resolutions creating a Committee of
Correspondence to watch the proceed-
ings of Parliament, and keeji up a com-
munication with the Colonies. Jeffer-
son was apjiointed to oft'er the resolu-
tions in the House, but declined in
favor of his brother-in-law, Dabney
Carr. They were passed, and a com-
mittee — all notable men of the Revo-
lution — was appointed, including Pey-
ton Randolph, Richard Henry Lee,
Patrick Henry, and others, ending witla
Thomas Jefferson. The Earl of Dun-
more then, folloAving the example of
his predecessor, dissolved the House.

We may here pause, with Mr. Jeffer-
son's latest biograper, to notice the
friendship of Jefferson with Carr. It
belonged to their school-boy days, and
had gained strength dming their period
of legal study, when they had kept
company together in the shades of

Montieello, and made nature the com-
panion of tlieir thoughts. They had
their favorite rustic seat there beneath
an oak, and there, each promised the
other he would bury the survivor.
The time soon came, a month after the
scene at the Raleigh tavern we have
just narrated, when Carr, at the age
of thirty, was fatally stricken hj fever.
The friends now rest together in the
spot where their youthful summer
days were passed. Carr had been
eight years married to Jefferson's sis-
ter, and he left her with a family of
six children. His brother-in-law took
them all to his home. The sons, Peter
and Dabney, who rose high in the Vir-
ginia judiciary, have an honored place
in the Jefferson Correspondence, call-
ing forth many of the statesman's best
letters. The whole family was edu-
cated and provided for by him ; and
here again, in these adopted children,
we may recognize a resemblance to
Mount Vernon with its young Custises.
The new Legislature met, as usual,
the next year, and, roused by the pass-
age of the Boston Port Bill, a few
members, says Jefferson, including
Henry and himself, resolved to ])lace
tlie Assembly " in the line with Massa-
cliusetts." The expedient they hit
upon was a fast day, which, by the
help of some old Puritan precedents,
tliey " cooked up " and ])ha'ed iu the
hands of a grave member to lay before
the House. It was passed, and the
Govenii>r, " as usual," dissolved the
Ass(;inl»ly. The fast was aj)p()inted
for the first of June, the day on which
the obnoxious bill was to take effect,
and there was one man in Virginia, at
least, who kept it. We may read in

the diary of George "Washington, of
that date, " Went to church, and fast-
ed all day."

The dissolved Assembly again met
at the Raleigh, and decided upon a
Convention, to be elected by the peo-
ple of the several counties, and held
at "Williamsburg, so that two bodies
had to be chosen, one to assemble in
the new House of Burgesses, the other
out of the reach of government con-
trol. The same members, those of the
previous House, were sent for both.
Jefferson again represented the free-
holders of Albermarle. The instruc-
tions which the county gave, supposed
fi'om his pen, assert the radical doc-
trine of the independence of the Colo-
nial Legislatures, as the sole fount of
authority in new laws. The "Williams-
burg Convention met and appointed
delegates to the first General Congress.
Jeft'erson was detained fi-om the As-
sembly by illness, but he forwarded a
draught of instructions for the dele-
gates which was not adopted, but or-
dered to be printed by the members.
It bore the title, " A Summary View
of the Rights of British America,"
reached England, was taken up by the
opposition, and, with some interpola-
tions from Burke, passed through sev-
eral editions. Though in advance of the
judgment of the i)eo]>li', who are slow
iu coming up to the principles of great
reforms, this " View " undoubtedly as
sisted to form that judgment. But
si> slow was the progress of opinion at
the outset, that, at the moment when
this paper was written, only a few
leaders, such as Samuel Adams and
Patrick Henry, were capable of appre-
ciating it. A fe\v years after waj'da,

284

Tno:\rAS jeffersok

and it would have been accepted as a
truism. The country was not yet
feady to receive its virtual Declaration
of Independence. The people had to
be pricked on by further outrages.
Theoretical rel)elliou they had no eye
for ; they must feel to be convinced.
Jefferson's paper was in advance of
them, hj the boldness of its historical
positions, and the plainness of its lan-
guage to his majesty — yet its array of
grievances must have enlightened many
minds.

The Congress of 1774 met, but
adopted milder forms of petition, bet-
ter adapted to the moderation of their
sentiments. Meanwhile committees of
safety are organizing in Virginia, and
Jefferson heads the list in his county.
He is also in the second Virginia Con-
vention at Richmond, listenino- to
Patrick Henry's ardent apj^eal to the
God of Battles — " I repeat it, sir, we
must fight !" The Assembly adopted
the view so far as preparing means of
defence, and that the students of events
in Massachusetts bea-an to think meant
war. The delegates to the first Con-
gress were elected to the second, and
in case Peyton Randolph should be
called to preside over the House of
Burgesses, Thomas Jefferson was to be
his successor at Philadelphia. The
House met, Randolph was elected, and
Jefferson dejiarted to fill his place,
bearing with him to Congress the
spirited Resolutions of the Assembly,
which he had \^Titten and driven
through, in reply to the conciliatory
propositions of Lord North. It was a
characteristic introduction, immediate-
ly followed lip by Ids apj^ointmeut on
the committee charged to prepare a

declaration of the causes of taking up
arms, Congress having Just chosen
Washington Commander-in-Chief of a
national army. He was associated in
this task Avith John Dickinson, tc
whose timidity and caution, respected
as they were by his fellow members,
he deferred in the report, in which,
however, a few ringing sentences of
Jefferson are readily distinguishable,
among them the famous watchwords
of political struggle — " Our cause is
just ; our union is perfect." " With
hearts," the document proceeds, " for-
tified with these animating affections,
we most solemnly, before God and the
world, declare, that, exerting the ut-
most energy of those powers which
our beneficent Creator hath graciously
bestowed upon us, the arms which Ave
have been compelled by our enemies to
assume, we will, in defiance of every
hazard, Avith uua])ated firmness and
perseverance, employ for the preserva-
tion of our liberties, being Avith one
mind resolved to die freemen rather
than live slaA^es."

This was the era of masterly state
papers ; and talent in composition Avas
in demand. The reputation of Jeffer-
son in this line had preceded him, in
the ability of his " Summary View,"
presented to the Virginia Convention,
and was confirmed by his presence.
Nearly a year passed — a year com-
mencing with Lexington and Bunker
Hill, and including the military scenes
of Washington's command around Bos-
ton, before Congress Avas fully ready to
pronounce its final Declaration of In-
dependence. When the time came,
Jefferson Avas again a member of that
body. The famous Resolutions of In-

THOMAS JEFFEESO?^.

285

dependence, in accordance with pre-
vious instructions ft-om Virginia, were
ino>^ed by Eichard Henry Lee, on the
seventh of June. They were debated
in committee of the whole, and pend-
ing the deliberations, not to lose time,
a special committee was appointed by
ballot on the eleventh, to prepare a
Declaration of Independence. Jeffer-
son had the highest vote and stood at
the head of the committee, with John
Adams, Benjamin Franklin, Roger
Sherman, and Robert R. Livingston.
The preparation of the instrument was
entrusted to Jefferson. " The com-
mittee desired me to do it, it was ac-
cordingly done, " says his Autobiogra-
phy. The draft thus prepared, with a
few verbal corrections from Franklin
and Adams, was submitted to the House
on the twenty-eighth. On the second
of July, it was taken up in debate,
and earnestly battled for three days,
when on the evening of the last — the
ever-memorable fourth of July — it was
finally reported, agreed to, and signed
])y every member except Mr. Dickin-
son. Some alterations were made in
the original draft — a phrase, here and
there, which seemed superfluous, was
lopped off ; the king of Great Britain
was spared some additional severities,
and a stirring passage arraigning his
majesty for complicity in the slave
trade then carried on, '' a j)iratk'al war-
fare, the opprobrium of infidel powers,"
was entirely exscinded — the denuncia-
tion being thought to strike at home
as well as abroad. Tlie people of
England were also relieved of the cen-
sure cast upon them for electing tyran-
nical parliaments. With tliese omis-
tjions, the paper stands substantially

as first reported by Jefferson. It is
intimately related to his previous reso-
lutions and reports in Vii'ginia and
Congress, and whatever merit may be
attached to it, alike in its spirit and
language, belongs to him.

Mr. Jefferson was elected to the next
session of Congress ; but, pleading the
state of his family affairs, and desirous
of taking part in the fomiative mea-
sures of government now arising in
Virginia, he was permitted to resign.
He declined, also, immediately after,
an appointment by Congress as fellow-
minister to France with Dr. Franklin.
In October, he took his seat in the Vir-
ginia House of Delegates, and com-
menced those efforts of reform with
which his name will always be identi-
fied in his native State, and which did
not end till its social condition was
thoroughly revolutionized. His first
great blow was the introduction of a
bill abolishing entails, which, with one
subsequently brought in, cutting off
the right of primogeniture, levelled the
great landed aristocracy which had
hitherto governed in the country. He
was also, about the time of the passage
of this act, created one of the commit-
tee for the general revision of the laws,
his active associates being Edmund
Pendleton and George Wythe. Tliis
vast work was not completed by the
committee till June, 177i), an interval
of more than two years. Among the
one hundred and sixteen new bills re-
ported, perha])S the most important
was one, the work oi Jefferson, that
for Establishing Religious Freedom,
which abolished tithes, and left all
men free " to ])ri>fess, and by argument
to maintain, their opinions in matters

286

THOMAS JEFFEESON.

of religion, and that the same shall in
no Avise diminish, enlarge, or affect
their civil capacities." A concurrent
act provided for the preservation of
the glebe lands to clniroh meml)ers.
Jefferson "was not, therefore, in this in-
stance the originator of the after spolia-
tion of the ecclesiastical property. Of
this matter Mr. Randall says : " Wheth-
er Mr. Jefferson changed his mind,
and \<.e])t up with the demands of pop-
ular feeling in that particular, we have
no means of knowing. We remember
no utterance of his on that subject,
after reporting the bills we have de-
scribed."* Another important subject
fell to his charge in the statutes affect-
ing education. He proposed a system
of free common school education, plan-
ned in the minutest details ; a method
of reorganization for William and
Mary College, and provision for a fi-ee
State Library. There was also a bill
limiting the death penalty to murder
and treason. In his account of the re-
ception of this " Revision," Mr. Jeffer-
son records : " Some of the bills were
taten out, occasionally, from time to
time, and passed ; but the main body
of the work was not entered on by the
Legislature until after the general
peace, in 1 785, when, by the unwearied
exertions of Mr. Madison, in opposi-
tion to the endless quibbles, chicane-
ries, perversions, vexations, and delays
of lawyers and demi-lawyers, most of
the bills were passed by the Legisla-
ture, mth little alteration."

In 1779, Mr. Jefferson succeeded
Patrick Henry as Governor of Virginia,
falling upon a period of administration
requiring the military defence of the

* Life of Jefferson, I. 222.

State, less suited to his talents than the
reformincf leo-ij^lation in which he had
been recently engaged. Indeed, he
modestly confesses this in the few words
he devotes to the suliject in his Auto-
biography, where he says, referring to
history for this portion of his career :
" From a belief that, under the pressure
of the invasion under ■\\diich we Avere
then laboring, the public would have
more confidence in a military chief, and
that the military commander, being
invested with the civil power also, both
might be wielded with more energy,
promptitude and effect for the defence
of the State, I resigned the administra-
tion at the end of my second year, and
General Nelson was appointed to suc-
ceed me." His disposition to the arts
of peace, in mitigation of the calami-
ties of war, had been previously shown
in his treatment of the Saratoga pris-
oners of war, who were quartered in
his neighborhood, near Charlottesville.
He added to the comforts of the men,
and entertained the officers at his table,
and when it was proposed to remove
them to less advantageous quarters, he
remonstrated with Governor Henry in
theii' favor. The early part of Jeffer-
son's administration was occupied with
various duties connected with the war,
and it was only at the end, in the inva-
sions by Arnold and Phillips, in 1780,
that he felt its pressure. When Rich-
mond was invaded and plundered, he
was obliged to reconnoitre the attack,
in his movements about the vicinity,
without ability of resistance. The
finances and resources of defence of the
State were in the most lamentable con-
dition, and it remains a question for
the historian to conjecture what de-

gree of military energy, in a governor,
would have heen effectual to create an
army on the spur of the moment, and
extort means for its support. The
depredations of Arnold continued till
the arrival of Cornwallis, and before
his exit from the scenes of these opera-
tions at Yorktown, an incident occx'r-
red which has been sometimes told to
Jefferson's disadvantage, though with-
out any apparent reason. The famous
Colonel Tarleton, celebrated for the
rapidity of his movements, was dis-
patched to secure the members of the
Legislature, then assembled at Char-
lottesville. "Warning was given, and
the honorable gentlemen escaped, when
it was proposed to capture the govern-
or at his neigboring residence at Mon-
ticello. He, however, also had intelli-
gence, perceiving the approach of the
enemy from his mountain height, and,
sending his wife and children in ad-
vance to a place of safety, rode off
himself as the troopers approached to
Carter's Mountain. At this time his
term of service as governor had expir-
ed a few days. Happily, the officer
who thus Aasited his house was a 2:en-
tleman, and his papers, books, and
other property, were spared. His
estate at Elk Hill, on James River,
did not fare so well. Its crops were
desti'Oj-ed, its stock taken, and the
slaves driven off to perish, almost to a
man, of fever and suffering in the
British camp.

Losses like these he could bear with
equanimity; not so the inquiry, which
received some countenance fi'om the
legislature, into his conduct during the
invasion. He was grieved that such
an implied censure should be even

thought of, and prepared himself to
meet it in person: but when he pre-
sented himself at the next session, con-
senting to an election for the express
purpose, there was no one to oppose
him, and resolutions of respect and con-
fidence took the place of the threatened
attack. He had another cause of de-
spondence at this time, which no act
of the legislature could cure.- His wife,
to whom he was always tenderly at-
tached, was daily growing more feeble
in health, and gradually approaching
her grave. She died in September,
1782 — "torn from him by death," is
the expressive language he placed on
her simple monument.

The illness of his wife had prevented
his acceptance of an appointment in
Europe, to negotiate terms of peace
immediately after the termination of
his duties as governor. A similar office
was now tendered him — the third prof-
fer of the kind by Congress — and, look-
ing upon it as a relief to his distracted
mind as well as a duty to the State, he
accepted it. Before, however, the pre-
parations for his departiire were com-
plete, arising from the difficulties then
existing of crossing the ocean, intelli-
gence was received of the progress of
the peace negotiations, and the voyage
was abandoned. He was then return-
ed to Congress, taking his seat in No-
vember, 1783, at Trenton, the day of
the adjournment to Anuaj)olis, where
one of his first duties, the following
month, was a^* chairman of the Com-
mittee which provided the arrange-
ments for the reception of Washington
on his resignation of his command.

The presence of Jefl'ersou in any
legislative body was always soon felt,

and we accordingly find him in tLe
Conuress of 1784, raakins; his mark in
the debates on the ratification of the
treaty of peace, his suggestions on the
estaldishmeut of a money unit and a
national coinage, which were subse-
quently adopted — he gave us the deci-
mal system and the denomination of
the cent; the session of the North-
western Territory by Vii'ginia, with
his report for its government, propos-
ing names for its new States, and the
exclusion of slavery after the year 1800 ;
and taking an active part in the ar-
rangements for commercial treaties
with foreign nations. In the last, he
was destined to be an actor as well as
a designer — Congress, on the seventh
of May, appointing him to act in Europe
with Adams and Franklin, in accom-
plishing these negotiations. This time
he was enabled to enter upon the scene
abroad, which had always invited his
imagination by its prospects of new
observations in art and science, society
and government, and intimacy with
learned and distinguished men. A
visit to Europe to an ordinary Ameri-
can in those days, was like passing from
a school to a university ; but JefEerson,
though he found the means of knowl-
edo;e unfailino; wherever he went, beincr
no ordinary man but a very extraordi-
nary one, carried with him to Europe
more than he could receive there. In
the science of government he was the
instructor of the most learned ; and, in
that matter, the relations of the old
world and the new were reversed.
America, even then, with much to learn
before her system was perfected, was
the educator of Europe.

Jefferson took with him his oldest

daughter, Martha — his famil)'^ consist-
ing, since the death of his wife, of three
young daughters and the adopted chil-
dren of his friend, Carr — v/ith whom
he reached Paris, by the way of Eng-
land, in August. Thei'e he found Dr.
Franklin, with whom he entered on
the duties of his mission, and whose
friendship he experienced in an intro-
duction to the brilliant philosophical
society of the capital. His position,
also, at the outset, was much strength-
ened with these savans by a small edi-
tion which he printed and privately
circulated of his " Notes on Virginia."
The book, as a valual)le original con-
tribution to the knowledge of an inter-
esting portion of the country, at a tran-
sition period, has been alwaj's treasur-
ed. Its observations on natural history,
and descriptions of scenery, are of val-
ue ; it has much which would now be
called enthnological, particularly in
reference to the Indian and the black
man ; while, in style and treatment, it
may be studied as a suggestive index
of the mind and tastes of the author.

In the summer of 1785, Dr. Frank-
lin took his departure homeward, retir-
ing from the embassy he had so long
and honorably filled, and Jefferson re-
mained as his successor. His return
to the United States in the autumn of
1789, grew out of his desire to restore
his daughters — a second one had join-
ed him in Europe, the third died dur-
ing his absence — to education in Amer-
ica, and to look after his private af-
fairs. A leave of absence was accord-
ingly granted him, with the expectation
of a retiu'n to the French capital. Be-
fore reachinsr home he found a letter
fi'om President Washington awaiting

THOMAS JEFFEESON.

2S9

him, tendering him the office of Secre-
tary of State in the new government.
The proposition was received with
manifest reluctance, but with a candid
reference to the will of the President.
The latter smoothed the way, by rep-
resenting the duties of the office as
less laborious than had been conceiv-
ed, and it was accepted. At the end
of March, 1790, he joined the other
members of the administration at New
York. Then began that separation in
politics, which, gradually rising to the
dignity of party organization, became
known as Federalism and Republican-
ism. Whatever opinions Jefferson
might entertain of men or measures,
on questions of practical conduct, he
regarded only the honor and welfare
of his country. He retired at the' end
of 1793, with the friendship and re-
spect of Washington unbroken.

The simplicity of his retirement at
Monticello has been questioned by
those who have been accustomed to
look upon the man too exclusively in
the light of a politician ; but the evi-
dence brought forward by his biogra-
pher, Mr. Randall, shows that the pas-
sion, while it lasted, was genuine. In
Jefferson's heart there was a fund of
sensibility, freely exhibited in his pri-
vate intercourse with his family. He
was unwearied in the cares and solici-
tudes of his daughters, his adopted
children, and their alliances. In read-
ing the letters which passed between
them, the politician is forgotten : we
see only the man and the father. Be-
sides these pleasing anxieties, he had
the responsibilities and resources of
several considerable plantations ; his
five thousand acres about Monticello,
37

alone, as he managed them, with their
novel improvements and home manu-
factiu"ing operations, affording occupa-
tion enough for a single mind. He
had, too, his books and favorite studies
in science and literature. There were,
probably, few public men in the country
who like him read the Greek drama-
tists in the original with pleasure. What
wonder, then, that he honestly sought
retirement from the labors and struf-
gles of political life, becoming eveiy
day more embittered by the rising
spirit of party ? But the law of Jef-
ferson's mind was activity, and it was
no long time before he mingled again
in the political arena. His first decided
symptom of returning animation is
found by his biographer in his sub-
scription, at the close of 1795, to
"Bache's Aurora." He was no longer
content with " his solitary Richmond
newspaper." After this, there is no
more thorough " working politician "
in the country than Thomas Jefferson.
It is not necessary here to trace his
influence on every passing event. We
may proceed rapidly to his reappear-
ance in pulilic life as Vice-President in
1797, on the election of John Adams,
soon followed by the storm of party,
attendant upon the obnoxious measures
of the President in the Alien and Se-
dition Laws, the rapid disintegration
of the Federal party and the rise of the
Republicans. Out of the stormy con-
flict, Jefferson, at the next election, was
elevated to the Presidency. The vote
stood seventy-three alike for himself
and Burr, and sixty-five and sixty-four
respectively for Mr. Adams and Mr.
Pinekney. As the Presidency was then
given to the one who had the highest

290

THOMAS JEFFEESOK.

vote, and the Vice- Presidency to tlie one
next below him, neither being named
for the offices, this equality threw the
election into the House of Representa-
tives. A close contest then ensued
between Jefferson and Burr for the
Presidency, which was protracted for
six days and thirty-six ballotings, when
the former was chosen by ten out of
the sixteen votes of the States.

One of the early measures of Jeffer-
son's administration, and the most im-
portant of his eight years of office, was
the acquisition of Louisiana by pui'-
chase from France. It was a work
upon which he had peculiarly set his
heart. From the first moment of hear-
ing that the territory was passing from
Spain to France, he dropped all polit-
ical sympathy for the latter, and saw in
her possession of the region only a
pregnant source of war and hostility.
Not content with the usual channel of
diplomacy through the state depart-
ment, he Avrote himself at once to Mr.
Livingston, the minister in France, urg-
ing considerations of national policy
not so much that the United States
should hold the country, as that the
European powers should relinquish it.
From his own previous discussions with
Spain, he understood the topic well,
and his zeal was now equal to the occa-
sion. An active European nation of
the first-class in possession of the
mouth of the Mississippi, was utterly
inadmissible to his sagacious mind ; he
saw and felt the fact in all its conse-
quences. The rapidity of his conclu-
sions and his patriotic insight were hap-
pily seconded by the necessities of Napo-
leon at the time, and Louisiana became
an integral part of the Republic, with

the least expenditure of money and po-
litical negotiation. The turn of Euro-
pean events had much to do with it —
but had the difficulty been prolonged,
the prescience and energy of Jefferson
Avould, there is every reason to believe,
have been prepared to cope with the
issue. The expedition of Lewis and
Clarke, in exploration of the western
teriitory, parallel with this new acqui-
sition, was planned by Jefferson, and
must be placed to the credit, alike of
his love of science and patriotic insight
into the future of his country. The
brilliant acts of the navy in the Medi-
terranean, in conflict with the Barljary
powers came also to swell the triumphs
of the administration, and Jefferson,
at the next Presidential election, was
borne into office, spite of a vigorous
opposition, by a vote of one hundred
and sixty-two in the electoral college
to fourteen given to Charles Cotesworth
Pinckney.

The main events of this second ad-
ministration were the trial of Burr for
his alleged western conspiracy, in which
the President took a deep interest in the
prosecution, and the measures adopted
against the naval aggressions of England
which culminated in the famous " Em-
bargo," by which the foreign trade of
the country was annihilated at a blow,
that Great Britain might be reached
in her commercial interests. It, of
course, called down a storm of opposi-
tion from the remnants of Federalism
in the commercial States, which ended
in its repeal early in 1809, after it had
been in operation something more than
a year. Iniuiediately after, the presi-
dency of its author closed with his sec-
ond term, leaving the country, indeed,

THOMAS JEFFEESON.

291

in an acjitated, unsettled state in refer-

•

ence to its foreign policy, but with
many elements at liome of enduring
prosperitA^ and grandeur. The terri-
tory of the nation had been eidarged,
its resources developed, and its financial
system conducted with economy and
masterly ability ; time had been gained
for the inevitable coming struggle -with
England, and though the navy was not
looked to as it should have been, it had
more than given a pledge of its future
prowess in its achievements in the
Mediterranean.

Jefferson was now sixty-six, nearly
the full allotment of human life, but
he was destined to yet seventeen years
of honorable exertion — an interval
marked by his popular designation,
"the sasre of Monticello," in which as-
perities might die out, and a new gen-
eraticm learn to reverence him as a
father of the State. He had been too
much of a reformer not to suffer more
than most men the obloquy of party,
and he died without the true Thomas
Jefferson being fully known to the
pul)lic. In his last days he spoke of
the calumny to which he had been sub-
jected with mingled pride and char-
itable feeling. He had not considered,
he said, in words worthy of remem-
brance, "his enemies as abusing him;
they had never knowTi Mm. They
had created an imaginary being clothed
with odious attri])utes, to whom they
had given his name ; and it was against
that creature of their imaginations
they had leveHed their anathemas."
We may now penetrate within that
home, even, in the intimacy of his
domestic cornspondence, witliin that
breast, and learn something of the man

Thomas Jefferson. His questioning
turn of mind, and to a certain extent,
his unimaginative temperament, led
him to certain views, particularly in
matters of religion, which were
thought at war with the welfare of
society. But whatever the extent of
his departure, in these things, fi'om the
majority of the Christian world, he
does not appear, even in his own family,
to have influenced the opinion of
others. His views are described, by
those who have studied them, to re-
semble those held by the Unitarians.
He was not averse, however, on occa-
sion, to the services of the Episcopal
Church, which, says Mr. Randall, " he
generally attended, and when he did
so, always carried his prayer-book, and
joined in the responses and prayers
of the congregation." Of the Bi1)le
he was a great student, and, we fancy
derived much of his Saxon strength
of expression fi'om familiarity with its
language.

If any subject was dearer to his
heart than another, in his latter days,
it was the course of education, in the
organization and government of his
favorite University of Virginia. The
topic had long been a favorite one,
datlnfif as far- back with him as his re-
port to the Legislature in 1779. It
was revived in some efforts made in
his county in 1814, which resulted in
the estal)lishment of a college that in
1818 gave place to the projected Uni-
versity. Its courses of instruction
reflected his tastes, its government was
of his contrivance, he looked abroad
for its first pi'ofessors, and its archi-
tectural plans, in which he took great
interest, were mainly arranged by

292

THOl^IAS JEFFERSON.

him. He was cliosen by the Board of
Visitors, appointed by the governor,
its rector, and died hohling the office.
An inscription for his monument,
which was found among his papers at
his death, reads : " Here lies buried,
Thomas Jefferson, author of the Dec-
laration of American Independence, of
the Statute of Vii-ginia for Keligious
Freedom, and Father of the University
of Virginia."

The time was approaching for its em-
ployment, as the old statesman lingered
with some of the physical infirmities,
few of the mental inconveniences of
advanced life. His fondness for riding
blood horses was kept up almost to the
last, and he had always his family, his
friends, his books — faithful to the end
to the sublimities of ^schylus, the pas-
sion of his younger days. He was
much more of a classical, even, than of
a scientific scholar, we have heard it
said by one well cpialified to form an
opinion ; but this was a taste which
he did not boast of, and which, happily
for his enjo}Tnent of it, his political
enemies did not find out. In the de-
cline of life, when debt, growing out
of old encumbrances and new expen-
ses on his estates, was pressing upon
him, these resources were unfaUing
and exacted no repayments. His pen,
too, ever ready to give wings to his
thought, was with him. Even in those
last days, preceding the national an-
niversary which marked his death, he
wrote with his wonted strength and

fervor : " All eyes are opened oi
opening to the rights of man. The
general spread of the light of science
has already laid open to every view
the palpable truth, that the mass of
mankind have not been born with
saddles on their backs, nor a favored
few booted and spurred, ready to ride
them legitimately, by the grace of
God." This was the last echo of the
fire which was wont to inspire senates,
which had breathed in the early coun-
cils of liberty, which had kept pace
with the progress of the nation to a
third generation. A few days after,
at noon of the day which had given
the Republic birth, to the music of
his own brave words, exactly fifty
years after the event ; in full conscious-
ness of his ebbing moments ; with tran-
quillity and equanimity, passed from
earth the soul of Thomas Jefferson.
His old comrade, John Adams, lin-
srered at Braintree a few hours louder,
thinking of his friend in his dying
moments, as he uttered his last words :
"Thomas Jefferson still survives."
They were too late for fact, but they
have been accepted for prophecy, and
in this spirit they are inscribed as the
motto to the latest memorial of him
of whom they were spoken. Thus, on
the fourth of July, 1826, passed away
the two great apostles of American
liberty ; the voice which, louder, per-
haps, than any other, had called for
the Declaration of Independence, and
the hand that penned it.

t--''J^^ciy~^^ei-<^

MARIA EDGE^A/ORTH

ri'^HE history of tlie Edgeworths in
-L Ireland ascends to the reign of
Elizabeth, when two brothers of the
stock left England, one, Edward, to
become Bishop of Down and Connor,
the other, Francis, succeeding to his
brother's property, to marry an Irish
lady and establish the family in the
country. From this union, in the ear-
ly part of the seventeenth century, Ma-
ria Edgeworth was descended. There
appears always to have been a great
deal of spirit and independence in the
family, with unusual daring and adven-
ture. The wife of Francis Edgeworth,
who is described as very beautiful, was
the daughter of a baronet, and, desirous
ofthesoeial privileges it conferred, when
the title was offered to her husband,
quarreled with him for not accepting
it. She then left him to attach her-
self to Henrietta Maria on the conti-
nent, and, on the death of the queen,
returned, not to her family, but to es-
])end a large fortune in found iiig a re-
ligious house in Dublin. Ca])tain Jolin
Edgeworth, her son, married a lady of
Derbyshire, who, in the absence of her
husband, narrowly escaj)ed death in
his castle of Cranallagli, wlieii it was
6red ami plundered by the rebels.

Their infant son would have been
miu-dered on this occasion had not his
life been saved by a faithful servant,
who, swearing that a sudden deatb
was too good for him, proposed to
" plunge him up to his throat in a bog
hole and leave him for the crows to
pick his eyes out." The suggestion
was accepted, and in this way the
child was concealed till he could be
safely carried through the rebel camp
to Dublin, hid in a pannier under eggs
and chickens. Before the boy grew
up, his mother died and his father was
married again to a widow lady in Eng-
land, of whom he became suddenly
enamored at first sight, in the cathe-
dral at Chester, while travelling on his
way home to Ireland. The story of this
engagement is somewhat humorously
told by their descendant, Richard Lo-
vell Edgeworth, who, as we shall see,
had naturally a sympathy with such
affairs of the heart. The lady, it ap-
pears, when seen in church, had a full-
blown rose in her bosom. As she was
coming out, the rose fell at the gallant
captain's feet. "The lady was hand-
some — so was the captain — he toi)k up
the rose and presented it with so much
grace to Mrs. Bridgman, that, in con

(293)

sequence, they became acquainted and
were soon after married." The lady-
had a daughter, an heiress, by her first
marriage ; the captain, as we liave seen,
a son by his. In due time, and that,
as is not uncommon in Ireland, was a
very early time, when their joint ages
amounted to thirty, this young pair
were married. The mother, being
averse to the match, and there being a
law against running away with aii
heiress, the young lady to avoid any
susj)icion of this charge, carried her
nusband behind her on horseback to
cliurch. This precocious couple had
the recklessness and improvidence of
youth and old Ireland. "Upon an
excursion to England," we are told,
" they mortgaged the wife's estate in
Lancashire, and carried the money to
London in a stocking, which they kept
on the top of their bed. To this stock-
ing, both had free access, and, of course,
its contents soon began to be very low.
The young man was handsome and very
fond of dress. At one time, when he
had run out all his cash, he actually
sold the ground plot of a house in
Dublin, to purchase a high-crowned
hat and feathers, which was then the
mode. He lived in high company at
court. Upon some occasion, King
Charles the Second insisted upon
knighting him. His lady was pre-
sented at court, where she was so
much taken notice of by the gallant
monarch, that she thought it proper
to intimate to her husband, that she
did not wish to go there the second
time, nor did she ever after appear at
court, though in the bloom of youth
and beauty." This Lady Edgeworth
was a believers in fairies, and was in

consequence imposed upon by the peo-
ple of her neighborhood in Ireland,
who sent children by night with lights,
atter the fashion of the Merry Wives
of Windsor, to play their gambols on a
mount opposite her castle of Lissard.
She was frightened at this, but she was
a woman of courage notwithstanding,
as an anecdote, related of her, proves.
" While she was living at Lissard, she
was, on some sudden alarm, obliged to
go at night to a garret at the top of the
house for some gunpowder, which was
kept there in a barrel. She was follow-
ed upstairs by an ignorant servant-
girl, who canned a bit of candle,
without a candlestick, between her
fingers. When Lady Edgeworth had
taken what gunpowder she wanted,
had locked the door, and was half-way
down stairs again, she observed that
the girl had not her cantUe, and asked
what she had done with it; the girl
recollected and answered, that she had
left it '■stuck in tlie barrel of hlack salt.^
Lady Edgeworth bid her stand still,
and instantly returned by herself to
the room where the gunpowder was;
found the candle as the girl had de-
scribed — put her hand carefully un-
derneath it — carried it safely out, and
when she got to the bottom of the
stairs, dropped on her knees, and
thanked God for their deliverance." As
he grew older, her husband mended
his ways and his fortunes. The eldest
child of this marriage was Francis
Edgeworth, colonel of a loyal regiment
in King William's time, a gallant sol-
dier and a spendthrift. He had an
extraordinary passion for play. " One
night, after having lost all the money
he could command, he staked his wife's

MAEIA EDGEWOETH.

295

diamond ear-rings, and went into an ad-
joining room, where she was sitting in
company, to ask her to lend them to
him. She took them from her ears, and
gave them to him, saying that she
knew for what purpose he wanted
them, and that he was welcome to
tliem. Tliey were played for. My
grandfather (Richard Lovell Edge-
worth is the narrator) won upon this
last stake, and gained back all he had
lost that nio'ht. In the warmth of his
gratitude to his wiie, he, at her desire,
took an oath, that he would never
more play at any game ^vith cards or
dice. Some time afterwards, he was
found in a hay-yard with a friend,
dramng straws out of the hay-rick, and
betting upon which should be the long-
est." This gentleman of the old school
left a son who Itecame a lawyer, and
married Jane Lovell, the daughter of
a Welsh judge. Of this marriage was
l)orn, one of eight children, Richard
Lovell Edgeworth, the father of Maria.
This Richard Lovell Edgeworth, who
came into the world at Bath, in 1744,
proved a very extraordinary person-
age. The " Memoirs " which he has
left us tell us all about him and much
about his daughter, who was intimate-
ly associated with him after she
grew up, in his literary occupations.
His mother, though greatly afflicted in
health, was cheerful in disposition and,
an unusual thing for the sex in her day,
was fond of reading. She read to her
son, in his childhood, the Roman plays
of Shakespeai'e, and implanted in his
mind sound maxims for the conduct of
life. Iler last injunttion to him on her
death-bed was, " My son, learn how to
say No !" He was taught Latin by a

clergjTuan who had been the instmc-
tor of the poet Goldsmith, and at six-
teen, entered Trinity College, Duldin,
where he appears to have passed his
time in dissipation, which caused his
removal to Oxford, where he was con-
sisrned to the care of a friend of his
father, a Mr. Elers, who rejoiced, in his
residence at Black Bourton, in the pos-
session of several pretty daughters.
From what we have seen of the blood
of the Edgeworths, it was a danger-
ous position for a youthful scion of
the house. In fact, young as he was,
he had been married already — when
he was twelve or fourteen — after a
dancing frolic, standing up with his
partner in a mock ceremony performed
by one of his companions in a white
cloak for a surplice, and with the key
of the door for a ring. It was a piece
of nonsense, but his father thought it
important enough to have it annulled
in an Irish ecclesiastical court. This
time it was more serious. The young
Oxford student did apply himself to
his studies, and was at the same time
attentive to one of the young ladies,
whom, before his college com-se was
finished, he ran away with to Gretna
Green, mamed, and by her had a
son before he was twenty. This affair
broke up his Oxford residence, and sent
him back to Ireland, where he passed
a year dabbling in science and improv-
ing a turn for mechanics in the con-
struction of an orrery. Returning to
England with the intention of study-
ing for the law, he took up his resi-
dence at Hare Hatch, in the vicinity of
Reading, in Berkshire, a place of easy
access to London. Here his daughter
Maria was born, on the fii'st day of Jan-

296

MARIA EDGEAYORTH.

uary, 1767. Her early childliood was
passed with the family in Oxfordshire,
till her mother's death, six years after-
ward, in 1773. During this time va-
rious incidents were hapjiening in her
father's career which influenced her fu-
ture education and character. The
most important of these was his falling
in with the social literary clique which
gathered about that famous blue stock-
ing of her time, Miss Anna Seward, at
her father's residence — he was canon
of the cathedral — in the Bishop's pal-
ace at Lichfield. One of the leading
members of this circle was Dr. Darwin,
who was then practicing medicine in
the city, a gentleman of great intelli-
gence and benevolence, destined after-
wards to be known to the world by his
poetic and philosophic writings. A com-
mon liking for mechanical and scientif-
ic pursuits brought Darmn and Edge-
worth together. They first met at the
doctor's house in Lichfield, to which
EdgeAvorth was invited as a guest ; and
by the doctor he was introduced to Miss
Seward. It was quite characteristic of
our Irish visitor to be delighted with
the lady at first sight. The very eve-
nino; after his arrival, at an evenius:
party at Darwin's, in the midst of his
impressive attentions to Miss Seward
at table, he was suddenly called to his
senses by Mrs. Darwin proj)osing the
Tiealth of Mrs. Edg&worth, a personage
whose existence her husband seemed
on all occasions when he could, very
ready to forget. His state of mind to-
wards that lady is, indeed, very frank-
ly confessed in his " Memoirs," where
he describes her as " prudent, domestic,
and afEectiouate, but not of a cheerful
temper. She lamented about trifles;

and the lamenting of a female with
whom we live does not render home
delightful." He suggests to be sure that
there was a touch of feminine spite in
Mrs. Darwin's interruption. Miss Sew-
ard, who was at this time in the height
of hercharmSjhavingbeenherrival with
the doctor. Escaping, however, for the
present, the seductive beauties of Lich-
field, he returned to his home in Berk-
shire to apply himself with fresh rigor
to his ingenious mechanical contriv-
ances and the education or rather non-
education of his infant son after the
method proposed by Rousseau.

He now made the acquaintance of
a personage rather more notional and
extraordinary than himself. This was
the eccentric Mr. Thomas Day, the au-
thor of that ingenious boy's book, "The
Adventures of Saudford and Merton."
He was a man of great integrity and
generosity, well versed in literature,
of constant activity of mind, and great-
ly given to metaphysics, and, being
possessed of a liberal estate, he was
enabled very much to have his own
way. He had views of his ovra. on all
sorts of themes, and particularly on
the subject of female education. Eude
and clumsy in his own person, with a
coimtenance ill-favored from the small-
pox, inattentive to or ignorant of the
refined graces of life, he was disjiosed
to resent as impertinent or injurious,
the usual intercourse of fashionable so-
ciety. With little of the passion of
love, he was a constant attendant upon
women with a sort of mathematical af-
fection. The life of a woman was, in
his view, to be worked out and demon
strated like a problem. Day accom-
panied Edgeworth on a x\&\t to his

MAEIA EDGEWOETH.

297

father in Ireland, and fell in love with
his sister. It was a peculiarity of his
attachments, that they proceeded to a
certain extent and went no farther.
The lady tirst received him with sus-
picion and distrust, for women are nat-
urally aristocrats, and dislike ultra so-
cial reformers ; then recognizing in him
through the wonders of his conversa-
tion the man of genius, she takes pride
in his attentions and amiahly devotes
herself to metaphysics, of which she
soon gets tired, and there the matter
ends. This is in general the natui'al
history of Day's love aftairs. There
was a prospect of his Itecoming the
l)rother-in-law of his friend, but he
did not. Despairing of making any-
tliing of the spoiled daughters of civil-
ization, he determined to fonn a woman
for himself, and, to have a choice in the
I'esult, he chose two for the experiment.
He selected these girls from a numl)er
of or])hans, one of them from the
Fountlling Hospital in London, adopt-
ed both, and set to work to educate
them with a view of making one of
them his wife. One he named Sal>rina
Sidney, in compliment to his favorite
I'iver, the Severn, and to his favorite
political philosopher, Algernon Sid-
ney ; the other, after the chaste Roman
matron, Lucretia. They were at the
age of eleven or twelve, healthy, and
of promising, cheerful disposition. In
pursuance of liis ])laii, to separate them
from the sophistications of England, he
took them to France, where their ig-
norance of the language of the countf}',
which he j)iirj)osely took no ])ains to
remove, left them more to his direction.
His main instrument of education was
his continual conversation and advice.
38

When he got back to England, he
made up his mind that Lucretia was
so incorrigilily stupid as to be worth
no further attention; so he gave her a
dowiy of a few hundred pounds, which
soon procured her a small shopkeeper
for a husliand, with whom she lived
happily, and became the mother of a
numerous family. Sal)rina, still re-
maining on his hands, he took her to
his new residence at Stow Hill, in the
vicinity of Lichfield.

Meanwhile, Edgeworth, by the death
of his father, became possessed of the
family estate in Ireland; gave up in
consequence all further thoughts of
the law, and was free to follow out his
scientific pursuits. He still kept up
his residence in England, and pleas-
antly passed the Christmas season of
1770 with his friend Day at Lichfield.
Here he found a new object for his
affections in Miss Honora Sneyd, the
daughter of a gentleman of Stafford-
shire, who, after the death of her mother
had found a home with the Sewards.
She was young, beautiful and intelli-
gent. " I was six and twenty," writes
Edgeworth, " and now, for the first
time in my life, I saw a woman that
erpialled the picture of perfection
which existed in my imagination. I
had long suffered much from the want
of that cheerfulness in a wife, without
which, marriage could not be agreeable
to a man of such a tenijier as mine. I
had borne this evil, I lielieve, witli pa-
tience ; but my not Ix-ing hajijiy at
home, exposed me to the danger of
being too liappy elsewhere." He con-
sequently fell into a very ardent ad
miration of Miss Sneyd, and must have
been greatly disturl)eil bv the arrival

298

MARIA EDGE WORTH.

of a gentleman who had recently fallen
ill love with her while on a ^^sit to
Matlock, in Derbyshire. This was no
other than the elegant and accomplish-
ed Major Andre, who had not then en-
tered the army, but, following in the
footsteps of his father, was engaged in
mercantile business. Though assisted
by Miss Seward, to Avhom he addi-essed
several sprightly letters inspired by
his passion, he made little progress in
his suit. A young clerk without for-
tune was not in a position to marry ;
so Andre went to the war in America,
and, not unwept, met his inglorious
fate on the Hudson. Soon another
lover of Honora appears in Edge-
worth's friend Day, who for the time
is forgetful of the now blooming Sa-
brina, whom he had placed at a board-
ing-school. Day talks and converses,
is charmed with the intellect of the
lady, and finally the siege is ended in
articles of capitulation in a proposal
covering sevcn'al sheets of paper, stipu-
lating for retirement from the world,
exclusive personal devotion, in fine,
the relinquishment of every thing for
the instructive conversation of Thomas
Day. To this the lady rejilied in a
letter equally logical, enforcing the
rights of her sex, expressing her satis-
faction with the world around her, and
declining to leave it for his scientific
embrace. Upon the receipt of this.
Day was taken ill for some time, and
Dr. Darwin was called in to bleed him
and administer brotherly philosophic
consolation. After his recovery he
paid his addresses to the lady's sister,
Elizabeth, and succeeded so fjir as- to
engage her in a course of reading which
he pointed out. Honora bein^ freed

from her lovers, Edgeworth revived
his attachment to her, Avhich, in pure
self-sacrifice had been held in abeyance
during the courtship of his friend Day.
The latter saw its force and its dan-
ger — for poor Mrs. Edgeworth -was
yet alive — and her husband sought the
only way of safety open to him, in
flight. Day accompanied him to France,
where Edgeworth passed some time at
Lyons, where he undertook, in connec-
tion with the authorities, the feat of
enlarging the bounds of the city by a
mechanical division of the river Rhone.
He had his son with him, a boy of
seven or eight, whose education, after
the manner of Rousseau, was develop-
ing in him a very self-reliant, head-
strong, conceited disposition. The
freedom of nature proved an excellent
thing for the body; but the moral
nature wanted guidance and repres-
sion. Under the influence of his at-
tachment for Elizabeth Sneyd, Day,
followang for once a lady's advice, was
sul)mitting himself at Lyons to the
tortures of a French posture master,
who engaged in a vain attempt to in-
struct him in dancing, and Ijring his
knees, hj a cruel machine, into a straight
line. " I could not," writes Edgeworth,
" help pitying my philosophic friend,
pent up in durance vile for hours to-
gether, with his feet in the stocks, a
book in his hand and contempt in his
heart."

Mrs. Edgeworth joined her husband
at Lyons for a few months, returning
to England to die in child-birth, in
March, 1773. Upon news of this event,
Edgeworth hastily returned to Eng-
land, renewed his addi-esses to Honora
Sneyd, and Avas married to her in the

MAEIA EDGEWOETn.

299

cathedral at Lichfield in the ensuing
nioiitli of July. As for Day, notwitli-
standing his devotion to the graces in
France, he was rejected on his return
by the fair Elizabeth, and was about
to marry Sabrina, whose ediication was
now accomplished, when an indiscre-
tion on her part in wearing certain
long sleeves or some handkerchief dis-
tasteful to him, alienated his mind
from her utterly. With this new vacu-
um in his affections, he at last fell in
with a maiden lady, Miss Milnes, whose
understanding and acquirements had
gained her the name of Minerva. She
had also his desiderata in a wife, white
and large arms, and wore long petti-
coats ; her only defect, in the eye of
our philosopher, was her fortune, which
he ail'ected to despise. They were mar-
ried, however, and entered upon the
free and uninterrujited enjoyment of
an unlimited series of philosophical
conversations. Their life was a happy
one for many years, till Day fell a vic-
tim to his benevolence. Dreading the
l)rutality practiced by horse-breakers,
he had trained a favorite horse himself
by gentle means. The horse took fright
when Day was riding out; he was
thrown and instantly killed by the
fall. Ilia Avife siirvived him two years.
Sabrina, after residing some time in the
country, was married to Mr. Bicknel,
the author in conjunction with Day of
a once i)()pular j)oem entitled "The
Dying Negro," whicli Miss Edgeworth
predicted would " last as long as manly
and ])cnevolent hearts exist in Enj;-
land." Bicknel Avas an early friend
of Day, and had been with liim and
assisted in his selection of Sabrina when
he made choice of her from a number

of orphans for adoption. Nothing is
more singular than the matrimonial
developments of Edgeworth and his
friends. Bicknel died after three years
of wedded life, leaving Sabrina unpro-
vided for, with two infant sons. Miss
Edgeworth characteristically writes of
the event : " Some thought her more
unhappy for the felicity she had tran-
siently enjoyed. But this was not
my father's doctrine. Two years of
happiness he thought a positive good
secured, which ought not to be a subject
of regret, and should not embitter the
remainder of life. Indeed, the system
of rejecting present happiness, lest it
should, by contrast, increase the sense
of future jiain, would fatally diminish
the sum of human enjojonent ; it would
bring us to the absurdity of the stoic
philosophy, which, as Swift says,
'would teach us to cut oft' our feet^
lest we should want shoes.' "

On the marriage of Edgeworth to
Honora Sneyd, Maria, then six years
old, AAas taken with them to the pa-
ternal seat at Edgeworth Town in Ire-
land, which, thenceforth, with a few
intervals of absence, l)ecame the fam-
ily residence. It recpiired, however,
some years' application of the inventive
genius of Edgeworth to make it an
enjoyable home. After three years
passed at this place in retirement,
Edgeworth visited his English friends,
and established himself for a time at
a house in Hertfordshire. Ilis daugh-
ther, Maria, meanwliih', was ])laced at
school at Derby with a schoolmistress
who doul)tless found her a very briijht
and intelligent ])uj)il ; for the educa-
tion of his children was a hobby with
Edgeworth, and lie never lost an op-

jiortunity of improving their infant
minds. A year or two after this, la-r
step-mother, Honora, fell into a con-
sumption, ■wliich terminated in her
death in May, 1 780. A letter \\Titten
l»y Edgeworth to Maria on this event,
exhibits the turn of his mind in the
advisory method he had already formed
in directing her education. It indi-
cates also a certain maturity in the
child of thirteen to whom it was ad-
dressed : " My dear daughter — At six
o'clock on Sunday morning your ex-
cellent mother exj)ired in my arms.
She now lies dead beside me, and I
know I am doing what woiild give her
pleasure, if she were capable of feeling
anything, by ■WTiting to you at this
time to fix her excellent image in your
mind. . . . Continue, my dear
daughter, the desire which you feel of
becoming amiable, prudent and of use.
The ornamental parts of a character,
with such an understanding as yours,
necessarily ensue : but true judgment
and sagacity in the choice of friends,
and the regulation of your behavior,
can be had only from reflection and
from being thoroughly convinced of
what experience teaches in general too
late, that to be happy we must be
good."

In her last illness Honora advised
her husband to many her sister Eliza-
beth, and, to do Edgeworth credit, he
lost no time in obeying his wife's dy-
ing request. " Nothing," writes Edge-
worth in his Memoirs, with his usual
philosophy and candor, " is more
erroneous than the common belief, that
a man who has lived in the greatest
happiness with one wife, will be the
most averse to take another. On the

contrary, the loss of happiness, Avhich
he feels when he loses her, necessarily
urges him to endeavor to l)e again
placed in a situation Avhich had con-
stituted his former felicity. I felt
that Honora had done wisely, and
from a thorough knowledge of my
character, when she had advised me
to marry again, as soon as I could
meet with a woman who would make a
good mother to my children and an
agreeable companion to me. She
had formed an idea, that her sister
Elizal)eth was better suited to me
than any other woman ; and thought
that I was equally well suited to her."
The matter, therefore, was soon ar-
ranged with Miss Elizabeth Sneyd,
who, happily, as we have seen, had not
been too deeply committed in her re-
ception of the attentions of the phil-
osophic ]\Ir. Day. Edgeworth had the
advantage of being quite as much of
a philosopher and a great deal more of
the man of the world. Another sui-
tor, to be sure, had succeeded Day in
the affections of the lady ; but he had
fortunately gone abroad, and though
Elizal)eth pleaded this attachment and
said, as Edgeworth himself informs us,
that he "was the last man she should
have thought of for a husband, and, in
concert with English opinion, was em-
barrassed at the idea of marrying so
near a relative, there was but a short
courtship Ijefore the wedding was per-
formed. There was a slio^ht hitch in
the affair, however. At the last mo-
ment, when the parties were assembled
in the church at Scarborough, the cler-
gyman, frightened by a letter which
he had received, — written probably by
some stickler for

marriage

according

to the Levitical degrees, for tbe coun-
try around .seems to have been consid-
erably agitated by this threatened in-
fringement of the canon, — was delicate-
ly excused fi'oni going on with the cer-
emony. The couple then betook
themselves to London, where on Christ-
mas day, 1780, about six months after
the death of Honora, they were mar-
ried at St. Andix'w's church, Holborn,
The jilted and philosophic Day came
to the assistance of his friend and was
present on the occasion.

Maria was now promoted to a fash-
ionable school " Establishment " in
London kept by a Mrs. Davis, who
gave her the benefit of an elaborate
system of gymnastics, excellent mas-
ters putting her through all the usual
tortures of back boards, iron collars
and dumb-bells, with the unusual one
of ])eing swung Ijy the neck to draw
out the muscles and increase the growth,
which tui'ned out a signal failure, for
the little girl became a small woman
and so continued to the end of her
days. She was taught, however, to
dance well, which was one of the ac-
comi)lishments of her father, and was
quite an adept in the execution of
Italian and French exercises, writing
them off for the whole quarter at once,
which gave her the more time for
amusini' readin<;. While her school-
fellows were playing she would be
completely absorbed and iinconscious
of the uj)roar around her, in the per-
usal of some favorite volume. She
also, at tliis time, kept her fellow-
Ijoarders awake at night by her enter-
taining stories. After about two
years of this school lite in London, at
the age of fifteen she was taken with

her father and new stepmother to the
old home in Ireland. The estate was
in disorder, and so was the whole coun-
try, socially and politically. Edge-
worth on his arrival was plunged into
a most distressin2: sea of Irish affairs
— the house at Edgeworth Town gone
to ruin, needing rebuilding and repairs,
the relations of landlord and tenant
in inextricable hostility and confusion,
criminations and re-criminations all
around him, a i;)eople to educate, riot
and reliellion in the national atmos-
phere. A landowner like Edgeworth
was also a magistrate. Under these
circumstances even his resources of
philosophy and ingenuity were taxed
to the uttermost. But he succeeded
in educing order from the chaos around
him. At once firm and self-sacrificing,
a strict oliserver of justice and impar
tiality, he pressed no undue advan
tages ; showed his sagacity in conform-
ing to the laws of political economy
in the avoidance of unnecessary restric-
tions; exhil^ited generosity, and was
no doubt assisted by his wit and turn
for humor in gaining from the tenantry
about him, the highest compliment an
Ii'ish laborer can pay. He was pro-
nounced "a real gentleman." His
daughter Maria became a kind of sec-
i'('t;iry to him in these affairs, and gath-
ered thus early many an instructive
hint for her future volumes. In the
continuation of her father's "Autobiog-
raphy " or " Memoirs," whicli she takes
up at this period, we have a most in-
teresting narrative of her youthful days
in Ireland. "I was with him," she
writes, " constantly, and I was amused
and interested in seeing liow he made
his way through complaints, petitions

302

MA'RTA EDGEWOETH.

and grievances, Avitli decision and de-
spatch ; be, all the time in good hu-
mor ^\•ith the people, and they de-
lighted with him; though he often
' rated them roundly,' when they stood
before him perverse in litigation, help-
less in procrastination, detected in cun-
ning, or convicted of falsehood. They
saw into his character, almost as soon
as he understood tlicirs. The first re-
mark which I heard whispered aside
among the people, with congratulatory
looks at each other, was — ' His honor,
anyway, is good pay !' " In the Edge-
worth family, and it was an important
part of the instruction ever going on,
the children were taken in as confi-
dants in all the business and affairs of
the house. His building operations
and vai'ious scientific inventions exer-
cised their faculties ; and with a knowl-
edo;e of thing's he introduced them to
the poetic and imaginative creations of
the great artists. " He took delight
himself," says his daughter, " in ingen-
ious fictions, and in good poetry ; he
knew well how to select what would
amuse and interest young people ; and
he read so well, lioth prose and poetry,
both narrative and drama, as to delight
his young audience, and to increase
the effect upon their minds of the in-
terest of any story, or the genius of
any poet. From the Arabian Tales to
Shakspeare, Milton, Homer and the
Greek tragedians, all were associated in
the minds of his children with the de-
light of hearing passages from them
first read by their father." The in-
fluence of society, outside of the family,
was slight at this early period of their
residence in Ireland. Yet Edgeworth
had a friend, Lord Longford, at Paken-

ham Hall, twelve miles distant, valued
for his wit and humor; and as his
daughter grew up the company there
and at Castle Forbes, the seat of the
Earl of Granard, afforded her opportu-
nities for the best social intercourse.
A cultivated clergyman named Brooke,
related to the author of " The Fool of
Quality," lived in the neighl)orhood,
and added to the common stock of the
household an enthusiasm for classical
learning.

Maria was early marked out for an
author. When she was at her first
school at Derby, shortly after her
mother's death, her father writes to
her, " I beg that you will send me a
tale about the length of a ' Spectator,'
upon the subject of Generosity ; it
must be taken from history or romance,
and must be sent the day or night
after you receive this, and I l)eg you will
take some pains about it." The story
was wTitten and was admired, being
pronounced very much better than one
produced at the time on the same
theme as a rival eftbrt by a young gen-
tleman from Oxford. This was Maria
Edgeworth's first written story. Un-
fortunately for the amusement of her
readers, it has not been preserved.
As soon as she w'as settled at Edge-
worth Town, her father set her to trans-
lating Madame de Genlis' " Adcle et
Theodore," of which she had completed
one volume when Holcroft's version ap-
peared and rendered the continuance of
her work useless for publication. After
this some years passed before we hear
of any further attempt at authorship.
Her next efforts leading in this direc-
tion were in common with her father,
and grew out of his plans of educa

MARIA EDGEAYOETH.

3(t.3

tion. It was his custom to keep a reg-
ister of observations and facts relative
to his children, in which he was assist-
ed by his wife Elizabeth, as he had
been by his wife Houora. When his
daughter Maria grew up she was also
employed in this way. Besides these
she wrote, for her OAvn amusement and
improvement, accounts of his instruc-
tive conversations, with the questions
and ex})lanati(ms and answers of the
children. A favorite idea of her fa-
ther had been to facilitate the early
mental and moral improvement of
children by the composition of books
suited to ena^ajice their attention. As
early as 1778 he began something of
this kind with his wife Honora. The
story of Harry and Lucy, afterwards
incorporated in Miss Edgeworth's
" Early Lessons," was then written
and printed, though not published.
Mr. Day being consulted, was so pleas-
ed with the idea that he composed
" Saudford and Merton," which he at
first designed as a short story to be
inserted in his friend's book. Thirteen
years afterward we find Maria ^vl•iti^g
her second story, " Tlie Bracelets," with
others of the same class, which she
subsequently pu])lished. In these she
was guided l)y her father, whom she
constantly consulted. The consulta-
tions ended in a joint literary partner-
ship. In \7'^~) her first work appeared,
"Letters for Literary Ladies," growing
out of her recollections of Day's remon-
strances against female aiithorship,
when she was translating Madame de
Genlis, and of her father's reply. The
" Parent's Assistant," that admirable
collection of juvenile stories, so well
calculated to arrest the attention of

the young, stored as they are with sense
and exciting sensibility, appeared the
following year. In 1798 her first joint
publication with her father, the work
entitled " Practical Education," was
issued, a series of essays on the art
of teaching in the various branches of
instruction. Of this she wrote the
greater part.

When this appeared Ireland was in
the throes of revolution, and Edgeworth
was takinsr to himself a fourth wife.
The health of Mrs. Edgeworth had
long been delicate ; like her sister, she
became consumptive, and the disease
ended her life in November, 1797.
Edgeworth was now a man of fifty-
three, and the lady upon whom he
next fixed his attention had attained
little more than half that period; in-
deed he had first noticed her on a cas-
ual introduction to her lather when
she was a child of but six years old and
he a man of thirty. He can hardly,
as in the case of his other early mar-
riage acquaintances, have had any
expectation of wedlock at that time. He
met the father, the Rev. Dr. Beaufort,
occasionally afterwards in the course
of his scientific pursuits, and when
"Parents' Assistant" was published,
was shown some designs for the work
sketched by the daughter. He criti-
cised them very freely, and the lady
took the censure in good part, which
gave him a favorable opinion of her
understanding. So that when she
visited Edgeworth Town witli her
family in 1798, Edgeworth, in the
words of his daughter ^laria, " had an
opportunity of discerning that she
possessed exactly the temper, abilities
and disposition, which would ensure

304

MARIA EDOE'^VOrtTn.

the haj)])ines.< of his family as well as
his own, if he could hope to win her
affections:." This task he soon accom-
plished, and thus announced the event
in a letter to his friend Dr. Ditrwin :
" I am going to be married to a young
lady of small fortune and large accom-
plishments, — compared with my age,
much youth (not quite thirty), and
more prudence — some beauty, more
sense — uncommon talents, more un-
common temper — liked by my family,
loved by me. If I can say all this
three years hence, shall not I have
been a fortunate, not to say a wise
man?" The marriage as:ain tui'ned
out well, for Edgeworth was not only a
veiy rational theorist, but a highly
practical follower of his own ad\'ice.
At any rate the lady made him a good
wife for the nineteen remaining years
of his life ; and what he was equally
to be congratulated upon, his loving
daughter Maria was pleased and hap-
py under the new family arrangement.
After an extraordinary interview with
her father, in which he laid his mind
and heart open to her, she signified
her acceptance of the coming mother-
in-law in a letter addressed to her full
of cordial pleasantry, in which she
complimented a union deepened in its
affection by the cultivation of the un-
derstanding, and promised herself to
be gratefully exact en belle fiUe, con-
eluding with a playful allusion to her
own petite figure. " As for me, you see,
my intentions, or at least my theories,
are good enough; if my practice be
but half as good, you will be content,
will you not ? But theory was bom
in Brobdignag and practice in Lilli-
put. So much the hetter for me" The

lady to whom this letter was address-
ed was a year or so younger than its
writer. The marriage thus amicably
settled took place at Duldin the last
day of May, 1798, sis months after the
decease of the third wife. Again

Tho funeral bak'd meats
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

These brilliant, rapid matrimonial
performances of Edgeworth recall
to us the humors of that delishtful
work of English fiction, the " Adven-
tures of John Buncle," which Hazlitt
called "The English Rabelais "—John
Buncle, who passes Avith the utmost
enthusiasm of sorrow and affection
from the embrace of one delishtful
lady to another, all equally attractive
and refined, formed for love and learn-
ing, with charms of person rivalled
only by the accomplishments of the
mind.

" Castle Rackrent," the first of Miss
Edgeworth's novels in which she de-
picted the motley life of her country
people as it was exhibited about her,
followed " The Parents' Assistant " in
1800. It soon reached a second edition,
was translated into German, and was
everywhere received with favor. It
was original in its subject, forcible in
its delineation of character, and enliv-
ened by a captivating humor — a hap-
py exchange for the lifeless twaddle
and empty sentimentality of the circu-
lating library novels which constituted
the stock in trade of fiction of the time.
It had the rare merit of truthfulness as
a picture of actual life and manners, re-
cording as it did, the first vivid impres-
sions of the rude society, in the midst
of which the author had been sudden-
ly thrown. It was the next year sue-

MAEIA EDGEVORTH.

305

ceeded 1 ty another novel, " Belinda," in
which the story of Virginia and Clar-
ence Hervey was suggested by the
matrimonial experiment of Mr. Day
in the education of Sabrina.

In 1802, a second partnership work
of the father and daughter appeared
having both their names on the ti-
tle page, the " Essay on Irish Bulls."
The first design of this book, !Miss
Edgeworth tell us in the "Memoirs,"
was her father's : — " Under the sem-
blance of attack, he wished to show
the English public the eloquence, wit
and talents of the lower classes of peo-
ple in Ireland. Working zealously
upon the ideas which he suggested,
sometimes, what was spoken by him,
was afterwards written by me ; or
when I wrote my first thoughts, they
were corrected and improved by him ;
so that no book was ever Amtten more
completely in partnership. On this,
as on most subjects, whether light or
serious, when we Avi-ote together, it
would now be difficult, almost impos-
siVtle, to recollect, which thoughts
originally were his, and which were
mine. All passages, in which there
are Latin quotations or classical allu-
sions, must be his exclusively, because
I am entirely ignorant of the learned
languages. The notes on the Dublin
shoe-black's metaphorical language, I
recollect, are chiefly his." As the story
itself is brief, we may reproduce it
here as a specimen of the humor of
the book, referring the reader to the
work itself for Edgeworth's full ex-
planatoiy comments. One shoe-black
playing with another at pitch farthing,
had a small paving stone thrown at
him, and returns the assault by plung- ,
39

inghis knife into his companion'sbreast.
The blade was stamped w"ith the name
of Lamprey, an eminent Dublin cutler.
The survivor in this affray gives the fol-
lowincr account of it in court to the
judge — " Why, my lord, as I was going
past the Royal Exchequer, I meets Bil-
ly — 'Billy,' says I, 'will you sky a
copper V — 'Done,' says he^ — ' Done,' says
I — and done and done's enough be-
tween two jantlemen. With that I
ranged them fair and even with my
hook-em-snivey — up they go — ' Music !'
sayshe — 'Skull!' saysl — and down they
come three brown mazzards. ' By the
holy you fleshed 'em,' says he. * You lie,'
says I — With that he ups with a lump
of a two year old and let's drive at me —
I outs with my bread earner, and gives
it him up to Lamprey in the bread-bas.
ket." This is pure slang, but it is slang,
as Edgeworth argues, of a highly imag-
inative character, and the exercise of
the imagination fertile with poetry is
the Irishman's apology for the absurdi-
ties into which it occasionaDy leads
him. The shoe-black's brief story is
fanciful and figurative throughout.
The sublimity, for instance, of " sky-
ing " so insignificant a thing as a cop
per; Music, a brilliant generalization
for the harp on the Irish half-penny;
the oath, " by the holy," which vrrh-
ten out at large, would be "by the
holy poker of heU," which wakes up
all Dante's Inferno ; the " lump of a
two year old," a grazing metaphor for
a stone transferred from the relative
size of a calf to an ox. " I have heard,"
says Maria, " my father tell that story
with all the natural, indescribable Irish
tones and gestures, of which written
language can give but a faint ide*.

306

MARIA EDGEWORTH.

He excelled in imitating the Irish be-
cause he never overstepped the modes-
ty or the assurance of nature. He
mocked exquisitely the haj)py confi-
dence, the shrewd wit of the people,
Avithout condescending to produce ef-
fect by caricature. He knew not only
their comic talents, but their powers of
pathos ; and often when he had just
heard from them some pathetic com-
plaint, he has repeated it to me while
the impression was fresh." The " Es-
say " is a kind of miscellaneous repro-
duction of all the various elements of
Irish wit and humor, with several long-
er stories of pathetic interest as well.
The title of the book was the occasion
of a humorous incident. A gentleman
interested in the improvement of the
l)reedof cattle, seeing the advertisement
of the work, sent for it, and as Miss
Edgeworth tells us, " was rather con-
founded by the appearance of the clas-
sical bull at the top of the first page,
which I had desicrned from a a:em, and
when he began to read the book, he
threw it away in disgust : he had pur-
chased it as secretary to the Irish Ag-
ricultural Society." Sydney Smith on
its appearance, reviewed the book in
the " Edinburgh," with kindred humor,
complimenting " Edgeworth and Co.,"
on their inimitable Irish painting, their
mastery of the pathetic, and the service
they were doing to their country in
bringing forward the excellent quali-
ties of the Irish. Of Edcreworth him-
self he says, catching an insight into his
character from his manner of writing,
he " seems to possess the sentiments of
an accomplished gentleman, the infor-
mation of a scholar, and the vivacity of
a first-rate harlequin. He is fuddled

with animal spirits, giddy Avith consti-
tutional joy; in such a state he must
have written on or burst. A discharge
of ink Avas an e\"acuation absolutely ne-
cessary, to avoid fatal and plethoric
congestion."

In the autumn of 1802, Miss Edge-
worth accompanied her father Avith
other members of the family, in a tour
on the continent, Adsitiug Belgium and
France. They made the acquaintance
of many celebrities of the day, Madame
Eecamier, Madame De Genlis, La
Harpe, Kosciusko, and others, and of
one who would have been more than
an acquaintance, a M. Edelcrantz,an un-
exceptionable SAvedish gentleman, Avho
fell in love with Maria, proposed to her,
and would have been accepted, had not
the marriage involved a change of res-
idence to Stockholm. Sacrificing her
affections to what she considered the
call of duty at home, Miss Edgeworth
refused this offer, but it left its im-
press upon her heart. " It lets in a
flood of light," says one of her reviewers,
" upon those passages of her Avritings
which inculcate the stern control of the
feelings, — the never-ceasing vigilance
with which pnidence and duty are to
stand sentinel over the heart. She had
actually undergone the hard trials she
imposes and describes. They best can
paint them who can feel them most.
Caroline Percy, in ' Patronage,' control-
lius: her love for Count Altenbers: is
Maria Edgeworth subduing her love for
the Chevalier Edelcrantz."

Edgeworth's visit to Paris was in-
terrupted by an order to leave the city
from the goA^ernment. He was sup-
posed to be a brother of the Abbe
Edgeworth, the confessor of Louia

MARIA EDGEWORTH.

307

XVI., who attended him on the scaf-
fold. The Abb '■ was of the same stock,
a descendant of the old Bishop of Down
and Connor, and great grandson of
Captain Edgeworth, mentioned at the
beffinninfir of this narrative. When
the relationship was cleared up, the
order was withdrawn ; but the short
peace of Amiens was coming to a con-
clusion, and Edgeworth hurried away-
just in time to escape detention during
the long remainder of the Napoleonic
wars.

On the return to Edgeworth Town,
the production of new tales and stor-
ies from the pen of Miss Edgeworth
proceeded apace. "Popular Tales"
were issued in 1804, and several of the
novelettes, "Emilic de Coulanges,"
"Madame De Fleury," and "Ennui,"
commenced, which afterwards were
published in the series of "Tales of
Fashionable Life, " in 1809 and 1812.
Of the origin of " Patronage, " publish-
ed in 1813, we have an account in
the " Memoirs. " It grew out of a story
told by her father in 1787, for the
amusement of Mrs. Elizabeth Edge-
worth, when she was recovering from
an illness, and was invented by him as
he carried it on from evening to eve-
ning. Maria thought it too good to be
lost, and wrote it out from recollec-
tion as the " History of the Freeman
Family. " The plan, she writes, " found-
ed on the story of two families, one
making their way in the world by in-
dependent efforts, the other by mean
arts, and by courting the great, was long
afterwards the groundwork of ' Patron-
age. ' The character of Lord Oldl)or-
ouffh was added, but most of the oth-
ers remained as my father originally

described them : his hero and heroine
were in greater difficulties than mine,
more in love, and consequently more
interesting, and the whole story was
infinitely more entertaining. "

A visit to London with the family,
in 1813, enlarged the circle of Miss
Edgeworth's acquaintance with the
most cultivated society of the metrop-
olis, including Miss Fox, the Misses
Berrj^, Miss Catharine Fanshaw, Mrs
Siddons and others distinguished for
intellect and refinement. Lord BjTon
met the Edgeworths at this time at
Lady Davy's and has recorded his im
pressions of Edgeworih : " A fine old
fellow of seventy, ])ut not looking
fifty, nor forty-eight even, of a clarety,
elderly, red complexion, active, l)risk
and endless. He talked loud and long,
but seemed neitlier weakly, nor de-
crepit, and hardly old. " His mental
activity in society was so superabund-
ant that he was considered a bore, and
Byron is said to have proposed, what
he attributes to Moore, the formation
of a " Society for the Suppression of
Edgeworth." Of his daughter, he
writes : " She was a nice little unas-
suming ' Jeannie-Deans-looking body, '
as we Scotch say ; and if not handsome,
certainly not ill-looking. Her conver-
sation was as quiet as herself. One
would never have guessed she could
write her name ; whereas, her fiither
talked, not as if he could write noth-
ins else, but as if nothing else was
worth writing." In Miss Berry's jour-
nal of this period there is some mention
of ]\Iiss Edgeworth at Lady Davy's, also,
])robably at the very party at which
Byron met her. " She is very small, "
writes ^liss Berry, " with a counte-

808

MARIA EDGEWORTn.

nance which promises nothing at fii'st
sight, or as one sees her in society. She

has

very winning manners ;

and,

again, a fortnight after, on calling
upon her at her father's : " The little
woman is always amiable, always nat-
ural, intelligent and sensible."

Kew tales, "Harrington" and " Or-
mond," with " Thoughts on Bores," ap-
peared a few years after this, in 1817,
the year of Richard Lovell Edgeworth's
death. The latter part of his life was
spent as usual in scientific studies and
experiments, and the theory and prac-
tice of education, for the exercise of
which, he had ample scope in the de-
velopment of his children at home.
Writing in his seventy-second year a
preface for a " Manual of Education,"
which he contemplated as a final em-
bodiment of his views, as a legacy to
his family, he says : " Since ' Practical
Education' was written. Providence
has blessed me with six childi-en by my
present wife, in addition to twelve that
I had before. I have attended with
care to their education, which has been
entirely domestic. ... I -wish to
prove to them that pains have been
taken to give them moral habits, gen-
erous sentiments, kind tempers and
easy manners." In this he had suc-
ceeded, and surely it was a noble result
of a well-spent life. His irrepressible
activity was, upon the whole, well di-
rected. It continued to the end. For
several years before his death he was
troubled with failing sight, a great pri-
vation to a man of study ; but he bore
it with cheerfulness. His last letters
to his family are instinct with the old
spirit, recording his impressions in
youth and throughout life from Avorthy

sentiments in books, noticing his son's
Memoirs of the Abbe Edgeworth, and
telling his wife's mother that, if Ma-
ria's tales (" Harrington " and " Or-
mond "), soon to issue from the press,
fail of succeeding with the public, she
will hear of his hanf^inff himself. The
latest, addressed to Lady Romilly, dic-
tated to Maria Edgeworth but five
days before his death, shows unabated
powers of intellect. " I suffer consider-
able pain," he says, " and almost con-
stant sickness; and yet my mind re-
tains its natural cheerfulness. I enjoy
the charms of literature, the sympathy
of friendship and the unbounded grat-
itude of my children. . . In a few
days I hope you will receive Maria's
new Tales. I do acknowledge that I
set a high value upon them. They
have cheered the lingering hours of my
illness ; and they have — I speak liter-
ally — given me more hours of pleasure
during my confinement than could well
be imagined from the nature of my ill
ness." In this spirit this brave man
departed. He died at Edgeworth
Town, in his seventy-fourth year, the
13th of June, 1817.

The first literary occupation of Miss
Edgeworth, after her father's death,
was the completion of the Memoirs so
often cited in this narrative. The
second of the two volumes which com-
pose the work, is entirely from her
pen. The work was published in 1820.
After its completion, Miss Edgeworth
visited France in company with two
of her younger sisters, and after en-
joying the hospitalities of the best
literary circles of Paris, where, in the
changes of fortune, the family connec-
tion with the Abbu Edgeworth was no

MARIA EDGEWORTH.

309

longer a hindrance but a friendly in-
fluence, they proceeded in an interest-
ins: tour in Switzerland under the
guidance of Dumont, the intimate
friend of Beutham. Resuming her
literary occupations on her arrival at
home, she returned to her old province
of instruction of the young in the
publication of " Rosamond," a sequel
to " Early Lessons," in 1822, followed
by " Harry and Lucy," in 1825. In the
meantime, she made occasional journeys
to Loudon, minji-linfj as usual in the
best literary society, and in the sum-
mer of 1823, paid a visit to Sir Walter
Scott, of which there are several in-
teresting notices in his Memoirs and
Correspondence. Scott retui-ned this
visit on his journey in Ireland, two
years afterward, in 1825, when he
passed several days at Edgeworth
Town, delighted with the atmosphere
of respect, and the rural prosperity
with which Miss Edirewortli and the
family Avere surrounded.

The latest of Miss Edgeworth's lar-
gest works, " Helen," a novel, was pub-
lished in 1834, when the author was
sixty-seven, and, compared with the
best of her kindred productions, the
"Tales of Fashionable Life," exhibits
no falling off in power or interest.
One common purpose runs through all
her productions of this class, and a like
success attends them. They Ijclong to
a school of fiction of which the end
and aim is the amelioration of daily
life, till' art of making peoj)le happy
in society and in themselves. Other
writers have taken a higher flight,
some have more deeply sounded the

depths of passion, but in the j^hiloso-
phy of every-day life, Miss Edgeworth
has had no superior. She has been
charged with too exclusive a pursuit
of utility ; but this cannot be consid-
ered a reproach, when we consider her
education and how necessary this com-
mon-sense usefulness was to the peo-
ple about her, and what it accomplish-
ed for them. In this, she may have
been somewhat limited, but there are
enough other writers, of higher aims,
perhaps, to supply the deficiency. It
is enough that her writings often sup-
ply what is wanting in theirs. The
world is not composed of one class of
people, and a good library is not made
up of the works of a single author.
Her books, with all their limitations,
cannot and ought not to be neglected.
It is the well deserved praise of their
author, in the words of her critic, Jef-
frey, to have " combined more solid
instruction with more universal enter-
tainment, and given more practical
lessons of wisdom with less tedious-
ness and less pretension, than any
other writer with whom we are ac-
quainted."

Her last literary publication was
" Orlandiuo," a tale for children, jjub-
lished by Messrs. Chambers, in 1847.
Two years later, with her faculties still
unimpaired, in a cheerful old age, she
was taken suddenly ill on the 2 2d of
May, 1849, and expired within a few
hours, attended by the ste])-nKithiT
wi.om she had welcomed to lur
father's house, and with whom she
had lived haj)])ily through so many
subsequent years.

FRIEDRICH SCHILLER

TTOHANN CIIRISTOPH FRIED-
J EICII SCHILLER, the associate
in friendship and companion in fame
of the poet Goethe, came into the
world ten years later than this his
great brother author of Germany, and
left it some twenty-seven years earlier ;
l)iit within these few years of contem-
porary public life he achieved a success
in literature, if not so broad or gen-
eral in its extent, as lasting, and per-
haps more endeared to the heart of
the nation and the world than that of
his illustrious rival. The two had one
great characteristic in common. They
were alike distinguished by the eleva-
tion and fervor of their powers. Each
had the neatest rescai'd for literature
as the highest development of the in-
dividual powers and the best instruc-
tor of the race. There was some
diverijence between them in the ranee
and application of their faculties, and
a greater in their moral disposition and
habits. Goethe is the great modern
representative to the world of the ac-
tual in art, as Schiller is of the ideal ;
but as neither of these qualities can
be sustained in perfection without
something of the other, we shall find
them, to a certain degree, linked in

(310)

their writings. The more free, sj)on-
taneous and sympathetic nature of
Schiller has gained him an advantage
with posterity over his contemporary.
While the head is busy with the crea-
tions of Goethe, the lyrics of Scliiller
have penetrated to the heart. United,
one is the complement of the other.
They were of great mutual service to
each other while living ; and even so
are they to the enlightened reader in
their collected works at this day. If
the hundreds of thousands of their
countrymen in New York have wor-
thily given the preference to Schiller
in the erection of his monument in
the great park of the city ; it is with
equal justice that the sentiment of the
nation at home is represented by their
loving union in the twin statue ai
Weimar.

Fi'iedrich Schiller was born at Mar
bach, a small town of the Duchy
of Wurtemburg, on the banks of the
Neckar, on the 10th of Noveml)er,
1759. His parents belonged to the
middle class of Gennan life. His
father, Johann Caspar Schiller, was
the son of a baker, had been educated
as a physician and attained the posi-
tion of surgeon in a Bavarian regi

FEIEDEICH SCHILLER.

311

ment. After liis marriage to Elizabeth
Dorotliea Kodweiss, of hmnble parent-
age similar to his own, he entered the
military service of the Duke of Wur-
temburg as ensign and adjutant, and
it was while he was absent from home
enffagred in these duties that his son
was born. In 1763, at the peace of
Paris, he was thrown out of his mili-
tary employments with the nominal
rank of caj^tain ; but was still engaged
by the duke in his service as a layer-
out of ornamental gardens and plan-
tations in the pleasure grounds at Lud-
wigsburg and elsewhere. He is de-
scriljed as a person of exemplary
integrity, of some acquaintance with
literature, having published a work
growing out of his experience as a
horticulturist, on the " Management of
Forests," and of the most earnest piety.
The mother is said to have united
with her amiable and solid domestic
qualities, some cultivation of the un-
derstanding and a natural perception
of the beauties of literature, delight-
ing her children in their early years
with faiiy tales, and as they grew
older, reciting to them verses from
Klopstock and other of the new poets
of tlie time. She was also a good mu-
sician and had talent of some kind in
^vriting poetry. As his father's duties
carried him from place to place, Fried-
rich's early education was somewliat
desultory. At the age of six, when
his father was sent to Lorch as recruit-
ing officer, he receives his first regular
instruction from the clorgjTiian of the
parish, Philip .Most-r, whose name his
pupil afterwards gave to the priest in
his dramatic com])Osition, "Tlie Rob-
bers." lie learned Latin during his

three years passed at this place, and
was doubtless well instructed in relig-
ious matters, for we find him already
thinking of the church as his future
calling, for which, indeed, his parents
intended him.

The removal of his father, in 1768,
to Ludwigsburg, introduced the boy to
the public school at that place, where
he was subjected to a more rigorous
course of academical studies with a
view to the clerical profession. In
four successive years he passed with
credit the examinations required in
such candidates, before the school
commissioners at Stuttgard. He was
too young to be distinguished as a
student, and being naturally of an im-
aginative temperament, we are not sur-
prised to learn, was mucli affected l)y
the brilliant spectacles of the Ludwigs-
burg theatre. Something of the poet's
melancholy seems already to have been
impressed upon his disposition. At the
a^e of eleven he would leave the a*, 've
sports of his school-fellows for retire-
ment with a companion to the neigh-
boring plantations, to indulge in com-
plaints of present hardships, and dreams
of the fiiture. When three years
later he passed under new and stronger
restraints, in another system of in-
struction, these feelings became great-
ly aggravated. It was the humor of
his father's patron at this time, the
Grand Duke of Wurtemburg, to es-
tablish at Stuttgard a species of na-
tional academy, in which military
discipline was the controlling element.
As the school was chieliy to be sup-
plied with scholars from the sons of
oflicers and soldiers of the army, the
duke requested the elder Schiller to

send Friedrich there. As this involved
an abandonment of the religious calling,
which both fatlier and child were
looking forward to, the proposal Avas
considered with some reluctance ; but
the dependence of the family upon the
duke for support led them to lay
aside their scruples and accept the sit-
uation. Friedrich thus at fourteen
entered the academy as a student of
the law, for which he had little liking,
but wliich he might, with his excellent
principles, have learned to regard with
favor had not the study been attended
•with the most severe and oppressive
restraints. Everything in the estab-
lishment was conducted according to a
plan of military routine and subordi-
nation. The course of reading and
study was prescribed, and the perusal
of any books outside of it resolutely
prohibited. There was no admission
there for the rising poetical and ro-
mantic literature which was to revolu-
tionize the country ; but it was too
consonant to the tastes and feelings of
the youthful Schiller to escape him.
He read the new books by stealth, and
imbibed the romantic spirit of poetry
and fi'eedom which inspired them.
His first essay in verse of any conse-
quence was an ejiic or narrative poem,
doubtless sufficiently immature, enti-
tled " Moses," suggested by the sacred
poetry of Klopstock. As evidence of
a certain manliness and independence
in his nature, when, according to an-
nual custom, he was called upon at the
end of the first year, to produce a
written account of his own character,
he took the opportunity to state in it
that he was not all adapted for juris-
prudence, but for the church. He

was finally permitted to exchange the
study of the law for that of medicine.
Thouffh the less onerous to him of the
two, it was but a choice of evils ; for
literature and not science was already
claiming him for her own ; but he was
too conscientious to neglect a laborious
preparation, as a means of future live-
lihood, in the new profession. He
gave, however, his leisure hours to
poetry, producing in emulation of the
" Gotz von Berlichingen " of Goethe, a
tragedy entitled " Cosmo von Medicis,"
some scenes of which were afterwards
incorporated in " The Eobbers." He
also about this time, when he was six-
teen or seventeen, contributed various
small poems to the Suabian Magazine.
Meanwhile the vexatious restraints of
the academy, thwarting and forbidding
the general culture which his faculties
demanded, were pressing sorely upon
him.

The ideas and emotions with which
he was laboring, Avere soon to engage
the sympathy of the world in his play
of " The Robbers." He Avas even then
working at it ; for we find him Avhen
he took his medical degree, in 1780,
quoting from it in his thesis, as from
an English tragedy. He Avas now ap-
pointed jihysician to the grenadier bat-
talion with a small salary, and the fol-
loAving year printed "The Eobbers"
at his OAATi expense, finding no pub-
lisher Avilling to undertake it. It pro-
duced a striking impression. No lite-
rary sensation, probably, has surpassed
that caused by this work, written by
a mere youth, Avithout knoAvledge of
men or experience of the world. The
plot, sufficiently crude in its details, is
thus described. " The Count von Moor

FKIEDEICH SCHILLER.

313

has two sons, Karl and Franz. The
younger, jealous of the love which
Amalia and the Count bear to Karl,
prejudices his father against him by
false insinuations, and causes a letter
of disinheritance! to be written to Karl,
who is at Leipsic. Driven to despera-
tion, he flies into the forest of Bohemia,
and becomes captain of a band of rob-
bers. He afterwards returns in dis-
guise to his father's house^hears that
his betrothed Amalia has become in-
constant, and that Franz has not only
intercepted all letters of contrition, but
has imprisoned their aged father in a
tower, with a view of starving him to
death. Karl releases the old man,
stabs Amalia, and delivers himself up
to a poor man with eleven children,
that the reward for his apprehension
may do good. Franz strangles himself.
An outline like this would suggest, at
the present day, only a commonplace
sensational melo-drama; but in the
time and in the country in which it
was published, it had a much deeper
significance. The European world,
sick at heart with the impediments and
corruptions of ages, was in a state of
unrest and a2;itation which was soon
to find serious expression in the fierce
outbreak of the French Revolution.
Poets, sentimentalists and philosophers
by some instinct or fatality were ut-
tering remonstrances and aspirations
which might seem to us, living after
the event, as if moved by some pro-
phetic impulse. There was then and
for some time after a mingled distrust
and expectation in the minds of men
who subsequently became the most
contented of conservatives. The im-
pending revolution was in the air,
40

thouo-h few dreamt of the devastation
that was to occur when the storm
finally burst. A sense of disappoint-
ment and even of despair is the prepa-
ration for hope and enthusiasm. This
explains the relation of such works as
"The SoiTows of Werter," and "The
Robbers," to the spirit of their age,
with which, as shown hj their unpre-
cedented effect, they must have been
powerfully in sympathy. With all its
defects, and no one can point them out
with more severity of judgment than
they were animadverted upon by Schil-
ler himself in his after years, " The Rob-
bers," remains a work of extraordinary
power and capacity. It was eloquent,
enthusiastic and heartfelt, with the
inexperience and imperfect culture and
at the same time the fiery energy of
youth.

Such a work, filled with wild out-
bursts of passion, wholly at war with
conventional life, was not likely to
pass -ttdthout opposition in the society
of a small Gennan principality, where
etiquette and the proprieties were es-
tablished in a sovereign tyranny. The
challenge of defiance, in the name of
humanity, was objectionable enough,
viewed only as an ebullition of un-
tamed youth ; but as the work of an
officer of the state, it was simply in-
tolerable. The grave wiseacres took
the alarm. Certain Grison magistrates
were generally spoken of in the play
as common highwaymen; they pro-
tested against the indecorum in print,
and the remonstrance was laid before
the Grand Duke of Wurtemburg, who
sent for the author, denounced his
moral and political heresies, and criti-
cised his literary style, commanding

31-t

PEIEDEICH SCHILLER.

him to avoid poetry in future and stick
to his medical profession. The censure
of the duke was of course reflected in
the society in Avhich he moved. But
there was a wider circle which the lite-
I'ary success of the author was securing
to hiin, Nvhere he was honored and es-
teemed. Among the correspondents
whom his fame drew about him was
the Frieherr Von Dalberg, a nobleman,
superintendent of the theatre at Man-
heim. Under his guidance and super-
vision, " The Robbers " was adapted to
the stage, and acted in January, 1782.
Schiller stole secretly away from his
post at Stuttgard to mtness the per-
formance, concealing himself in a cor-
ner of the house. The tumultuous ap-
plause might have turned the head of
a less excitable being. The genius of
the author was thus approved by the
surest tests. His book had been read
witk admiration, and it had now, with
the advantage of the best acting, been
received with rapture from the stage.
His career, as a dramatic writer, was
henceforth assui'ed. But he had yet
to escape from the jjolitical thraldom
and from the limitations of fortune by
which he was fettered. It seems hardly
credible, that for a second visit to the
theatre at Manheim, the first having
escaped notice, he was put under ar-
rest. This was the method taken by
the grand duke to disabuse the mind
of the young impetuous Schiller of his
dreams of liberty, and refute the li-
cense of the Robbers. We think of the
poet's own " Pegasus in harness," and
how the winged steed spurned his im-
pediments. Schiller resolved to be
fi'ee, and there was only one road for
him to freedom — flight from the terri-

tory of his feudal master, the grand
duke.

The poet had formed an acquaint-
ance at Stuttgard with a young musi-
cian, named Streicher, with whom he
j)lanned an escape, and who became
his companion in his flight. It was
not easy to get away fi'om his station
without notice; but advantage was
taken of the general occupation of the
town in the reception of the Grand
Duke, Paul of Russia, who was mar-
ried to a niece of the Duke of Wur-
temburg. A farewell visit was con-
trived by Schiller to his mother at one
of the duke's estates, and then, on a
night of Septemljer of the year which
had opened with the successful per-
formance of his play, laying aside his
surgeon's uniform, in a disguised dress,
Avith an assumed name, escaping detec-
tion, he rode out with his friend Strei-
cher through the darkest of the city
gates of Stuttgard, his way in the open
country illuminated by the brilliant
lights of the festivities at the ducal
rural palaces. The poet caiTied with
him twenty-three florins, all his pecu-
niary wealth ; but he had with him a
copy of Shakspeare, a volume of Klop-
stock's Odes, and a new tragedy of his
own composition, "The Conspiracy of
Fiesco," on which he built his expecta-
tions of profit and success with Dal-
berg, the superintendent of the stage
at Manheim, which was the first rest-
ing place of the fugitives. A manly
and courteous letter was sent by Schil-
ler from this town to the Duke of
Wurtemburg, stating his preference of
literature to medicine, and asking leave
for a temporary absence from his do-
minions. The answer to the I'equest

FEIEDEICH SCHILLER.

315

was an implicit order to return, which
was likely to he enforced hy aiithority,
if the fuo-itive remained at Manheim.
He had time, however, to bring " Fi-
esco" to the notice of manager Meiser,
and secure his admiration of the work,
previous to pui'suing his flight to Frank-
fort. The play, however, before it could
be produced on the stage, required con-
siderable alterations, and, pending its
completion, the poet, sorely distressed
in purse, took refuge in Franconia,
where, at the inn at Oggersheim, he
assumed a disguise which has be-
friended so many exiles, including that
royal personage, Louis Philippe — call-
ino; himself Schmidt. Here, " Fiesco "
was finished and a new play written,
" Court Intriguing and Love." Still,
however, the expected advances from
the theatre were not forthcoming. In
the midst of great distress came an
offer of a home in the house of
Madame Von "Wollzogen, mistress of a
small estate at Bauerbach, near Mein-
ingen, a lady who was attracted to
Schiller by his waitings, and her ac-
quaintance with him at Stuttgard,
where her sons had been students with
him in the military academy. A friend-
ly bookseller at Manheim advanced a
sufficient sum upon " Fiesco " to enable
the traveler to pay his expenses at the
inn where he had resided, and proceed
to his new asylum. He pursued the
journey alone, leaving the musician,
Streicber, who, up to this time had
been his faitliful comijanion, behind
him. At Bauerbach he had quiet,
solitude for composition, and bold
woodland scenery; but in the dis-
turbed state of his fortunes, we may
imagine more of disquiet and unrest

than of repose in the retirement, in
which he still maintained a kind of
disguised concealment. It was time
that this sort of thing should be at an
end, when all Germany was learning
to cherish his fame. The grand duke
seems to have come to this opinion ;
he quietly dropped his hostility and
permitted Dalberg to invite the exile
to Manheim, with a small provision
for his support as poet to the theatre.
He returned to this scene of his dra-
matic triumph in the summer of 1783,
after nearly two years of absence as a
fugitive. The two new plays were
now published, and, in 1784, brought
successfully upon the stage. Both
these productions, " Fiesco," and " The
Cabal and Love," were wi'itten in
prose, like their predecessor, "The
Robbers," and both shared its tumul-
tuous emotions. They belonged alike
to the first unsettled period of Schil-
ler's career, when he was at war with
the world and himself, not in any
heartless, contemptuous spirit, — for he
had nothing of the mocking fiend in
his nature, — but, in reality, at bottom,
with a loving motive, questioning life
as to its worth and meaning, arraign-
ing its actions, as it appeared to him
fraught with cruelty or barren in great
virtues. In such protests and wail-
ings of despair, there is a deep s}Tnpa-
thy with goodness ; in the very unrest
of the soul, the seeds of its future quiet
and repose are germinating. Schiller,
like his great contemporary, Goethe,
underwent this change, as thousands of
refined minds before and since have ex-
perienced it. For notliing is more com-
mon than to find the radical and zealot
accepting order and quiet in the ranks

of the conservative, with much less of
inconsistency than is generally ima-
gined. Schiller soon found this calm,
but never lost his early passion for
freedom. His pui'suit of the drama
proved to him an excellent means of
instruction. It appeared at first to
mislead him, by its popular successes,
and the encouragement it gave to his
immature efibrts, l)ut it soon became
the best discipline of his powers, and
his best instructor in philosophy. Tak-
ing Shakespeare as his guide at the
start, though he never attained the
vaiiety and fulness of life, the uni-
versality of that great master, yet he
made immeasurable advances upon the
French school, which was prevalent in
Germany before his time, particularly
in a certain unforced, natural expres-
sion of the heroic, the poetic vein, in
fact, which predominated in his plays,
as in those of the Eno-lish dramatist.
The imagination, which in the first in-
stance, in its untamed exercise, led him
beyond the bounds of decorum, also in
no long time, when he applied himself
to great historical subjects, made him
sensitive to defects. When he began
to study character, he saw how much
of self-knowledge was needed to give
it effect in the required contrasts of his
dramatis pemonce. Moreover, his con-
tact with the stage, first in the repre-
sentation of his plays, demanding from
him repeated revisions and alterations;
and then, in his new official capacity
as one of the directors of the theatre
at Manheim, had their direct influence
in giving that practical turn to his
talents which Shakspeare also learnt
much in the same way. An historical
subject, like that of Fiesco, demanded

a certain breadth of treatment with
local coloring, which he gave to it.
achieving his chief triumph in the ar-
dor and force of passion and the gen-
uine eloquence with which it was ut-
tered. Whatever he attempted was
sure to be vividly expressed.

Life with Schiller, was to the end, a
process of education and development.
His struggles with the tyrannical sys.
tern at Wurtemburg, and, when he
escaped from it, with poverty ; his
conscientious study of medicine as a
means of livelihood, when he threw
his whole soul into it ; his composition
and revision of his works in his soli-
tary retii'ement ; his employment about
the theatre in regulating the labors of
others — all these conditions, rapidly
succeeding one another, were constant
means of instruction, to which he now
added another equally powerful, to
which the rest contributed, his writ-
ings in the department of philosophi
cal criticism. Periodical literature was
always attractive to him, as well as to
Goethe. Indeed in that transition, one
of mental cultivation in Germany, when
new principles were to be established,
it was the most natural, if not an in-
dispensable means of individual and
national education. To Schiller it of
fered not only an occasion of discussion
on topics of art and letters, but the
opportunity of testing his dramatic
compositions as he proceeded with
them. In 1775, he commenced the
publication of the "Rhenish Thalia,"
mainly a theatrical journal, as its name
implies, occujiied with the interests of
the stage, which was continued for
about nine years — a long life for an
undertaking of the kind, with a mai'k-

FEIEDKICH SCHILLEE.

317

ed individual character. In the open-
ing number, Schiller published three
acts of the dramatic work on which he
was then engaged, Don Carlos, the
first of his trao^edies in verse. In " Tha-
lia," also, he printed his " Philosophic
Letters," in which he discussed some of
the religious or irreligious views of the
day in a self-questioning spii'it. His oc-
casional poems also now assumed a deep-
er character, with a greater variety of
illustration from both the inner and the
outer life. One of these, with this wider
scope, the precursor of many other no-
ble heart utterances of the kind, the
" Hymn to Joy," is said to have had
its origin in his " saving a poor student
of Theology, impelled by destitution
and the fear of starvation, from drown-
ius: himself in the river Pleisse. Schil-
ler gave him what money he had, ob-
tained his promise to relinquish the
thought of suicide, at least while the
money lasted, and, a few days after-
ward, amid the convivialities of a mar-
riage feast, related the circumstance so
as to afEect all present. A suliscrip-
tion was made, which enabled the stu-
dent to complete his studies, and ulti-
mately to enter into an ofiicial station-
Elated with the success of his humani-
ty, it is to Humanity that Schiller con-
secrated this ode." It is indeed a no-
ble ode, inspired by the loftiest emo-
tion, a jubilant triumph, in the embrace
of the beneficence of Providence, " o'er
all the ills of life victorious." Sir Ed-
ward Bulwer Lytton, who furnishes us
with the anecdote we have given of
the suggestion of the poem, has also
translated it with kindred felicity.
We are reminded liy it of a similar fer-
vor, both in the idea and in the expres

sion, in the poems of Burns, Avho was
always inspired by the great theme of
the brotherhood of man, in which the
German finds the fairest element of joy.
In their lyi-ical nature, indeed, there
was a striking resemblance between
Bums and Schiller. Both came into
the world the same year, cherished the
same manly spirit of independence, had
an equal generous warmth of tempera-
ment and genius, and alike heralded the
new spirit of the nineteenth centuiy.
The " Hymn to Joy " has the very ring
of the humanitarian poetry of Kobert
Burns.

After passing eighteen months at
Manheim, Schiller took up his resi-
dence at Leipsic for a time, where, as we
have seen, he composed the eloquent
poem to which we have made reference.
It is this frank, earnest outpouring of
his aspii-ations, in sensibility springing
warm from the heart, which more than
his finely artistic labors has given the
poet his popularity T\ath his country-
men and the world. It is, in fact, the
secret of his power, overcoming all de-
fects in his greater dramatic works, and
inspiring with life and movement tlie
humblest of his occasional productions.
That such a man should not be a lover
Avould be a contradiction in terms. A
lady-love, in fact, is as necessary to a
poet as Don Quixote thought her to be
to a knight-errant, there being mucli in
common between poetiy and knight-
errantry. We accordingly find Schil-
ler from time to time much occupied
with various tender affections, bring
ing forth the pure chivalry of his na-
ture. There was an early first-love of
the period of his servitude at Stuttgard,
a certain "Laura," celebrated in his

318

ITJEDKICH SCHILLER.

3-oiitbful verses ; who was succeeded in
Jiis imagination in his days of exile by
the daughter of his friend, Madame
von Wollzogen, whom he would have
married, had his fortune permitted.
Compelled to relinquish this feir prize,
he became enamored of the daughter
of his bookseller, Schwann, at Manheim,
and here again he 2)roposed and was
disappointed, the affair coming to noth-
ing, leaving, however, a wholesome re-
mainder of friendship. They were pru-
dent people, these acquaintances of his,
thinking that their daus^hters were not
to be given to a poet, however amiable,
till his fortunes were properly establish-
ed. The poet was meanwhile proceeding
with the composition of his tragedy,
" Don Carlos," which was published
at Leipsicin 1786. Its concluding scenes
were written at Dresden, where the au-
thor was hospitably entertained by his
friend and admirer, Korner, the father
of the celebrated lyrical war poet. In
the story of " Don Carlos," the ill-fated
son of Philip II., of Spain, Schiller had
a romantic subject, one of those affect-
ing and obscure passages of history, a
tale of illustrious suffering:, interesting
alike to the feelings and the imagination.
The characters of the court whom the
dramatist introduces into the play are
philosophically as well as poetically
conceived. Philip at any time of his
career, in his every-day actions, is a
marked character for the stage ; he is
cast by nature and circumstances in a
peculiar mould, the very embodiment
of a stern, bigoted and remorseless sys-
tem of tp-anuy — an oj^portunity for
contrast which Schiller was sure to
avail himself of in the introduction of a
wise and liberal character, the Marquis

of Posa, who speaks as the apostle of
freedom and the modern idea of the
paramount necessity to a state of a
happy and contented people. In the
development of character, in the con-
struction of the plot, and in felicity of
expression, " Don Carlos " has its rank
among the most mature of the author's
dramatic works.

While engaged uj^on this tragedy,
Schiller wrote his fragmentary novel,
the " Ghost Seer," which Carlyle de-
scribes as " an attempt to exemplify
the process of hoodwinking an acute
but too sensitive man ; of working on
the latent germ of superstition which
exists beneath his outward scepticism ;
harassing his mind by the terrors of
magic, — the magic of chemistry and
natural philosophy and natural cun
ning ; till, racked by doubts and ago
nizing fears, and plunging from on(.
depth of dark uncertainty into another
he is driven at length to still his scru
pies in the bosom of the Infallible
Church." The studies in which the
poet was engaged in the composition
of " Don Carlos " confirmed in him a
passion for history, which led to his
l^rojecting several works in that de-
partment of literature. One of these,
growing directly out of his researches
in the period of Philip, was a " Histo-
ry of the Eevolt of the United Neth-
erlands," of which he issued the first
volume in 1788, bringing the narrative
down to the enfrance of the Duke of
Alva into Brussels. The work was
never carried farther, except a frag-
mentary chapter or two, afterwards sep-
arately published. The subject, a
great national struggle for liberty, was,
of course, after the writer's own heart

FEIEDEICH SCHILLEE.

319

and lie presented it in a good solid
style, skilfully and with liis accustomed
vigor of expression. The book was
well received and gained the author
what, in his circumstances, was worth
more than popular applause, the ap-
pointment of Professor of History at
the University of Jena. This brought
him within the charmed cii'cle of the
literary society about the court at Wei-
mar, but a few miles distant, and de-
termined the future complexion of his
life. He left Dresden to enter upon
this new position in 1789, and, having
now a settled means of support, early
in the follomng year was married to
Charlotte von Lengefeld, an accom-
plished young lady, of good station in
society, with whom he had become ac-
quainted two or three years previously
on a visit to her family at Rudolstadt.
His new duties involved him in a closer
devotion to historical studies, which he
pursued with his accustomed ardor,
sketching out his work, as usual with
him, on a grand scale, and employing
his leisure in the preparation of an
elaborate " History of the Thirty
Years' War," which appeared in 1791.
He had hardly completed this when
he was seized with an attack of illness,
a disorder of the chest, fi-om which he
never entirely recovered. His life
seems to have been despaired of, for a
report of his death was carried to Den-
mark, when a tribute to his memory
Avas paid in a celebration, in which
some of the most distinguished jjersons
of the country participated — a recita-
tion of his "Hymn to Joy" being one
of the ceremonies. When it was found
that the lamented poet was still alive,
the gratitude of two truly noblemen

of the party, the Duke of Holstein-
Augustenburg and the Count vcn
Schimmelmann, took a practical direc-
tion, in conferring upon him a pension
of a thousand crowns for three years.
The manner in which this was convey-
ed was as agreeable as the gift itsell
Laying aside, as utterly unworthy of
the occasion, all pretensions to patron-
age and claims from superior rank, the
noble givers dwelt only upon the en
thusiasm which the poet had kindled
in their minds, as brothers in a com-
mon humanity and fellow-citizens " in
that great republic whose boundaries
extend beyond single generations, be-
yond the limits of earth itself." A
letter like this must have been of
greater efficacy in promoting the cure
of the patient than any prescription of
his physicians. It was a grand illus-
tration of his own " Hymn to Joy,"
and it is not to be wondered at, that
the poet could hardly be restrained by
his physicians, from proceeding at once
to Denmark, to accept the hearty invi-
tation of his admirers, and throw him-
self into their arms in enthusiast'c
gratitude.

His residence at Jena brought Schil-
ler immediately into intimate relatione
with Goethe. Their characters were
in many respects unlike, and, previously
to being well acquainted with each
other, they would appear to have en-
tertained a species of mutual antipa-
thy. A few years before, Goethe, who
was then old enough to have outlived
some of his own youthful literaiy ex-
travagances, looked with distrust iipon
the extravagances of Schiller, and
Schiller was of too genial a nature to
take kindly to the intellectual coldness

3*i0

FRIED RICH SCHILLER.

of Goethe; but, wlieu tliey came to
know one another, they found, as must
always be the case, with such riclily en-
dowed minds, with such elevated ob-
jects before them, that the points of
agreement were far more and greater
than the points of difference. They
were soon united in the common work
of elevating the intellectual character
of the country, and adding to its stores
of literary wealth. The influence of
one upon the other was important in
various ways. They were both mas-
ters of a philosophical way of think-
ing, seekers after universal truth ; the
foes of all imbecility and narrowness.
In the di-ama they had a common
ground of sympathy and effort in its
creation in theii' own writings ; in its
regulation in the practical affairs of
the stage. When they met at Weimar,
and, uniting their experience, looked
forth upon the world of German liter-
ature and society, they were in suffi-
cient agreement to join their forces in
an effort to reform the times. Schiller,
who was always endeavoring to realize
a higher ideal, thought that the time
was come to substitute somethins: more
elevated and consistent, more in ac-
cordance with the better nature of
man, than was prevailing in the unset-
tled mode of thinkino; OTowino: out of
the French Kevolution. " The more,"
wrote Schiller, " the narrow interests
of the present keep the minds of men
on the stretch, and subjugate while
they narrow, the more imperious is the
ueed to free them through the higher
universal interest in that which is
purely human and removed beyond
the influences of time, and thus once
more to reunite the divided political

world under the banner of Truth and
Beauty." In such terms he announced
at Jena a new periodical work, " The
Horen " or " Hours," to succeed the
" Thalia," which he now discontinued.
The new work soon contained some of
the most thoughtful philosoj)hical es-
says of Schiller; and Goethe, among
other things, contributed portions of
his novel of "Wilhelm Meister." A
lighter annual work in which the two
friends shared, the " Musen-Almauach,"
became famous for theii* joint compo-
sitions, " The Xenien," a series of epi-
grammatic couplets, in imitation of
those bearing the name " Xenia " in the
works of the Latin poet Martial —
sharp, stinging satires, a " German
Dunciad," as Carlyle calls them, level-
ed at false pretences, insipidity and
literary affectations throughout the
land.

Schiller's health, shattered by his
complaint of the chest, was noAv failing ;
but,with his characteristic energy, much
of his best literary work was accom-
plished under this disadvantage, which
might have utterly extinguished the
labors of a less heroic spirit. Some
thii-teen years of life, however, remain-
ed to him before he fell, prematurely,
at the age of forty-five. The habit he
pursued in writing was not calculated
to lengthen his days. Wliile Goethe,
with unclouded brow, gave the morn-
ing hours to his work, Schiller uniform-
ly wrote at night, and provoked his
powers to the highest pitch of exertion
by the free use of stimulants — as a
means, not of indulgence, but of sus-
taining exhausted nature. That he
might be retired and free from inter-
ruption, he built in the rural suburb of

FPJEDEICn SCHILLEE.

321

Jena, a small garden-house -oath a sin-
gle room, where he passed much of his
time in summer. " On sitting down
to his desk at night," we are told,
" he was wont to keep some strong
coffee, or wine-chocolate, but more
frequently a flask of old Rhenish, or
Champagne, standing by him. Often
the neighbors used to hear him earnest-
ly declaiming, in the silence of the
night : and whoever had an opportu-
nity of watching him on such occasions,
a thing very easy to be done on the
heights lying opposite his little garden-
house, on the other side of the dell,
might see him, now speaking aloud and
walking swiftly to and fro in his
chamber, then suddenly throwing him-
self down into his chair and vsriting ;
and drinking the while, sometimes
more than once, fi'om the glass stand-
ing near him. In winter he was
to be found at his desk till four, or
even five o' clock in the mornins: ; in
summer, till towards three. He then
went to bed, fi-om which he seldom
rose till nine or ten."

In this way his greatest drama,
" Wallenstein," was wi'itten. As " Don
Carlos" had thrown the di-amatistupon
history and produced " The Revolt of
the Netherlands," so history in turn
brought back the author to the drama.
"Wallenstein" is an epitome in the
highest form of poetry of " The Thirty
Years' War," out of the composition of
which it directly grew. The hero is
one of the grandest figures in military
history. A noble by family and nature,
by birth a Bohemian, educated in Italy,
imliued with the astrologic learning
and lielief of his age, of unmense pow-
er and wealth, the reward of his sue-
41

cess as a combatant at the head of
large imperial armies on the great bat-
tle fields of his century, falling at
last in the maturity of his powers, not
by the hand of the enemy, but, unarm-
ed, by the sword of a conspirator, there
is something colossal in the man, as
in the theatre of his achievements.
Schiller has plucked this wonderful
apparition from the page of history, an
impersonation of ambition, and, adorn-
ing the character with the refinements
of poetry and philosophy, has given it
a thoroughly human interest, while the
setting, with the profoundly pathetic
loves of Max Piccolomini and Thekla,
the daughter of Wallenstein, is as re-
markable as the main figure. The
work, for it assumes greater propor-
tions than an ordinary tragedy, is in
three parts ; the first, " Wallenstein's
Camp," a prelude as it were, in one act,
introduces us to the picturesque scen-
ery of these great wars; the second,
" The Piccolomini," exhibits the plots
and counterplots which are to end in
the ruin of the great commander ; the
third comj^letes the action in "The
Death of Wallenstein." As the two
latter parts have been admirably tran
slated by Coleridge, the English rea-
der has an opportunity of appreciating
the merits of the piece, which De Quin-
cey has pronounced " an immortal
drama and beyond all competition the
nearest in point of excellence to the
dramas of Shakspeare." It was pub-
lished by the author, the result of
many years of thought and the best
exertion of his powers, in 1709. The
next year it was followed by " Maria
Stuart," a pathetic representation of
a chai'acter which has a straujie hold

323

FRIEDKICH SCHILLEE.

on the sympathies of the public,
aud in the year after appeared "The
Maid of Orleans," in which the author
again availed himself of a personage
of general interest and well suited to
the chivalric demands of his generous
nature. In " The Bride of Messina,"
which appeared in 1803, the author at-
tempted a revival of the classic form
aud interest, with much success in the
purely poetic and lyrical portions,
with little in the requirements of the
stage. His next and last play, pro-
duced in 1 804, the year before his death,
"William Tell," is one of his greatest
dramatic triumphs, simple, energetic,
truthful, inspired by the mountain air
of liljerty. It was a noble work with
which to close a life devoted to the in-
terests of freedom. The end was at
hand. In the spring of 1805, the pul-
monary disease, which had long hung

heavily about him, was pressing to its
inevitable result. A feverish attack at
the end of April confined him to his
house at Weimar, where he had of late
resided ; it increased in force, and, on
the 9th of May, terminated his life.
His mind had wandered ; but at the
close he was in possession of his facul-
ties. He took a calm farewell of his
friends and family, aud directed that
his funeral should be conducted, accord-
ing to the tenor of his life, in a sim-
ple, private manner. He passed away
at evening, looking uj)on the setting
sun. On being asked, shortly before
his death, how he felt, he said, " Calmer
and calmer," and his last recorded ob-
servation in view of his departure was,
" Many things were growing plain and
clear to him." He was buried at night,
borne to the grave bj young students
and artists.

>^^^^^^^^

HENRY GRATTAN.

HENRY GRATTAN, the eloquent
Irisli patriot and statesman, was
born in the city of Dublin on the 3d
of July, 1746. His father, James Grat-
tan, was of an old and respectable fam-
ily, several of whose members were
highly appreciated for their virtues by
Dean Swift. He was a barrister by
profession, for many years Recorder of
Dublin, and represented the city in the
Irish parliament from 1761, until his
death, five years later. He was mar-
ried to a daughter of Chief Justice
Marly — an eminent name in the Irish
annals, illustrated by many characteris-
tic acts. One of these ancestors. Sir
John Marly, was greatly distinguished
in the seventeenth century on the roy-
alist side in the tumults of the times,
when he suffered heavy losses for his
allegiance to King Charles. He was
the great grandfather of the chief jus-
tice, of whom a curious professional
anecdote is told. He prided himself
on his expertness as a swordsman, and
in a duel, ran his opponent through
the body \vith a long sword, on Avliich
the Twelve Apostles were stampt-d.
The wound, not being mortal, the
chief justice remarked that his adver-
sary had "got the benefit of tho trial

by jury, and that the twelve had allow-
ed him to escape." One of his children
was the accomplished Bishop of Water-
ford. " Few families in Ireland," saj^s
Grattan's biographer. Madden, who is
disposed to trace much of his natural
genius to his mother, " could boast of a
greater union of talent, learning and
virtue, than were to be found in the
Marlys."

A characteristic incident is mention-
ed of Grattan's boyhood. His first
school-master in Dublin subjected him
to a degrading punishment for some
neglect in translating a passage of
Ovid, calling upon him to kneel in
presence of the scholars, and summcm-
ing the footman to call him " an idle
boy." The footman declined this im-
pertinent request, and the youthful
Grattan, resenting this act of tyranny,
insisted on leaving the school— passing
to another in the city, where his high
personal qualities were even then val-
ued by his companions. At the age
of thirteen, he entered Trinity College,
Dublin, where he made the acquaint-
ance of several students afterwards
distinguished in the political history of
Ireland ; of Foster, who became speak-
er of the Irish House of Commons ; of

(323)

324

HENEY G RATTAN.

Robert, afterwards Judge Day, and of
Fitzgibbon, subsequently Earl of Clare
and Lord Cliancellor. But literature
rather tlian politics seems to have en-
grossed young Grattan's attention. He
formed an acquaintance at this time
with a young man named Broome, with
A\hom he corresponded in letters writ-
ten after the manner of Pope, who was
then in the ascendant, and whose style
he imitated. At the close of his uni-
versity life in 1767, he proceeded to
Loudon to go through the usual terms
at the Middle Temple, to qualify him-
self for admission to the bar.

Lord Chatham was then in the as-
cendant in the political world, the most
illustrious statesman and orator of his
times. Grattan admired the heroic at-
titude of the man, his ardent love of
country, his personal independence, the
vigor of his thoughts and actions ; and
fascinated by his eloquence, so conge-
nial to his own turn of mind, became a
constant attendant on the debates in
the House of Lords. His powers were
kindled by the man, and we owe much
that is peculiar in the development of
the mental powers and style of Grattan
to the impetus which he received from
the speeches of Chatham. One of his
earliest compositions, written while he
was at the Temple, was a character of
his illustrious idol, marked already by
that vigorous expression, startling em-
phasis and rich efflorescence of language,
which, chastened and strengthened, dis-
tinguished his subsequent parliament-
ary eloquence.

There was much that was romantic
and visionary in the habits of Grattan
at this period. " Sorrow," we are told
by Madden, " for the death of a sister,

whom he passionately loved, di'ove him
from London, and, in conjunction with
his friend Robert Day, he took a house
in Windsor Forest. Here he led a de-
sultory life, more congenial with the
unsettled reverie of a poetical mind,
than with the hard ambition of a poli-
tician. His ways it must be admitted,
were rather eccentric. The common
part of mankind would have believed
him out of his senses. He spent whole
nights rambling about the forest, and
delighted to lose himself in the thick-
est plantations. The scenery had all
the charms of poetical association, be-
sides its own natural beauties, to engage
the cultivated mind and impassioned
nature of Grattan. He seems to have
intensely enjoyed the liberty of wan-
dering by himself through the forest,
on the moonlight nights ; now start-
ling a herd of deer from their bed of
fern; or anon losing himself in some
shadowy thicket. During these j)oeti-
cal rambles, his mind, we may be assur
ed, was not idle, and the habit of in-
dulging in poetical sensations, may be
said to have colored his whole exist-
ence." He had also a habit of talking
aloud to himself and practising public
speaking in solitude. In one of his
moonlight excursions through Windsor
Forest, the story is told of his coming
upon a gibbet, which he was address-
ing in his vigorous way, when he was
tapped upon the shoulder by some per-
son who happened to be near at the
time, who interrupted him with the hu-
morous inquiry, " How the devil did
you get down ?" Pope had cele-
brated Windsor Forest in verse, and
Grattan would willingly have rhymed
after him ; but his genius was cramped

HENEY GEATTAN.

325

by his model, and what of poetical fac-
ulty he had, was to he turned into a
different dii-ection, The imagery which
would have been tame and insipid in
the worn-out couplets of Pope, adorned
and animated with their rhetorical
graces the fiery bursts of the orator.

His associations in Ireland were
meanwhile developing his social and
political talents. He was called to the
bar in 1772. In the interval of his
terms, as we are told by his son Henry,
" he lived much in the society of Mr.
Gervase Parker Bushe, who v\^as mar-
ried to his sister; Dean Marly (after-
wards Bishop of Waterford), and many
of the distinguished individuals, who,
at that period, formed part of the gay,
the polished and the talented circle,
that for a short time shone forth in
Ireland. "With them he partook in the
perfoiTuances of the private theatricals
at Farmley (the seat of Mr. Flood),
and at Marlay (the residence of Mr.
David La Touch e), where he wrote an
epilogue to the Mask of Comus, which
was spoken by the beautiful and ac-
complished Countess of Lanesborough.
In concei-t with Mr. Flood, he wrote
some of the pieces which are collected
in a work entitled ' Baratariania,' and
which contained remarks on Lord Town-
send's administration in Ireland. Lord
Annaly,Mr. Daly, Mr. Burgh, Mr. Yel-
verton. Colonel Marly, his uncle, on
whose judgment and understanding he
set the hiichest value, l\Ir. W. Broome
and ]Mi-. Brownlow, formed the chief of
his personal and political acquaint-
ances. But the individual whose so-
ciety Avas at that time the general ob-
ject of attraction, and whose friendship
Was then the source of infinite grati-

fication to Mr. Grattan, as it ever after-
wards was of the tenderest and most
pleasing recollection, was the amiable,
the accomplished and the patriotic Earl
of Charlemont."

Grattan appears also to have owed
much at the outset to the public ex-
ample and personal influence of his fu-
ture antagonist, Henry Flood, who at
this time was the great home parlia-
mentary leader in the cause of Irish
nationality. Following in the princi-
ples of several illustrious predecessors,
among them Dean Swift, he organized
the opposition to the legislative claims
of the Imperial Parliament, which Grat-
tan afterwards led to victory. The lat-
ter entered the Ii-ish House of Com-
mons at the close of 1775, as member
for the town of Charlemont, on the
nomination of his friend, the Earl of
Charlemont, and continued to repre-
sent that borough for fifteen years, at
the end of which time he was elected
for the city of Dublin. At the com-
mencement of his career, the political
evils under which the country was suf
fering were the restrictions upon trade
and the absolute superior authority of
the British Parliament over the local
legislature. Grattan took both these
questions in hand, and soon developed
in their discussion the force of his un-
rivaled eloquence. To arouse the feel-
ing of nationality and secure by his exer-
tions the political independence of his
country, were his great objects. Fa-
vored by the influences of the Ameri-
can Revolution, and the authority of
the large patriotic volunteer force in the
country, some important concessions in
respect to freedom of trade had been
exorted liom the British Parliament,

3i>6

HENEY GEATTAN.

wben Grattan, on the 19tli of April,
1780, in a speech in the Irish Parlia-
ment, introduced his celebrated declar-
ation, denying the claim of the British
Parliament, so long exercised, to make
law for Ireland, and asserting in the
words of his resolution, " That the
King's most excellent Majesty, and the
Lords and Commons of Ii-eland, are the
only power competent to make laws to
bind Ireland." Enforcing the lesson
of the American war in its exhibition
of the impotence of parliament to con-
trol the rights of the Colonies, he show-
ed the disabilities under which Ireland
had long labored, and demanded not
tlie concession of reforms as measures
of expediency which might be recalled,
but the exclusive privilege to her par-
liament of home les^islation.

It was two years before this splendid
effort bore its fi-uit in the emancipation
of the L'ish Parliament. But the ap-
peal to the nation was never lost sight
of. The resolution of the people was
strengthened, and on the fall of the
ministry of Lord North, Fox in vain
endeavored to tame or control the Irish
leaders by management and influence.
On the 22d of February, 1782, Grattan,
in an elaborate speech, reviewed the
precedents of the obnoxious English
government, and moved an address to
the king, demanding the liberties,
while it asserted the constitutional
loyalty of the Irish people. The lead-
ing principle of the address was, that
" The crown of Ireland was an imperial
crown, and the kingdom of Ireland a
distinct kingdom, with a parliament of
her own, the sole legislature thereof."
Two months later, this was followed
up by what is called The Declaration

of Independence, in the Iiish House of
Commons, which was adopted by the
House of Lords in an address to the
crown, reasserting the former declara-
tions in explicit terms, to wit : " That
there is no body of men competent to
make laws to bind this nation except
the King, Lords and Commons of Ire-
land ; nor any other parliament which
hath any authority or power of any
sort whatsoever in this country, save
only the Parliament of L-eland; and
assuring His Majesty, that we humbly
conceive that in this right the very es-
sence of our liberties exist; a right
which we, on the part of all the peo-
ple of Ireland, do claim as their birth-
right, and which we cannot yield but
with our lives." Grattan, leaving a
sick-bed to which he had been con-
fined, careworn and emaciated, rallied
his mental strength and supported
these resolutions in a powerful speech
Avhich elicited from Lord Charlemont
the remark : " If ever spirit could be
said to act independent of body, it was
on that occasion." The resolutions
were adopted, brought before the king,
who laid them before parliament, when,
with the concurrence and recommend-
ation of Fox, the statute of 6th of
George the First, declaring the author-
ity over Ireland of the British Parlia-
ment was repealed. The natioTi thus
yielded to the demands of Grattan and
his supporters, and when the Irish Par-
liament met on the 27th of May, the
act of surrender was announced by the
lord-lieutenant, the Duke of Portland,
and the peaceful revolution of 1783
was accomplished.

For this service to his country, the
Irish Parliament, desirous of securing

HENRY GRATTAN.

327

to their benefactor a suitable provision
for life, proposed a grant of one hun-
dred thousand pounds to Grattan for
the purchase of an estate. He would
have declined this altogether, for he
had great reluctance at receiving a pe-
cuniary return for services which, on
his part, had been inspired simply by
patriotism ; but his patrimony was in-
adequate to his support ; he had sacri-
ficed his prospects at the bar, and to
serve his country in the future he
must be independent in fortune, and
above the necessity of party favors or
rewards. He would consent, however,
to receive only half of the sum pro-
posed, which was granted him. In the
midst of the general rejoicing at the
success of his great measure, Grattan
was called upon to confront his former
friend, Flood, who now placed himself
in an attitude of advanced patriotism,
asserting that the act of repeal of the
statute of George I. was insufficient for
the secm-ity of the liberties of Ireland,
and that a special act should be re-
quired from the English parliament,
distinctly renouncing all claims to leg-
islate for L-eland. There was a certain
speciousness in this, as it was brought
before the public with the violent
patriotic appeals of Flood, and, strange
to say, the doubts and suspicions cast
upon Grattan, which, for a time, dis-
credited the real advantage which had
been gained for the country. But this
singular opposition only brought out
witli greater force the strength of Grat-
tan's character, and his al)ility as a
statesman. The arguments against
"Simple repeal," as the question was
called, were met by him in the new
parliament with close and well consid-

sidered replies, addressed to the sober
judgment of his hearers ; while, for the
great head of the opposition and oblo-
quy which he encountered, he had,
when the occasion was fully ripe, in
reserve, an exhibition of his inconsist-
encies in the most withering tenns of
sarcasm and denunciation. The ine-
vitable sequel in that day in Ii-elaud
was a hostile meeting, which, the
speaker anticipating, had both parties
taken into custody and bound to keep
the peace. While the an-angements
for the expected duel were in progress,
Grattan made his will, leaving hia
grant of fifty thousand pounds to the
state, charged only with a life annuity
to his wife, having been married the
year before to Miss Henrietta Fitz-
gerald, a lady of beauty and worth.

Grattan remained in the Irish par-
liament tin 1797, when he withdrew
for awhile, declining re-election, till he
was returned in 1800 for the- borough
of Wicklow, to oppose the Union with
Great Britain, which was then in pro-
gress. During this period, of nearly
twenty years, he was foremost in the
advocacy of all measm-es afi^ecting the
independence of his country, particu-
larly in relation to her commercial
prosperity. In 1788, he attacked, with-
out success, the system of tithes for
the payment of the clergy ; supporting
his views by an elaborate exhibition
of the subject in its historical, moral
and economkal relations. His speeches
on this topic are replete with the finest
effects of his eloquence, as he reviews
the qiiestion of church estaV)lishmeuts
by the standard of the simplicity of
the Gospels.

Grattan, ever disdaining the low at-

328

RL-NEY GEATTA]Sr.

mosphere ot ordinary politics, never
appeared to more advantage than when
he ^va9 al)le to rise, as was his wont,
to the higher element of morality. The
friend of liberty, he knew no distinc-
tion of party or sect in its advocacy.
The cause with which, after the legis-
lative and judicial independence of his
country, he is most identified, was that
of Catholic Emancipation. He made
it the object of his noblest oratory in
the Irish Parliament, and when, after
the Union, his services to his country
were transferred to the arena of the
British Parliament, the Catholic ques-
tion was the foremost cause he pleaded,
and, in the discussion of which, his
great powers were first observed and
admired by his new British audience.
It was a political necessity for the peo-
ple of Ireland, necessary for the main-
tenance of such liberty as they had ac-
quired. Three-fourths of the popula-
tion was disfranchised, leaving the ac-
tual representation in a small minority
of legislators exposed to the influence
or coiTuption of England.

Masterly as was his demonstration,
enforced by every aid of wit and rail-
lery, the eloquence of Grattan in Ire-
land was ineffective on this subject.
Prejudice and partisanship still led the
hour ; the sound views of the ablest of
her statesmen were set aside for & vacil-
latory policy in Parliament, and ex-
treme revolutionary measures outside
of it. The philosophic mind of Grat-
tan was conscious of the situation, but
powerless to prevent the injury ; he
saw the progress of insurrection in the
wild efforts of the democracy, infected
by the license of the French Revolu-
tion, and the failure of the rebellion in

1798, inevitably paving the way for
the sacrifice of Ii'ish independence in
the Union of 1800. In vain in a series
of speeches he exhausted his experience
and eloquence in protests against what
he considered that fatal policy. " Iden-
tification," said he, " is a solid and im
perial maxim, necessary for the preser-
vation of freedom necessary for that
of Empire ; but, without union of
hearts — with a separate government,
and without a separate parliament,
identification is extinction, is dishonor,
is conquest — not identification. Yet I
do not give up the country — I see her
in a swoon, but she is not dead — though
in her tomb she lies helpless and mo-
tionless, still there is on her lips a spir
it of life, and on her cheek a glow of
beauty —

' Thou art not conquered ; beauty's ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips, and in thy cheeks,
And death's pale flag is not advanced there.'

Wliile a plank of the vessel sticks to
gether, I will not leave her. Let the
courtier present his flimsy sail, and
carry the light bark of his faith, with
every new breath of wind-p-I will re-
main anchored here — with fidelity to
the fortunes of my country, faithful to
her freedom, faithful to her fall."

The union was accomplished, and
true to his promise, Grattan continued
to devote his best powers to the ser-
vice of his country. He entered the
English Parliament in 1805, from the
borough of Malton, in Yorkshire, and
the following year, in the general elec-
tion, was sent from his native city of
Dublin. He was several times re-elec-
ted, and continued in parliament till
his death. In this new sphere of duty
he, at once, as we have mentioned, re-

HElfET GEATTAN.

329

sumed liis efforts iu the cause of Catli-
olic Emaucipation. There was no weap-
on in the armory of the orator which
he did not employ in the discussion
of this great question of religious lib-
erty. What the slave trade was to
"Wilberforce, the Catholic disqualifica-
tion was to Grattan. He pursued the
oppression with every argument of ex-
perience and logic, with a clearness,
sagacity and pregnant variety of illus-
tration, which, outli\'ing the occasion
which produced it, charm the reader of
his speeches to this day. He identified
himself with the lil^eral whig policy of
England, and, like Burke, was accepted
among the foremost of English states-
men.

His speech in the English parlia-
ment, on the downfall of Bonaparte, on
the 25th of May, 1815, on the eve of
the final struggle at Waterloo, full of
the speaker's characteristic tumultuous
utterances, abounds with these striking
scintillations of his genius. Describing
the course of Napoleon in his attempts
at the subjugation of Europe, — " In
pursuit of this object," he says, " and
on his plan of a Western Empire, he
conceived, and in part executed the
design of consigning to plunder and
destruction the vast regions of Russia ;
he quits the genial clime of the temper-
ate zone ; he bursts through the nar-
row limits of an immense empire ; he
abandons comfort and secm'ity, and he
hurries to the pole to hazard them all,
and with them the companions of his
victories, and the fame and fruits of his
crimes and his talents, on a speculation
of leaving in Europe, throughout the
whole of its extent, no one free or
independent nation : to oppose this
42

huge conception of mischief and des-
potism, the great potentate of the
north, from his gloomy recesses, ad-
vances to defend, against the vorac-
ity of ambition, the sterility of his
emj)ire. Ambition is omnivorous — it
feasts on famine and sheds tons of Uood,
that it may starve in ice, in order to com-
mit a rohhery on desolation.'''' Of the
false glare, subduing the reason, which
invests the conqueror on a great scale,
he says : " If a prince takes Venice, we
are indignant ; but if he seizes on a
great part of Europe, stands covered
with the blood of millions and the
spoils of half mankind, our indignation
ceases ; vice become gigantic, conquers
the understanding, and mankind begin
by wonder, and conclude by worship.
The character of Bonaparte is admira-
bly calculated for this effect ; he in-
vests himself with much theatrical
grandeur; he is a great actor in the
tragedy of his own government; the
fire of his genius precipitates on uni-
versal empire, certain to destroy his
neiffhbors or himself; better formed to
acquire empire than to keep it, he is a
hero and a calamity, formed to punish
France and to perplex Europe."

In the same speech, there are two el-
oquent tributes to Fox and Burke, ex-
hibiting, like the passages we have just
given, the hue of imagination with
which Grattan invested familiar politi-
cal topics. "The authority of SIi-.
Fox has been alluded to ; a great au-
thority and a great man ; his name ex-
cites tenderness and wonder; to do
justice to that immortal person, you
must not limit yom- view to this coun-
try; his genius was not confined to
Eu<dand, it acted three huudi-ed miles

330

henhy geattak

off in breaking tlie chains of Ireland ;
it was seen three thousand miles off" in
communicating freedom to the Ameri-
cans ; it was visible, I know not hoAV
far off, in ameliorating the condition of
the Indian ; it was discernible on the
coast of Africa, in accomplishing the
abolition of the slave trade. You are
to measure the magnitude of his mind
by parallels of latitude. His heart
was as soft as that of a woman; his
intellect Avas adamant ; his weaknesses
were virtues ; they protected him against
the hard habit of a politician, and as-
sisted nature to make him amiable and
interestinof." And of Burke : " On the
French subject, speaking of authority,
we cannot forsret Mr. Burke. Mr.
Burke, the prodigy of nature and ac-
quisition. He read everything, he saw
everything, he foresaw everything. His
knowledge of history amounted to a
power of foretelling ; and when he per-
ceived the wild work that was doinsc
in France, that great political physician,
intelligent of symptoms, distinguished
between the access of fever and the
force of health ; and what other men
conceived to be the vigor of her consti-
tution, he knew to be no more than the
paroxysm of her madness, and then,
prophet-like, he pronounced the desti-
nies of France, and, in his prophetic
fury, admonished nations."

The passage which followed in this
eloquent appeal for the continuance of
the European contest on the part of
England was worthy, in its picturesque
power of illustration, the genius of
Burke himself. " Gentlemen speak of
the Bourbon family. I have already
said, we should not force the Bourbon
upon France, but we owe it to departed

(I would, rather say to interrupted)
greatness, to observe, that the house of
Bourbon was not tyrannical; under
her, everything, except the administra-
tion of the country, was open to ani-
madversion; every subject was open
to discussion, philosophical, ecclesias-
tical and political, so that learning, and
arts, and sciences, made progress. Even
England consented to borrow not a
little from the temperate meridian of
that government. Her court stood
controlled by ojjinion, limited by prin-
ciples of honor, and softened by the
influence of manners: and, on the
whole, there was an amenity in the
condition of France which rendered
the French an amiable, an enlightened,
a gallant and accomplished race. Over
this gallant race you see imposed an
oriental despotism. Their present court
(Bonaparte's court) has gotten the
idiom of the East as well as her con-
stitution ; a fantastic and barbaric ex-
pression: an unreality which leaves
in the shade the modesty of truth, and
states nothing as it is, and everything
as it is not. The attitude is affected,
the taste is corrupted, and the intel-
lect perverted. Do you wish to con-
firm this military tyranny in the heart
of Europe? A tjTanny founded on
the triumph of the army over the prin-
ciples of civil government, tending to
universalize throiighout Europe the
domination of the sword, and to reduce
to paper and parchment, Magna Charta,
and all our civil constitutions. An ex
periment such as no country ever made,
and no good country would ever per
mit ; to relax the moral and religious
influences; to set heaven and earth
adrift from one another, and make

HENRY GRATTA^.

331

God Almighty a tolerated alien in his
own creation ; an insurrectionary hope
to every bad man in the community,
and a frightful lesson to profit and
power, vested in those who have pan-
dered their allegiance from king to
emperor, and now found their preten-
sions to domination on the merit of
breaking their oaths, and deposing
their sovereign. Should you do any-
thing so monstrous as to leave your
allies, in order to conform to such a
system ; should you forget your name,
forget your ancestors, and the inherit-
ance they have left you of morality
and renown ; should you astonish Eu-
rope, by quitting your allies to render
immortal such a composition, would
not the nations exclaim, ' You have
very providently watched over our in-
terests, and very generously have you
contributed to our service, and do you
falter now ? In vain have you stopped
in your own person the flying fortunes
of Europe ; in vain have you taken the
eagle of Napoleon, and snatched invin-
cihility from his standard, if now, when
confederated Europe is ready to mai'ch,
you take the lead in the desertion, and
preach the penitence of Bonaparte and
the poverty of England.' "

Pure as was the patriotism of Grat-
tan, lie more than once experienced the
ingratitu<le of his turbulent country-
men. He was no friend to disorgan-
izing or insuiTectionary proceedings,
and was steadily opposed to French
propagandism in tlie revolutionary ex-
citements of a portion of his country-
men. For his course on this point, to-
wards the close of his life, when he
was chaired after his election to par-
liament, in Dublin, in 1818, he was per-

sonally assaulted, and his life endan-
gered by the attack of a desperate gang.
His face was cut open by a severe
blow. He confi-onted his assailants
with that bold courage which was part
of his nature, and when the affair was
over, with characteristic magnanimity,
refused to entertain any feelings of
hostility against the party opposed to
him, submitting himself in all things
to his paramount love of his country.
" A few individuals," he wrote, in an-
swer to a public address from the citi-
zens of Dublin — " a sudden and inex-
plicable impulse — a momentary infat-
uation — anything — everything— might
account for that violence of which you
complain. It is not worth your inves-
tigation."

Broken in health, at the age of
seventy, he made his last journey to
London, to advocate in jiarliament a
petition from his Roman Catholic fel-
low citizens. He was warned of the
danger to his health, but simply re-
plied, " I should be happy to die in
the discharge of my duty." He reached
London in a state of great debility,
and expired in that city before he
could accomplish the ol)ject of his mis-
sion, on the 14th of May, 1820. He
had expressed a wish in his last illness
to be buried in a retired churchyard
at Moyanne, in Queens County, on the
estate given him by the Irish people,
but yielded to a request from the
Duke of Sussex, that his remains
should be placed in Westminster Ab-
bey. A letter, signed by members of
the liberal party was, after his death,
addressed to his sons renewing the re-
quest. It was from the jjcn of the poet
Koerers. "Filled with veneration for

332

HEXRY GEATTAK

the character of your father, we ven-
ture to express a wish, common to us
with many of those who most admired
and loved him, that what remains of
him shouhl l)e allowed to continue
among us. It has pleased Divine Pro-
vidence to deprive the empire of his
services, while he was here in the
neighborhood of that sacred edifice
where great men from all parts of the
British dominions have been for ages
mterred. We are desirous of an op-
portunity of joining in the due honors
to tried virtue and genius. Mr, Grat-
tan belongs to us also, and great would
be our consolation, were we to be per-
mitted to follow him to the grave, and
to place him where he would not have
been unwilling to lie — by the side of
his illustrious fellow-laborers In the
cause of freedom." The remains of
Grattan were accordingly deposited in
the north transept of the Abbey, by
the side of Chatham, Pitt, and his be-
loved friend, Charles James Fox.

"What Irishman," wrote Sydney
Smith in an article in the " Edinburgh
Review " shortly after the event, " does
not feel proud that he has lived in the
days of Grattan ? Who has not turned
to him for comfort, from the false
friends and open enemies of Ireland ?
Who did not remember him in the days
of its burnings, and wastings, and mur-
ders? No government ever dismayed
him — the world could not bribe him
— he thought only of Ireland — lived
for no other object — dedicated to her
his beautiful fancy, his elegant wat, his
manly courage and all the splendor of
his astonishing eloquence. He was
so bom and so gifted, that poetry, foren-
sic skill, elegant literature and all the

highest attainments of human genius^
were within his reach ; but he thought
the noblest occupation of a man was
to make other men happy and free ;
and in that straight line he went on
for fifty years, without one side-look,
without one jdelding thought, without
one motive in his heart which he
might not have laid open to the view
of God and man. He is gone ! — but
there is not a single day of his honest
life of which every good Irishman
would not be more proud, than of the
whole political existence of his coun-
trymen — the annual deserters and be-
trayers of their native land."

The prominent characteristics of Grat-
tan's eloquence, representing essentially
his moral character, have been happily
described by Brougham. "Among
the orators," he writes, " as among the
statesmen of his age, IVIr. Grattan oc-
cupies a place in the foremost rank;
and it was the age of the Pitts, the
Foxes and the Sheridans. His elo-
qixence was of a very high order, all
but of the very highest, and it was
eminently original. In the constant
stream of a diction replete with ep-
igram and point— a stream on which
floated gracefully, because naturally,
flowers of various hues, — was poured
forth the closest reasoning, the most
luminous statement, the most persua-
sive display of all the motives that
could influence, and of all the details
that could enlighten, his audience.
Often a different strain was heard, and
it was declamatory and vehement — or
pity was to be moved, and its pathos
was touching as it was simple — or,
above all, an adversary, sunk in base-
ness, or covered with crimes, was to be

HENRY GRATTAJSr.

333

punislied or to be destroyed, and a
storm of the most terrible invective
raged with all the flights of sarcasm and
the thunders of abuse. The critic, led
away for the moment, and unable to
do more than feel with the audience,
could in those cases, even when he
came to reflect and to judge, find often
nothing to reprehend ; seldom in any
case more than the excess of ejjigram,
which had yet become so natural to
the orator, that his argument and his
narrative, and even his sagacious un-
folding of principles, seemed spontan-
eously to clothe themselves in the
most pointed terseness, and most apt
and felicitous antitheses. From the
faults of his country's eloquence, he
was, generally speaking, free. Occa-
sionally an over fondness for vehement
expression, an exaggeration of passion,
or an offensive appeal to heaven, might
be noted ; very rarely a loaded use of
figui'es, and, more rarely still, of fig-
ures broken and mixed. But the per-
petual striving after far-fetched quaint-
ness; the disdaining to say any one
thing in an easy and natural style;
the contempt of that rule, as true in
rhetoric as in conduct, that it is wise
to do common things in the common
way ; the affectation of excessive feeling
upon all things, without , regard to
their relative importance ; the making
any occasion even the most fitted to

rouse genuine

and

natural feelinf;, a

mere opportunity of theatrical display
• — all these failings, by which so many

oratorical reputations have been blight-
ed among a people famous for their al
most universal oratorical genius, were
looked for in vain when Mi-.Grattan rose,
whether in the senate of his native
country, or in that to which he was
transferred by the Union. And if he
had some peculiarity of outward ap-
pearance, as a low and awkward per-
son, in which he resembled the first of
orators, and even of manner, in which
he had not like him made the defects
of nature yield to severe culture ; so
had he one excellence of the very high-
est order, in which he may be truly
said to have left all the orators of mod-
ern time behind — the severe abstinence
which rests satisfied with striking the
decisive word in a blow or two, not
weakening its effect by repetition and
expansion, — and another excellence
higher still, in which no orator of any
age is his equal, the easy and copious
flow of most profound, sagacious and
original principles, enunciated in terse
and striking, but appropriate language.
To give a sample of this latter peculiar-
ity would be less easy, and would oc-
cupy more space ; but of the former, it
may be truly said that Dante himself
never conjured up a striking, apathetic
and an appropriate image in fewer
words than Mr. Grattan employed to
descril^e his relation towards Irish in-
dependence, Avhen, alluding to its rise
in 1782, and its fall twenty years later,
he said, * I sat by its cradle — I follow-
ed its hearse.' "

SARAH VAN BRUGH JAY.

QiARAH VAN BRUGH LIVING-

O STON was the youngest daugh-
ter of William Livingston, of New
York, afterwards for many years Gov-
ernor of New Jersey, and one of the
most active and energetic men of his
day in setting forward and sustaining
the cause of liberty and independence.
The family was aristocratic and weal-
thy, and noted for its high social and
political rank in the province and
State of New York ; but, notwith-
standing all this, it was a family which
ardently embraced the cause of our
common country, and must always
hold a well-deserved place in the an-
nals of the United States.

The fourth daughter of Governor
Livingston was named Sarah Van
Brugh, after her great grandmother.
She was born in August, 1757, and
received as thorough and complete
an education as was possible at that
time to be obtained. Mental ability
of a superior order early manifested
itself; and by Judicious training and
culture, added to the society and in-
tercourse of the best families of her
native State, her faculties were rapidly
developed. Before she was eighteen,
Sarah Livingston was married to John

(334)

Jay, who had been educated for the
bar, and was already a prominent and
rising man in the community. Her
husband was some ten years her sen-
ior, and at the date of her marriage,
April 28th, 1774, was not in any pub-
lic office ; but within a month, before
the traditional honey-moon had ex-
pired, John Jay was imperatively call-
ed to take part in the initiatory move-
ments in the colonies, which led on, as
by necessity, to the Revolution and the
war of Independence. How severe a
trial this was to the young and loving
wife can hardly be imagined ; for it is
to be borne in mind, that Jay, who
possessed a clear, logical intellect, and
held a pen equalled by few men of
that day, was placed on the Committee
of Safety in New York, was a member
of the first Continental Congress, was
actively and zealously occupied in the
preparation of papers, addresses, de-
clarations, etc., issued by Congress, and
took his full share in sanctioning and
carrying forward measures looking to
the ultimate ends had in view by the
Declaration of Independence. Conse-
sequeutly, he was compelled to be ab-
sent from home the larger part of hia
time.

-.r-

IK^^'

/A.

y.J /r//// /////

SAEAH YA^ BRUGH JAY.

335

These first few years of her married
life were anxious ones, indeed, to the
wife of John Jay. She resided partly
at her father's, in New Jersey, and
partly at the home of her husband's pa-
rents. This was situate at Eye, West-
chester county, N. Y., but ere long it
had to be abandoned to the British,
and was not occupied again till after
the war. Writing to his wife, in July,
1776, from Connecticut, where he had
gone on public business. Jay says : —
" My Dear Sally, I purpose returning
to White Plains by way of Elizabeth-
town. Don't, however, depend upon
it, lest you be disappointed. Are you
yet provided T\"ith a secure retreat in
case Elizabethtown should cease to be
a place of security ? I shall not be at
ease till this be done. You know my
happiness depends on your welfare ;
and, therefore, I flatter myself your
affection for me has, before this will
reach you, induced you to attend to
that necessary object. I daily please
myself with an expectation of finding
our boy in health and much grown,
and my good wife perfectly recovered
and in good spii'its."

Two years later, Jay was elected
President of Congress, on which occa-
sion Ms wife wrote to him : " I had
the pleasiire of finding by the news-
papers, that you are honored ^vith the

first office on the continent

Had you consulted me, as some men
have their wives, about public meas-
ures, I should not have been Roman
matron enough to have given you so
entirely to the pul>lic." Nevertheless,
Mrs. Jay was a brave and high-spirit-
ed woman, and, like others of her sex
at that period, accomplished wonders

in sustaining, cheering and helping
forward her husband in his career of
devotion to his native land. This was
evinced in many ways, but in none,
perhaps, more strikingly than in the
readiness and heartiness with which
she encountered the dang-ers of a sea
voyage, with its risk of capture and
other evils, when duty called her hus-
band to cross the Atlantic.

John Jay was appointed minister to
Spain, in October, 1779, and at the
close of the month, embarked from
Philadelphia in a government frigate,
named The Confederacy. The voyage
was a stormy one, and not only ship-
wreck was imminent, but the fi'igate
just escaped being caught by an En-
glish fleet off Martinico. Thence Jay
and his party proceeded to Spain,
which was reached in January, 1780.
The Spanish mission was in all impor-
tant respects a failure. That proud
and supercilious government treated
our minister in a way that stiiTed to
the very depths the blood of John Jay,
and as he steadily refused to be receiv-
ed or acknowledged in any character
but as the representative of a free and
independent nation, his residence at
Madi-id was far from agreeable, and
Mrs. Jay did not, of course, make her
appearance at coirrt. Two years later,
he was directed to leave Spain, and
join Franklin and Adams at Paris, and
take part in the negotiations for peace
consequent upon the cajiture of Corn-
wallis and the close of the revolutit)n.

In June, 1782, after a tedious and
fatiguing journey from Madrid, Mrs,
Jay, ^vith her husband and child, as»
rived in the gay ca})ital of France,
The important work entrusted to Jay.

336

SAEAH YA:N BRUGH JAY.

in coiijiinction with Franklin and
i\.danis, of arranging and settling upon
the terms of a treaty of peace with
England, occupied more than a year ;
and the high character and firm patri-
otism of Jay, were especially valuable
in securing what was felt to be due to
the honor and dignity of our country.
The French and Spanish governments
were quite too ready to treat the new
republic as a sort of ward, to be held
in tutelage, and to be guided in great
measure by what seemed to them the
best f.ourse to be pursued ; but in John
Jay, equally with John Adams, they
found men as able as they were, pre-
pared to maintain the rights of an in-
dependent nation. The treaty was
signed in September, 1783, and fully
justified the wisdom and ability of the
men charged by Congress "nith its care
and successful prosecution. Jay, some-
what injured in health, by anxious
labors, went to England soon after,
and was greatly benefitted by the wa-
ters at Bath. After the opening of
1784, he returned to Paris and rejoin-
ed his family.

These two years of life in Paris, at
this time, were marked by many inter-
esting circumstances, and furnished
souvenirs to Mrs. Jay never to be for-
gotten, in view of what subsequently
took place in the capital of fashion
and folly. Perhaps, at no time, was
Paris more gay, and apparently alive
to the enticements and pleasures of
society, and of literary and scientific
culture, than in those years which im-
mediately preceded the cataclysm of
the French Revolution. Unconscious,
it would seem, of the existence of those
volcanic fires soon to burst forth in all

their fury, the court and nobility vied,
in pride and splendor, with preceding
reisrns, and the beautifid Marie Antoi-
nette, unwitting as an infant child of
the real state of afi^airs, shone in all
her elegance and attractiveness, in the
midst of wealth and profusion. Of
this charming queen, INIi's. Jay, in a
letter to a friend at home, writes, in
1782, "She is so handsome, and her
manners are so engaging, that, almost
forgetful of republican principles, I was
ready, while in her presence, to declare
her born to be a queen."

Mrs. Jay was a great favorite in so-
ciety during her residence in France.
Spain, as we have noted, was not so
agreeable for various reasons ; but she
thoroughly enjoyed the company of
the beautiful and highly cultivated
persons whom it was her privilege to
associate with in Paris. Lafayette
and his estimable lady were among
the first to welcome Mrs. Jay to the
new sphere she was about to fill. In-
deed the acquaintance between these
ladies soon ripened into friendship,
and their letters manifest a cor-
dial intimacy, equally agreeable and
creditable to both parties. The Mar-
chioness used to invite IVIrs. Jay's
young daughter to visit Mademoiselle
de la Fayette, and Mrs. Jay, in reply,
would assure her that " it would give
her daughter great pleasure to wait
upon Madame de la Fayette's little
family." There is little reason to
doubt that both these young mothers
enjoyed domestic reunions far more
than the splendors of fashionable life.
Miss Adams also, daughter of John
Adams, writes, in 1785 : " Every per-
son who knew her when here bestows

SAKAH VAN BRUGH JAY.

337

many encomiums on Mrs. Jay. Mad-
ame de la Fayette said slie was well
acquainted with her, and very fond of
her, adding, that Mrs. Jay and she
thought, alike, that pleasure might be
found abroad, but happiness only at
home, in the society of one's family and
friends."

The venerable Dr. Franklin was
very kind and attentive to Mrs. Jay,
and there seems to have sprung up in
her mind as well as in her husband's,
a sincere affection for the aged and
faithful servant of his country, and
eminent savan of his day. In a letter
to Jay, at New York, he says : " Next
to the pleasure of rejoining my own
family, will be tliat of seeing you and
yours well and happy, and embracing
my little friend, whose singular at-
tachment to me I shall always remem-
ber. Be pleased to make my respect-
ful compliments acceptable to Mrs.
Jay, and believe me ever, with sin-
cere and great respect and esteem,
etc." When the philosopher returned
to the United States, Jay extended to
him a cordial welcome, and said :
" Mrs. Jay is exceedingly pleased with
this idea (viz., a visit of Franklin's to
New York), and sincerely joins with
me in wishing to see it realized. Her
attachments are very strong, and that
to you being founded on esteem, and
the recollection of kind offices, is par-
ticularly so."

Wliile Jay was absent in England,
his wife occujiied a house at Chaillot,
from whence she wrote in November
to him : " Everybody that sees the
house is sur2:)rised that it has so long
remained unoccupied. It is so gay, so
lively, that I am sure you will be
43

pleased. Yesterday, the windows were
open in my cabinet, while I was dress-
ing, and it was even then too warm.
Dr. Franklin and his grandsons, and
Mr. and Mrs. Coxe, and the Miss
Walpoles, drank tea with me likewise
this evening, and they all approve of
your choice." Again, a few days later,
she writes : " I hope the weather is
fine in England, for we have a most
enchanting autumn here. You'll be
pleased with our situation here when
you return, for which I most ardently
long, though I would not have you leave
England until you have given it a fair
trial. My little Nancy is a perfect
cherub, without making the least al-
lowance for a mother's partiality."

John Jay's public duties in Europe
having reached their termination, he
very gladly embraced the opportunity
of returning to his native land. He
arrived with his family in safety at
New York, July 24th, 1784, and
though not a man much given to the
display of feeling, he could hardly
avoid being struck with the contrast
between the state of things now, and
when he left his home more than four
years before. " At length," he said,
" I am arrived at the land of my na-
tivity ; and I bless God that it is also
the land of light, liberty and plenty.
My emotions cannot be described."

It was Jay's wish to be allowed to
retire fi'om the service of his country
as a public man; 1)ut his abilities
were too well known and appreciated,
and the necessity of Such service as he
could render was too apparent, to per-
mit his being excused as yet ; for it ig
to be remembered, that the years fol
lowing the treaty of peace, down to

338

SAEAII VAX BECGE JAY.

the time of the foiTaation and adoption
of the Constitution, and the organiza-
tion of the Federal Government under
Wa.sliington, were among the most
critical of any in our history, and de-
manded the exercise of all the ability,
earnestness and integrity of our patriot
fathers. John Jay felt this keenly and
deeply; and hence, when Congress
called for his accei)tance of the post
of Secretary for Foreign Affairs, to
whicli he had been elected before his
arrival in America, he obeyed the call,
and entered manfully upon the highly
responsible duties of his office.

The prominent position and arduous
duties of her husband, fi'om this date,
necessitated, on JVIi's. Jay's part, an in-
termission of domestic duties and the
pleasures of home life ; but she did not
murmur or complain. On the contra-
ry, she took active charge of her estab-
lishment in New York, and was en-
abled, in her proper sphere, to be of
essential value to her husband, in di&
charging tlie duties of hospitality, etc,
Jay, while occupied in his jjroper work
performed excellent service to his coun
tiy and her cause. He proposed to Con
gress a naval establishment ; he con
ducted negotiations at New York with
the Spanish minister ; he reported va-
rious infractions of the treaty of peace
by some of the States ; he pointed out
clearly the defects and insufficiency of
the confederation as then existing ;
and he did all in his power to further
the design of calling a Federal Con-
vention and framing a Constitution
for the whole country. His duties at
New York prevented his attending as
a member of the Convention at Phila-
delphia; but when the Constitution

was finally agreed upon, he labored
zealously, in conjunction with Hamil-
ton and Madison, in urging its adop-
tion by all the States, and especially
by New York, the State in which he
was born. This latter, after a severe
struggle with the anti-federalists, was
led by a small majority to adopt the
Constitution. This imjoortant action
took place July 26th, 1788.

Washington having been unani-
mously elected first president of the
United States, and anxious to dis-
charge the duties of his position by
appointing the best and most worthy
men in the country to the several
offices under the government, asked
John Jay to accept of any post which
he was willing to occupy. Jay ac-
cordingly chose the chair of chief jus-
tice of the supreme court of the United
States, as in every way adapted to his
course of legal training and his tastes,
and also as a position wherein probably
he could perform the largest amount of
service for the new scheme of govern-
ment now to be put uj)on its trial.
For the present, however, at "Washing-
ton's request, he consented to act as
secretary of state ; which he did till
Jefferson returned from France, in the
spring of the next year.

At the inaugiu'ation, which took
place April 30th, 1789, Chancellor
Livingston officiated and administered
the oath of office to Washington. The
supreme court was not fully organiz-
ed till April 3rd, 1790, and the next
day the first circuit court was held in
New York. The duties of the chief
Justice and his associates were arduous
and required the best efforts of all con-
cerned ; and it ij greatly to their hou-

SAKAH VAN BEUGH JAY.

339

or that they discharged their high du-
ties with so great credit to themselves
and benefit to their country.

While Jay. was absent on a circuit in
New England, his wife wrote to him :
" Last Monday, the president went to
Long Island to pass a week there. On
"Wednesday, Mrs. Washington called
upon me to go with her to wait upon
Miss Van Berchel, and on Thursday
morning, agreeable to an invitation, my-
self and the little girls took an early
breakfast with her, and then went with
her and her little grandchildren -to
breakfast at General Morris', Morrisi-
aiia. We passed together a very agree-
able day, and on our return dined with
her, as she would not take a refusal.
After which I came home to dress, and
she was so polite as to take coffee with
me in the evening." In another letter
she says : " My endeavor has been to
show my affection for you by my at-
tention to your friends."

The administration of Washington
was subjected to many severe trials, in
consequence of the fierce party spirit
engendered by the so-called democratic
societies and the spread of ultra demo-
cratic principles ; the hatred of Eng-
land, incurred by her high-handed ex-
ercise of power in carrying out what
she called " the right of search," and
impressment of seamen; the extrava-
gant adulation toward France, and
the insolence of the representative of
the French court in the United States;
and the firm resolve of the president,
based on what we can now see plainly
was the highest political wisdom, viz.,
to maintain an exact and impartial
neutrality between contending Euro-
pean powers. On these matters, how-

ever, we need not here dwell. They
were perhaps inseparable from public
affairs at that time. For the present
we are only concerned in them as they
affected the subject of these pages, and
her they did affect most deeply.

War with England seemed to be
imminent and well nigh inevitable ; but
Washington, anxious to avoid so dire
a result, in the then condition of the
country, determined to make one great
effort to escape from the horrors of
war and its consequences. He accord-
ingly begged Chief -justice Jay to go
to England as a special envoy, and to
put forth every endeavor to effect a
settlement of difiiculties between the
two countries, on terms consistent with
national integrity and honor.

It was with great and unfeigned re-
luctance that this onerous appointment
was accejjted; but John Jay was not
a man to flinch when the voice of duty
summoned him to action. " I feel the
impulse of duty strongly," he says,
writing to his wife, April 15th, 1794,
" and it is probable that if on the in-
vestigation I am now making, my
mind should be convinced tliat it is
my duty to go, you Mill join with me
in thinking, that, on an occasion so
important, I ought to follow its dic-
tates, and commit myself to the care
and kindness of that Providence, in
which we have both the highest rea-
son to repose the most absolute confi-
dence. This is not of my seeking ; ou
the contrary, I regard it as a measure
not to be desired, but to be submitted

to If it shoiild please God

to make me instrumental to tha con-
tinuance of peace, and in ]»revent-
ins the efi'usion of blood and othe;

340

SARAH VAN BEUGH JAY.

evils and miseries incident to war, we
Bhall both have reason to rejoice. "With
very sincere and tender affection,

" I am, my dear Sally, ever yours,

" JoHw Jay."

IVIrs. Jay's reply, written evidently
under deep feeling at this new and un-
expected trial, and marked by that
warmth of affection which character-
izes her entire married life, was as
follows : —

" Yesterday I received your two kind
letters of Saturday and Sunday. I do
indeed judge of your feelings by my
own, and for that reason forebore
wi'iting while under the first impres-
sion of surprise and grief.

"Your superiority in fortitude, as
well as every other virtue, I am aware
of ; yet I know too well your tender-
ness for your family to doubt the pains
of separation. Your own conflicts are
sufficient ; they need not be augmented
by the addition of mine. Never was I
more sensible of the absolute ascend-
ency you have over my heart. When,
almost in despair, I renounced the
hope of domestic bliss, your image
in my breast seemed to upbraid me
with adding to your trials. That idea
alone roused me from my desponden-
cy. I resumed the charge of my fami-
ly, and even dare hope that, by your
example, I shall be enabled to look up
to that Divine Protector, from whom
we have indeed experienced the most
merciful guardianship.

"The childi-en continue well. They
were exceedingly affected when they
received the tidings, and entreated me
to endeavor to dissuade you from ac-
cepting an appointment that subjects
us to so painful a separation.

" Farewell, my best beloved,
" Your wife till death,

" And after that a ministering
spirit."

The critical condition of public af-
faii-s urged the immediate departure
of John Jay, and he embarked at New
York, May 12th, accompanied by his
eldest son, and by Col. Trumbull as his
secretary. In a month's time he was
in England, and ready to proceed to
the work before him. Lord Grenville
was ajjpointed to conduct the negotia-
tions on the British side, and as he
was a nobleman of high and honora-
ble character, it did not take Jay long
to ascertain the ground on which they
stood, and the j)robability of being
able to accomplish the objects of his
mission. Without going into particu-
lars here, it may be sufficient to state,
that, although the treaty of Jay was
not all that the government of the
United States wished and was enti-
tled to, yet it was the best which could
then be obtained, and saved the coim-
try from another bloody war. It was
completed between the negotiators in
November of the same year, and trans-
mitted at once to the United States.
The storm of opposition which it met
with is matter of general history, and
we cannot but look back with feeling's
of astonishment and indignation at the
violence and scurrility which were dis-
played by the enemies of Washington.
Thank God, his fii'mness, integrity and
patriotism prevailed, and the country
was spared for better things in future.

Jay's health being rather delicate,
he resolved to sj)end the winter in
England, and postjjone his return to
America till the spring of 1795. This

SAEAH VAN BEUGH JAY.

341

was an additional trial to his loving
wife; but, as on all occasions before,
so now she acquiesced in that which
seemed to be for the best. During her
husband's absence, he had been elected
governor of New York, so that when
he reached his native land, at the close
of May, 1795, he found himself duly
chosen to fill an office of dignity and
trust which he could hardly refuse to
accept. He accordingly resigned the
chief-justiceship, and took the oath as
governor, July 1st.

During John Jay's absence abroad,
his wife devoted herself to home du-
ties, and took upon herself the entire
manao-ement of domestic affairs. In
her numerous letters to her husband,
she enters into various details, as to
moneys paid in and re-invested, by the
advice of friends, iu the National Bank
and stocks, the sale of lands, the pro-
gress of improvements on the family es-
tate at Bedford, etc. In one of Jay's let-
ters to his wife, he writes thus : " Thanks
for your many affectionate letters and
unceasing attentions to our mutual con-
cerns. I fi'equently anticipate with sat-
isfaction the pleasing moment when I
shall again take my place by oui- own
fireside, and with William on one
knee and Sally on the other, amuse
you with a variety of information."

On John Jay's arrival iu New York,
he was met by a large concourse of cit-
izens, and waited upon in procession to
his residence in Broadway. This pop-
ular appreciation of his worth and ser-
vices was very gratifying to Mrs. Jay,
beyond question ; but the reverse, soon
after happening, afforded her an oj)por-
tunity of estimating ap})lause and abuse
at their true value. For, it will be re-

membered, that Jay's treaty was met
by the anti-federalists with the most
furious opposition, and there was no
possible limit to the bitterness and
malignity of the language used, not
only towards Washington, but also
towards Jay for his share in the nego-
tiation. We sometimes think, and ex-
press ourselves in such wise, as if the
political party press of the present day
were very much more indecent and
savage than in the times of Washing-
ton and the great and good men of that
period; but this is a mistake. It
would not be possible to find terms
of abuse, invective and slanderous in-
sinuation and imputation of evil and
base motives, stronger or more foul-
mouthed than those which were free-
ly employed against one who outlived
all lying and slandering, and whose
good name is a cherished possession of
every American heart. In the case of
Jay, his wife was compelled to know
that unscrupulous partisans could use
such language as to call him, " that
damned arch-traitor, John Jay," and
that an excited mob in its unreasoning
fury, could burn him in effigy at
Philadelphia; l)ut Mrs. Jay, however
painful the trial, bore her share in it
uncomplainingly and submissively, and
as nothing was able to deprive her
of the testimony of a good conscience
and an upright life, so she was content
to wait till the storms of this kind pass-
ed away, and truth shone out iu all its
perennial force and beauty.

The high office wliich John Jay now
occupied imposed severe and responsi-
ble duties iipon his wife. It v.as in-
cumbent upon her to preside in the
executive mansion, which, during a part

3-i2

SARAH YATs" BPJTGH JAY.

of Jay's governorship, was in New
York, and afterwards in Albany. As
was to be expected, she filled this po-
sition with grace and dignity, and,
added to her European experience and
culture derived from abroad, she was
in all respects a high-minded, conscien-
tious Christian woman, actuated by
principle, and therefore uniformly and
consistently courteous, kind, and gen-
tle towards all with whom she came
in contact. Mrs. Jay also sympathized
with her husband in various measures
which he advocated and set forward
during his administration ; such as, a
law for the more general and prop-
er observance of the Sabbath, a de-
cided movement towards obtaining
the abolition of slavery, etc.

Although still in the prime of life
(about forty), Mrs. Jay's health be-
came delicate and fluctuating. In 1796,
she visited Lebanon Springs, whose
waters had already obtained a high
reputation, and by means of the rest
and recreation there obtained, she was
largely benefited. Her grandson, speak-
ing of Mrs. Jay, at this date, says:
" She presided over the reunions of the
descendants of the Dutch, Huguenot
and English colonists, whose devotion
to freedom had given to New York its
proud position in the country ; while
the wealth and importance derived
from stately manors, miles in extent,
and but recently invested with almost
baronial privileges, blended with the
simplicity of the young Republic so-
cial features that had something of the
dignity and grace usually associated
with ancient aristocracy."

John Jay was re-elected governor of
New York, in 1798, and consented to

serve for a second term, with the fixed
intention, however, to refuse thence-
forward any further pulilic service.
In December, 1800, President Adams
nominated him for the chief -justiceship
of the supreme court, and the nomina-
tion was immediately confirmed by the
Senate ; but, although earnestly urged
by the president to accept the post, he
promptly and decidedly declined. In
the spring of 1801, he removed from
Albany to his estate at Bedford, which
he had inherited from his ancestors,
and where he proposed to spend the
remainder of his life in retirement, and
in the enjoyments of home and home
pleasures. The estate, about fifty miles
north of New York city, had been much
neglected in consequence of Jay's con-
tinual absence on the public service.
Hence, repairs and improvements were
absolutely requisite, and, as Mrs. Jay's
health was by no means vigorous, he
would not allow her to come to Bed-
ford till everything was in order, and
the new mansion, which he had recent-
ly begun, was fully complete, and ready
for her occupancy.

"Writing to Mrs. Jay, soon after his
aiTival at Bedford, he says : " The
noise and hurry of cai-penters, masons
and laborers, in and about the house,
are inconveniences to be submitted to,
but not to be chosen by convalescents
or invalids. When our buildings are
finished, and things put in order, there
will be an end of many disagreeable
embarrassments. I hope, before the
conclusion of the year, we shall all be
together again. Except going to meet-
ing on Sundays, I have not been even
once from home since I came here. I
find myself engaged, by and in the

SARAH VAN BRUGH JAY.

343

business now going on, fi'om morning
till nio-ht."

Mrs. Jay, of course, wi'ote frequent-
ly to her husband. In one letter she
thus expresses herself : " Say every-
thing to our dearest daughter (Anne),
that a fond and delighted mother could
express. Thank her for her charming
letter. No cordials could hav^e so sal-
t.tary an effect on my spirits as the
dear letters I receive from you both.
I have perused and re-perused them
twenty times at least." In another let-
ter, some mouths later, she says : " I
have been rendered very happy by the
•company of our dear children ; but,
could we have been together, it would
have heightened the satisfaction. . . .
I often, I should say, daily, bless God
for giving us such amiable children.
May they long be preserved a blessing
to us and in the community."

Soon after, Mrs. Jay found her
health sufficiently restored to permit
her to rejoin her family at Bedford.
This she was delighted to do, and she
bade farewell to the busy world of
society, without regret, and with un-
feigned satisfaction. Her health,
though not strong, was much improv-
ed, and, humanly speaking, there was
every reason to think that she might
be spared for many years to enjoy
the calm and blessed sunshine of
peace and quiet in her rural home.
But in the dispensation of God's provi-
dence, it' was not so to be. Within
less than a year, she was seized with a
severe illness, and expired ^lay 28th,
1802. Her husband was watching at
her side when she died; and having

like hope with her of salvation through
the Blessed Redeemer, he gave full ut-
terance, in the presence of his children,
to the Joyfiil hope of a resurrection at
the last day, and a never ending re-
union with her whom God had just
called away from earth and earthly
cares and troubles.

In concluding this brief memoir, it
needs hardly a word further, in order
to point out the high character and
admirable qualities of the wife of John
Jay. Her letters display a charming
delicacy and sensibility, mingled with
strength of mind and acuteness of per-
ception rarely surpassed. Sincerely
and truly a Christian, she was enabled
to bear trials and disappointments
without murmuring, and to regulate
her whole life by the principles of un-
erring truth and rectitude. As a wife
and mother, she was faithful, tender,
and loving ; and as one occupying the
high position which she did, and ^\ hieh
broiight her into contact with the gay,
the fashionable, and those who seem
to live for the present hour alone, she
was all that a Christian woman could
be, preserving her simplicity, purity
and gentleness untarnished, and when
the proper time came, cheei'fully and
gladly retiring from the busy and dis-
tracting world. Of her it may be said,
as of the wives of "Washington and
Adams, that she was worthy to be the
companion and felloAV-laborer with the
noble patriots of our early history:
"her price was above rubies:" "her
children arise uj) and call her bless-
ed ; her husband also, and he praiseth
her."

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

]VTAPOLEON BUONAPARTE, or
-i-N BONAPARTE, was "boru at
Ajaccio, in Corsica, on tlie IStli of Au-
gust, 1769. He was descended from a
patrician family, wliicli liad been of
some note in Italy during the middle
ages; and one of his ancestors, the
gonfaloniere Buonaparte of San Nicolo,
had governed the repiiblic of Florence
about the middle of the thirteenth cen-
tury. His father. Carlo Buonaparte,
was an advocate of considerable repu-
tation ; and his mother, Letlzia Ramo-
lini, was eminent alike for personal
beauty and uncommon strength of
character. Wlien the Corsicans under
Paoli rose in arms to assert their lib-
erty against the pretensions of France,
Carlo Buonaparte espoused the popular
side ; and through all the toils and dan-
gers of his mountain campaigns was at-
tended by his lovely and high-spirited
wife. Upon the termination of the war,
the father of Napoleon meditated ac-
companying Paoli into exile ; but his re-
lations dissuaded him from taking this
step ; and being afterwards reconciled
to the conquering party, he was pro-
tected and patronized by the Comte de
Marbceuf, the French governor of Cor-
Bica. Napoleon was the second child

C344)

of his parents — Joseph, afterwards
King of Spain, being the eldest born ;
but he had three younger brothers,
Lucien, Louis, and Jerome ; and three
sisters, Eliza, Caroline, and Pauline.
Five others appear to have died in in-
fancy ; and at the age of thirty, Letizia
became a widow by the death of her
husband, who seems to have left his
family but indiiferently provided for.

In his early years Napoleon betrayed
no marked singularity ; and when his
character began to be foi-med, its de-
velopment was too profound and too
essentially intellectual to attract the
notice of ordinary observers. At the
aare of ten he was admitted to the Mil-
itary School of Brienne, where he
spent several years devoted to his
studies, and afterwards remoA^ed to a
similar institution at Paris, where he
appears to have completed his educa-
tion.

His birth having destined him for
service, Napoleon had Just completed
his sixteenth year, when, in August,
1785, after being examined by Laplace,
he obtained his first commission as
lieutenant of artillery in the regiment
of La Fere. He was already desirous
of fame, and had conceived the idea of

3-vm tfif orufmal /liuniuit/ h' f'l'i' /'■'■■v.'

ITAPOLEON BONAPAKTE.

345

making liimself a name by writing the
history of the war in Corsica. He
communicated his intention to Paoli,
at the same time requesting that that
officer would furnish him with the
necessary information; but an histo-
rian of eighteen did not probably in-
sjiire any great confidence, and Paoli
took no notice of his proposal. His
advancement, however, indemnified him
for this little mortification. In the
year 1789, he obtained a company of
artilleiy ; and the Revolution, which
broke out immediately afterwards,
seemed to open up a new and more en-
larged sphere of action. With this
movement he soon foresaw that all his
hopes and prospects were identified.
"Had I been a general," said he, in
the evening of his life, " I might have
adhered to the king ; but being a
Bubalteru, I joined the patriots."

Happening to be in Paris in the
year 1792, he witnessed the scene of
the 20th June, when the revolutionary
mob stormed the Tuileries, and placed
the lives of the king and his family in
the greatest jeopardy. He followed
the crowd into the garden before the
palace ; and when Louis XVI. appear-
ed on a balcony mth the red cap on
his head, he could no longer suppress
his contempt and indignation. " Poor
di'iveller," said Napoleon ; " how could
he suffer this rabble to enter ? If he
had swept away five or six hundred
of them with his cannon, the rest would
soon have disappeared." He was also
a witness of the events of the 10th of
August, when the throne was over-
turned, a provisional council establish-
ed, the king confined in the Temple,
the Repuldic proclaimed, and a nation-
al

al convention called to ft"ame a charter
At this time he was without employ-
ment, and poor ; wandering idly about
Paris, living at the shops of restaura-
teurs, projecting a variety of schemes, —
some of them wild enough, — and in a
great measure dependent upon the
scanty resoui'ces of his class-fellow
Bourrienne. But the circumstances of
the times were such that he was not
suffered to remain lone; inactive.
Being offered the command of a bat-
talion of national volunteers destined
to join the expedition to Sardinia, he
readily accepted it ; and upon the re-
turn of the expedition he re-entered the
artillery with the rank of superior
officer, or commandant. Till the siege
of Toulon, however, he led an insig-
nificant life. But this operation
proved in some measure decisive of his
fortunes. He saw that, from the sit-
uation which he held, as second in
command of the artillery, he might
have some influence on the result of
the siege ; and the event justified his
anticipations.

When, towards the close of August,
1793, Toulon, the great port and arse-
nal of France on the Mediterranean,
had, along with the fleet, been delivered
into the hands of the allies, the situa-
tion of France was truly deplorable.
Lyons had raised the standard of the
Boui'bons ; civil war raged in Langue-
doc and Provence ; the victorious
Spanish army had passed the PjTenees,
and overrun Koussillon ; and the Pied-
montese army, having cleared the Alps,
was at the gates of Chambery and
Antibes. Terror, discord, and defec-
tion reigned within : whilst on the
frontiers one reverse followed hard al

346

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

the heels of another. But the allies
were not sufficiently sensible of the
importance of the acquisition which
they had just made. About six weeks
were passed in assembling the force
and means necessaiy for the siege.
On the 15th of October a council of
war was assembled at Olioulles, where
the conventional pro-consul, Gasparin,
presided; and on this occasion there
was read to the council a memoir on
the conduct of the siege of Toulon,
which had been drawn up by the cel-
ebrated engineer D'Arcon, and approv-
ed by the committee of fortifications.
Napoleon opposed the adoption of this
plan, and proposed one much more
simple. "Your object," said he, "is
to make the English evacuate Toulon.
Instead of attackius; them in the town,
^vhich must involve a series of oper-
ations, and ruin the place, endeavor
to establish batteries so as to sweep
the harbor and roadstead. If you do
this, the English ships must take their
departure, and the English troops will
certainly not remain behind them,"
He then pointed out a promontory
nearly opposite the town, by establish-
ing batteries on which the desired
eifect might be attained. "Gain La
Grasse," said he, "and in two days Tou-
lon will be yours." Had this sugges-
tion been adopted in time the result
would have been as Napoleon predic-
ted ; but the English had leisure allow-
ed them to construct Fort Mula:rave,
and to render it so strong that it went
by the name of Little Gibraltar.
Nevertheless, Napoleon's system pre-
vailed. Instead of attacking the body
of the place, the principal effort was
directed against Fort Mulgrave; and

in a month the desired end was obtain
ed. On the 18th December the besie-
gers entered Toulon, but were able to
save only the half of the squadron ; the
other half, the arsenal, and the dock-
yards, having been consumed by the
conflagration kindled by the English
as they abandoned the place.

The recovery of Toulon was a ser-
vice of the very first importance to the
revolutionary government. It sup-
pressed the insurrectionary spirit in
the south of France, restored the cred-
it of the republican arms, and render-
ed disposable the force which had been
employed in the siege. But the man
to whose genius alone success was
due did not immediately obtain the
credit of this important achievement.
The truth, however, was too generally
known to be effectually concealed.
Napoleon was appointed general of
brigade, and in the beginning of 1794
was sent to the army of Italy to com-
mand the artillery. The general-in-
chief Dumerbion, was old and incapa-
ble ; the head of his staff, though a
man of information, wanted talents;
and, between them, war was carried,
on without art or skill in the Maritime
Alps. Napoleon proposed a plan for
turning the famous position of Saorgio.
His suggestion was adopted ; Saorgio,
with all its stores, surrendered, and
the French obtained possession of the
Maritime Alps. He then proposed
another, which had for its object to
unite the army of the Alps and that
of Italy under the walls of Coni — an
operation which would have 'secured
Piedmont, and enabled the combined
force, without any great effort, to es-
tablish itself on the Po. It was found

NAPOLEON BONAPAETE.

347

impossilile, however, to come to an ar-
rangement with tlie staff of the army
of the Alps ; but Napoleon indemnified
himself by carrying the army of Italy
as far as Savona, and to the gates of
Ceva ; by which means he disengaged
Genoa, then threatened by the allies,
and would have achieved more impor-
tant results had not his progress been
stopped by the approach of winter and
the imperative orders of the committee.
He was superseded on the 6th of Au-
gust, 1794, apparently in consequence
of the labors of Aubry, who had re-
formed the organization of the army,
in order to impart to it greater solid-
ity.

Before the end of the year he went
to Paris in order to solicit employment,
but at first experienced a very cold re-
ception, probably on account of his
supposed connection with Robespierre,
with whose younger brother he was
known to have lived on terms of fi-iend-
ship. The re-action consequent on the
downfall of that extraordinary person-
age was then at its height, and threat-
ened France with evils not less terrible
than those from which it had Just es-
caped. Everything was in an unset-
tled state, and the monthly renewal
of the Committee of Puljlic Safety
served only to increase the confusion.
After a time, however. Napoleon was
placed amongst the generals of infantry
appointed to serve in La Vendee ; but
he refused to act in a situation which
he considered as altogether unsuitable
to him, and resolved to remain at Paris,
where he might be more usefully em-
ployed. This proved a fortunate de-
termination and soon led to service of
a more congenial kind. Kellermaun

had Just allowed himself to be beaten
in the Apennines. The committee
were anxious to repaii- the disaster,
and with this view attached Napoleon
to the board of military ojierations,
with orders to prepare such instruc-
tions as might seem calculated to brino:
back victory to the national standards.
This afforded him an opportunity of
making his talents knowTi, and prob-
ably contributed not a little to the fu
ture advancement of his fortunes.
Soon afterwards, he was appointed to
command a brigade of artillery in Hol-
land, where for some time the war
had languished; but before he could
avail himself of this appointment, his
serWces were requh'ed upon a neai-er
and more important field of action.

During the contest between the
Convention and the sections of Paris
it was proposed to Napoleon to com-
mand, under Barras, the armed force
destined to act against the Parisians.
He consented, upon condition of being
left fi'ee from all interference, and lost
not a moment in sending to Meudon
for the artillery. He had 5000 men
and 40 pieces of cannon, a force more
than sufficient to put down a riot, but
not too much against a national guard
well armed, and provided with artil-
lery; and he was reinforced by 1500
patriots, organized in three battalions.

On the 13th of Vendemiaire (4th of
October, 1795), the sectionaries march-
ed, nearly 30,000 strong, against the
Convention. One of their columns, de-
bouching in the Rue Saint- Ilonoro, ad-
vanced boldly to the attack ; but it
was instantly cliecked by the fire of the
artillery, which swept the street with
grapeshot, and soon afterwards it gave

348

NAPOLEON BONAPAKTE.

way iu confusion. A number of the
fugitives attemjjtecl to make a stand on
the steps of the church of St. Eoche,
where, owing to the narrowness of the
street, they Avere in a great measure
sheltered from the fire of the artillery.
Napoleon, however, promptly brought
a gun to bear upon them, and in a few
minutes this crowd was dispersed, leav-
insr })ehiud them a number of dead.
The column which debouched by the
Port-Royal was not more fortunate.
Exposed to the direct fire of the guns
stationed below the Tuileries, and tak-
en in flank by that of the other batteries
by which the bridge was commanded,
all its efforts to establish itself upon
the quays of the Seine proved unavail-
ing, and, after a very short struggle, it
dispersed, and fled in all directions.
In less than an hour the whole was
ended, and the Convention victorious.
This event, so trivial in itself, and
which scarcely cost 200 men on each
side, had important consequences. It
prevented the revolution fi'om retro-
grading ; it enabled the Convention to
disarm the sections ; and, above all, it
had a marked influence upon the futiire
fortunes of Napoleon. The eminent
service he had rendered was immedia-
tely rewarded with the rank of gener-
al of division ; in five days he was nam-
ed second in command of the army of
the interior ; and soon afterwards, on
the resignation of Barras, he was ad-
vanced to the chief command. He had
now passed into the order of marked
and distinguished men. But the situ-
ation which he held was by no means
suited to his views. He longed to
make war upon a more extended thea-
tre of action, and to profit by the ad-

vantages which fortune had thrown
in his way.

It was at this time, when his resi-
dence in Paris had begun to appear in-
supportable to his active mind, that he
became acquainted with the widow of
General Beauharnais, whom he after-
wards married. At the moment when
the sections were disarmed, the sword
of her husband, who had perished by
the guillotine, a victim of the tyranny
of Robespierre, had been taken from
her ; and she now sent her son Eugene,
a boy of fifteen, to beg that it might be
restored to her. Her request was at
once complied with, and the boy shed
tears as he received from the hands of
Napoleon the sword of his unfortunate
father. This scene touched Napoleon ;
and, having gone to give an account of it
to the mother of Eugene, he was so en-
chanted with her elegance and grace,
that he soon afterwards made her a
tender of his hand, which was accepted.
The marriage took place on the 9th of
March, 1796, only a few days before
he set out to assume the command of
the army of Italy.

Napoleon quitted his wife ten days
after their marriage, and, after a rapid
journey, arrived at the head-quarters
of the army at Nice. With that mo-
ment beo;an the most brilliant scene of
his entire career. " In three months,"
said he, " I shall be either at Milan or
at Paris ;" and before a year elapsed,
he had gro^vn old in victory. In the
course of eighteen months he made six
successful campaigns, destroyed five
Austrian armies, and conquered nearly
the whole of Italy. He obliged the
Pope and other Italian sovereigns to
send their choicest treasures of art to

NAPOLEON BONAPAETE.

349

Paris, a measure imitated from ancient
Rome, and savoring more of the spirit
of ancient conquest, than of the miti-
gated warfare of modern times. Among
the more memorable battles foucjht
during this war, were those of Lodi,
Roveredo, Arcole, Rivoli, and Taglia-
meuto. Bonaparte's activity and skill
counterbalanced the numerical inferi-
ority of his troops; and his personal
courage, and readiness of resources un-
der difficulties, procured him a great
ascendancy over the soldiery, by whom
he was familiarly called the "Little
Corporal."

The plan which he proposed for the
campaign united all suffrages ; for,
though at once bold and original, it
was in reality extremely simple. Its
distinctive characteristic consisted in
the mode by which it was proposed to
gain access to the fertile regions of
Italy. Former invaders had uniformly
penetrated the Alps at some point or
other of that mighty range of moun-
tains. Napoleon judged that the sam©
end might be more easily attained by
turning them ; that is, by advancing
along the narrow gorge of compara-
tively level country which intervenes
between these huge barriers and the
Mediterranean, and by forcing a pas-
sage at that point where the last ele-
vations of the Alps pass by gradual
transition into the first and lowest of
the Apennine range. By the treaty of
Campo-Formio, concluded on the 3d of
October, 1707, Austria yielded to
France Belgium and the boundaries of
the Rhine and the Alps, recognized the
Cisalpine republic, and received, as an
indemnification for the loss of terri-
tory, Venice and her Italian provinces;

whilst France assumed the sovereignty
of Dalmatia and the Ionian Islands.

Napoleon having thus terminated
the most wonderful series of cam-
paigns recorded in the history of war,
set out for Paris, where he arrived in
the beginning of December. The re-
ception which he met with, on this oc-
casion, was such as would have elated
the most modest, and encouraged the
least ambitious. It was easy to see
that he might aspire to everything in
France. Nevertheless, the time had
not yet arrived to profit by his fame,
and take advantage of his popularity ;
it was necessary to wait until the Di-
rectory had completed its discredit
with the country, and lost all hold of
public opinion. France had indeed
proclaimed him as its hero; but this
was not enough, and to become the
head of the state, it was necessary to
be at the same time its deliverer and
restorer.

During the negotiations at Campo-
Formio, Napoleon had suggested the
idea of a descent upon Egyj)t, though
he did not think of undertaking it
himself. The jiroject had been relished
by Talleyrand, who had succeeded to
the ministry of foreign affairs. Napo-
leon now offered to carry it into exe-
cution. Europe he considered as but
a mole-hill in comparison of Asia,
whence "all the great glories " had
come. And from the view which he
took of the state of India at the time,
he conceived, that in undertaking to
open a direct communication with that
country he was taking the surest means
to strike an effective blow at England.
The expedition to Egypt had thiee ob-
jects: first, to establish on the Nile a

350

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

Frencli colony, wliicli, without having
recourse to the system of cultivation
by slaves, shoixld supply the produce
of St. Domingo and the sugar islands ;
secondly, to open new outlets for
French manufactures in Africa, Ara-
bia, and Syria, and to obtain, in return,
all the productions of those countries ;
and, thirdly, setting out from Egypt as
a base of operations, to carry an army
of fifty thousand men to the Indus,
and make common cause with the Mah-
rattas, the Hindus, the Mussulmans,
and all the oppressed races of the In-
dian peninsula.

Egypt, it is true, was then a tributary
of the Porte, one of the most ancient
allies of France ; but as the Mamelukes
were the real masters of the country,
and in open revolt against the Sultan,
it was thought that the Divan, already
occupied with the war against Paswan
Oglou, pasha of Widin, and that
against the Wahabees, and obliged,
from weakness, to tolerate the inde-
pendence of a number of refractoiy
pashas, would not, for a mere shadow
of sovereignty, throw itself blindly
into the ranks of the enemy. The pre-
parations were accordingly carried on
with great activity, but with the ut-
most secrecy. All was under the di-
rection of Napoleon, and his character-
istic energy everywhere appeared. To
draw the attention of England from
the ports of the Mediterranean, he
visited those of the Channel, and af-
fected to occupy himself with the pro-
ject of crossing it, when his thoughts
were directed towards the invasion of
Egypt. For this purpose, in May,
1798, a splendid armament was equip-
ped at Toulon, with every requisite for

colonizing the country and prosecuting
scientific and antiquai'ian researches.
He reached Egypt in July, expelled,
after several hard-fought battles, the
dominant military caste of Ma^nelukes,
and made subjects of the native Egyp-
tians. His administration, except in an
absurd attempt to conciliate the natives
by professing Mohammedanism, was
that of a wise and politic statesman ;
and there was every prospect that the
French, although insulated from Eu-
rope by the destruction of their fleet at
Aboukir, would permanently establish
themselves in Egypt. Many improve-
ments, by which the country has since
derived signal benefit, were introduced
by him ; and to the scientific depart-
ment of the expedition we are indebted
for the foundation of our present knowl-
edge of the natural history and anti-
quities of Egypt. Early in 1799, Bo-
naparte apprised Tippoo Saib of his de-
sign of marching against the British in
India. The hostilities of the Ottoman
Porte induced him, however, to invade
Syria. After crossing the desert, and
taking El-Arish, Jafi'a, and Gaza, he
was repulsed at Acre by Sir Sidney
Smith, and compelled to make a dis-
astrous retreat on Egypt.

The destruction of the Turkish anny
having consolidated the position of the
French in Egypt, Napoleon decided on
returning to France. Even when be-
fore St. Jean D'Acre, he ascertained
that a new coalition had been formed ;
and at a later period he received,
through Sir Sidney Smith, several
English Journals, and the French ga-
zette of Frankfort, which informed him
of the reverses sustained by the armies
of Italy and the Bhine, as well as of

NAPOLEON EONAPAETE.

351

the successive revolutions wlaicli had
completed the disorganization and de-
basement of the Directory. The con-
summation which he had contemplated
])efore leaving France seemed to have
at length arrived ; and no obstacle
stood in the way to prevent his return
to that country. Having left the chief
command to Kleber, Napoleon sailed
£fom Alexandria on tte 24th of Au-
gust, 1799, with a small squadron of
four ships, and, after a passage full of
marvellous escapes, landed at Frejua
on the 6th of October. His presence
excited the enthusiasm of the people,
and was considered by them as the
certain pledge of victory. His pro-
gress to the capital had all the appear-
ance of a triumphal procession, and,
upon reaching Paris, he found that
everj^thiug was ripe for a great change
in France.

The necessity of a change in the ex-
isting order of things had for some
time been generally felt and acknowl-
edged. The Directorial government
having lost all hold on public opinion,
and become equally feeble and con.
temptible, it seemed necessary to re-
place it l)y an imposing authority ; and
there is none so much so as that which
is founded upon military glory. Na-
poleon perceived this in all its force.
The Directory could only be replaced
by him or by anarchy; and, in such a
case, the clioice of France could not
for a moment be doubtful. Accord-
ingly, all parties now ranged them-
selves under two distinct banners ; on
the one side were the republicans, wlio
opposed his elevation ; and on the
other all France, which demanded it.
A coup d'etat was nevertheless neces- '

sary to produce the revolution of the
18th of Brumaire ; and this was effect-
ed by the eniployment of the troops,
although without spilling a drop of
blood. Napoleon had for a moment
hoped that the projected change would
be carried by acclamation. He was
disappointed. But, after a short and
noisy struggle, the republic, born
amidst anarchy, and baptized in blood,
expired in clamor and uproar — Sieyes
assisting in the demolition of his own
work ; and the Directory was replaced
by a provisional consulate, with Na-
poleon at its head. The dissolution of
the councils was followed by the ap-
pointment of a legislati^■e commission,
and to a committee of this l)ody was
assigned the task of preparing a new
constitution, which was afterAvards de-
nominated that of the year VHI.

Great as had been the ability dis-
played by Napoleon in the field, few
expected that he would evince equal
talents and aptitude for government.
At the very first meeting of the con-
suls, a lengthened discussion took
place concerning the internal condi-
tion and foreign relations of France,
and the measures not only of war, but
of finance and diplomacy, which it
either was or might l)e expedient to
adojit. To the astonishment of Sicyes,
Napoleon entered fully into all these
subjects, showed perfect familiarity
with them even in tlieir miiiutcst de-
tails, and suggested various resolutions,
which it was impossible not to ap
prove. " Gentlemen,' says Sieyes, on
reacliing liis house, w/iere Talleyrand
and others awaited his arrival, " I per-
ceive that you have found a master;
one who can do and will do everything

352

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

himself." The work of reform proceed-
ed rapidly aud surely : order was every-
where established, and vigor infused
into all the departments of the state.
The situation of France, however, oc-
casioned him some disquietude; and,
notwithstanding the chances of success
in his favor, he resolved to sue for
peace, which he could then do in good
faith, because the misfortunes of the
preceding campaigns were not his work.
But Pitt turned a deaf ear to the ap-
plication, and by this refusal obliged
Napoleon to enter upon that course of
victory and conquest which ultimately
extended his empire over the greater
part of the Continent.

In 1800, he marched an army across
the Alps by the route of the Great St.
Bernard, descended unexpectedly on
tlie rear of the Austrians, and, June
1 4th, gave them a complete overthrow
at Marengo. Having recovered nearly
all the former conquests of the French
by this battle, he returned to Paris to
avail himself of this triumph to ad-
vance his power. But the rejection of
the overtures of the Bourbons, and the
ol)vious design of Bonaparte to appi'o-
prlate the crown to himself, led to a
union between the Royalists and Jaco-
bins; and plots were formed against
his life, from one of which he narrowly
escaped. In November he resumed
hostilities against Austria; and the
battle of Hohenlinden, gained by Mo-
reau, December 2d, concluded the war.
Austria then acknowledged the Cisal-
pine Republic, and permitted France
to possess the boundary of the Rhine,
and to annex Holland to her domin-
ions. The war, continued by England,
was distinguished for the battle of Co-

penhagen, fought April 2d, 1801, by
which the Northern Maritime Confed-
eracy was broken up ; and for the re-
covery of Egypt from the French by
the army of Abercrombie : it was end-
ed in 1802, by the Treaty of Amiens.

During this short cessation of arms,
the attention of the First Consul was
occupied with the re-establishment of
religion, and the arrangement of a con-
cordat with the pope. The churches
were deserted and in ruins ; aud since
the famous civil constitution of 1791,
the clergy had been in a state of com-
plete schism. His object was to restore
the one and to reconcile the other, but
without suffering them to acquire the
power aud influence they had formerly
possessed. His next measure was the
establishment of a system of national
education ; and this was followed by
the commencement of the great and
difficult biit highly important task of
providing France with a uniform code of
laws. One of the various remarkable
codes known generally under the col-
lective designation of Code Napoleon,
the code civil de Frangais, is unques-
tionably the best. It has continued
hitherto to be the law of France, and
is perhaps the most valuable result of
his extraordinary reign. It was his
own proud anticipation that he would
go down to posterity with the codes in
his hand, and in this he was not mis-
taken. Innumerable works of public
'utility were likewise begun. Roads
and bridges were planned; museums
were founded ; and the vain Avere grat-
ified with rising monuments of magnifi-
cence, whilst the reflecting recognized
in every such display the depth and
forecast of a genius formed for empire.

NAPOLEOX BONAPARTE.

353

This was more fully evinced in the
measures by Avliich Napoleon sought
to secure the prolongation of his pow-
er. The estaljlishment of tlie consu-
late for life, which was decreed on the
2d of August, 1802, proved a grand
step towards the completion of his de-
sign, and fonned the primary base of
the edifice which it yet remained for
him to construct. This dignity had
already been prorogated for ten years
by a senatus-consultum of the 6th of
May ; but on referring the matter to the
people, it was decided that the consu-
late should be conferred upon him for
life. He was now virtually sovereign
of France. His task was to terminate
the Revolution by giving to it a legal
character, that it might be recognized
and legitimated by the public law of
Europe. He instituted, likewise, a
new order of chivalry, called the Le-
gion of Honor, which, if it served to
further his scheme of empire, did not
militate with that equality which
alone he sought to maintain.

On the 18th of May, 1803, Great
Britain declared war against France ;
and that fierce contest recommenced,
which, after an unexampled career of
victory on the part of Napoleon, was
destined to terminate in his downfall.
His first measures were, the occupa-
tion of Naples and of Hanover ; and his
next j)roject was one of a far more
daring and formidable character, name-
ly, that of invading England, and thus
striking a l)lo\v at the heart of his in-
veterate an<l implacable enemy. The
English ministry were not without se-
rious apprehensions as to the result of
the threatened invasion ; and to cause
a diversion, they are said to have coun-
45

tenanced the unwarrantal >le warfare of
plots and conspiracies. Finding him-
self exjiosed to the attempts of despe-
radoes who aimed at his life. Napoleon
resolved to deal a decisive T)low, whicli
he considered as indispensable to strike
teri'or into his enemies. A distinguish-
ed Bourbon was at the gates of Stras-
burg ; the police pretended to have
discovered evidence which imjilicated
him in the designs of those Avho had
plotted against the life of the First
Consul ; and under the first excite-
ment produced by this information,
the fatal command was issued to seize
the prince and bring him to Paris.
The order was promptly obeyed, and
the Due d'Enghien, having been seized
at Etteuheim, in the territory of Baden,
was carried to Paris, where on his ar-
rival he was tried by a military com-
mission, as an emigrant who had borne
arms against France, condemned, and
sliot almost immediately after tlie sen-
tence had been pronounced. This was
the most unwarrantal )le occurrence in
the life of Napoleon. That he was
misled by the infamous reports of the
secret police, and l)y the perfidious
suggestions of those around him, may
perhaps be true ; indeed, there is good
reason to believe that such was the
case. He was likewise kept in igno-
rance of the afflicting circumstances
which accompanied the catastro])he ;
and" the appeal made to liis clemency
by the iinfortunate jirince was infa-
mously withheld until after the sacri-
fice of the ill-fated victim had l)eeu
consummated ; but, with every allow-
ance Avhich can justly be made, it must
nevertheless be admitted that, in com-
mandintr the seizure of the duke in a

351

NAPOLEON BO>^APARTE.

neutral territory, he became answera-
ble for all tlie ooiisoqiienoes which en-
sued, and that he hud the double mis-
f')rtune to incur the guilt of a public
crime, and at tlie same time to commit
a political error of the greatest magni-
tude.

The conspiracies intended to subvert
the power of Napoleon, however, serv-
ed only to confirm it ; and the necessi-
ty of restoring to France an hereditary
and stable sovernment had now become
equally obvious and urgent. A motion
was accordingly made and carried in the
Tribunate, that the imj)erial dignity
should be conferred upon Napoleon;
the legislative body without hesitation
adopted the proposition ; and a senatus-
consultum ajjpeared, in which he was
declared Emperor of the French, with
remainder to his male line, or, in the
event of his having no children, to any
son or (i-raudson of his brothers whom he
might choose to adopt as his heir. This
decree was sent down to the depart-
ments, and on the 1st of December,
1804, the prefects reported that be-
tween three and four millions of citi-
zens had subscribed their assent to the
proposed measure. By the army the
elevation of Napoleon was hailed with
enthusiasm; and when he visited the
camp at Boulogne, he was received
with an excess of military devotion.
His coronation took place at Paris on
the 2d of December, amidst all that
was most splendid and illustrious in
that capital. The ceremony was per-
formed in the cathedral of Notre-Dame,
where the pope officiated on the occasion,
and consecrated the diadems, which Na-
poleon placed on his own head, and on
that of the Empress Josephine. In

like manner, on the 25th of May, 1805,
he placed on his head the iron crown
of the Lombard kings, in their ancient
capital, and henceforth styled himself
Emperor of the French and King of
Italy; announcing, however, that the
two crowns should not be held by the
same person after his death.

In this year, Austria, Russia, and
Sweden formed an alliance w^ith Eng-
land against France. In the same
year, October 21st, the naval power of
France w;t-< destroyed by the battle of
Trafalgar. But on the other hand, in
a single campaign, which was concluded
December 2d, by the battle of Auster-
litz. Napoleon overthrew the fabric of
the German empire, and obliged the
other members of the coalition to sep-
arate from England and sue for peace.
He then associated Bavaria, Wurtem-
l>erg, the Grand Duchy of Berg, and
several smaller German states, under
the title of the Confederation of the
Ehine, of which he constituted himself
Protector, receiving in return the ser-
vices of about sixty thousand soldiers.
Venice was added to the kingdom of
Italy; while Joseph and Louis Bona-
parte were appointed respectively kings
of Naples and Holland. At the con-
clusion of this war Napoleon created a
new order of nobility ; many of whom
bore foreign titles, and received ex-
tended grants in the teiritories recent-
ly conquered by France. He was
now surrounded by men of the most
opposite character and principles, yet
all so well chosen for ajatitude to their
several offices that he was devotedly
and efficiently served. He had a keen
perception of talent in others, and Judg
ment in giving it a suitable direction :

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

355

not a few of liis ablest followers, among
them, Launes, Junot, Murat, Victor,
Augereau, and Soult, were of humble
origin. Napoleon usurped the entii'e
control of the civil and eccle.siastical
polity, and by means of coinpulsory
laws for military service, and the sup-
pression of pul)lic opinion by an in-
quisitorial police and an enslaved
press, estaljlished a comj^lete despotism
in France.

Prussia had been induced to remain
neutral during the ^var of which we
have just spoken, by a promise of
the cession of Hanover. Instead of
fulfilling this engagement. Napoleon,
by a series of injuries, provoked a dec-
laration of war in 1806. Prussia was
suljjugated by the battle of Jena,
fought October 14th : and Napoleon
then mai'ched into Poland against the
Emperor of Russia ; whom, after sev-
eral battles, at Pultusk, Preuss-Eylau,
and Friedlaud, he compelled to sue for
peace. By the treaty of Tilsit, Prussia
was dismembered, her sovereign retain-
ing but a scanty portion of his domin-
ions. Jerome Bonaparte received the
kingdom of Westphalia, which was
formed from the Prussian and Hano-
verian territories, whilst the Prusso-
Polish provinces were formed into the
Grand Duchy of Warsaw, and bestow-
ed on Napoleon's ally tlie Elector of
Saxony, who was also gratified with
the title of king.

The want of a navy rendering Na-
poleon unable to contend with Eng-
land, he endeavored to separate her from
the European world. In 1806, by cer-
tain decrees issued at Berlin and Milan,
and acknowledged at the Treaty of Til-
sit by every continental power, Eng-

land was declared in a state of block-
ade, and all articles of En<T;lish cn-owth
and manufacture were excluded from
their ports. But as the rigid enforce-
ment of these decrees was prevented
by the access of the English to the
Peninsula, Napoleon devised a scheme
for rendering this part of Europe also
amenable to his authority. In 1807, a
treaty was concluded with Spain ; and,
by a joint invasion of the Spanish and
French forces, Portugal was sulxlued
and the House of Braganza expelled.
But under pretext of supporting this
invasion, Napoleon filled the most im-
portant military stations in Spain with
his own troops. The royal family were
enticed into France, and compelled by
threats of violence to renounce all
claims to their hereditary throne. Jo-
seph Bonaparte, resigning the king-
dom of Najiles to Mm-at, repaired to
Madrid, and was crowned king of
Spain. But a fierce war breaking out be-
tween Joseph and his ne^v subjects, the
French, who had already been driven
from Portugal,! )y Sir Arthur Wellesley,
seemed on the point of losing the whole
Peninsula. Napoleon, in a campaign
which he conducted in person, re-es-
tal)lished his power in the Penin.sula ;
Init a declaration of war liy Austria
recalled him in mid-conquest. He
hurried to the German frontier, and
after l)eating the Austrians at Abens-
berg, Landshut, and Eckmulil, and
takins: Vienna, concluded the war by
the battle of Wagram, fought July
Gth, 1800. A treaty was signed at
Schoeni)run in October, by which
Austria made great sacrifices of ten!
tory and population. At Schoenbrun
Napoleon narrowly escaped death by

356

NAPOLEOX BOXAPAKTE.

tlie hand of a young German enthusiast,
named Stabbs. During this war, Home
was annexed to France, as the second
city of the empire ; and the pope, thus
entirely stripped of his temporal do-
miTiions, was soon after removed to
Fontainebleau, where he was confined
as a prisoner.

Desirous of an heir to succeed to his
vast empire, Napoleon, on his return
from Schoeul)ruu, divorced his empress,
and, in accordance with one of the ar-
ticles of the late treaty, married Maria
Louisa,daughterofthe Emperor of Aus-
tria, in March, 1810. This marriage was
followed, in 1811, by the birth of a son,
who was styled King of Rome. Al-
though Napoleon remained in Paris in
attendance on his new consort, his plans
of ambition suffered no interruption.
In 1810, he deposed his brother Louis,
who thought too much of the welfare
of his own subjects ; and annexed Hol-
land, together with the Hanse Towns
and the whole sea-coast of Germany,
to the French empire. The election of
the French Marshal Bernadotte to the
crown of Sweden seemed to place all
Euriipe, except England, Russia, and
the Peninsiila, in the jjower of France.
On the dej^arture of Napoleon from
Spain, in 1809, England again attempt-
ed to deliver the Peninsula ; and, dur-
ing the two succeeding years, Welling-
ton did much towards effecting this
object. The Emperor of Russia, who,
at the treaty of Tilsit, was supposed
to have agreed with Napoleon on the
division of the European world, now
found the power of the latter danger-
ous to his ov,ni kingdom, which also
suffered greatly from the prohibition
of commerce with England. Napoleon,

perceiving that his l)rother emperor
desisned to avail himself of tJie revers-
es in the Peninsula to insist on a more
liberal coiu'se of policy, and security
against futm-e aggression, determined
on war. In 1812, he invaded Russia,
with the largest army that had ever
been assembled under one Eiu'opean
leader. After beating the Russians at
Smolensko and Borodino, he took pos-
session of Moscow, September 14th.
But the approach of wdnter, the burn-
ing of the city, and the consequent
want of food and shelter, rendered it
impossible to remain there; and the
Czar refusing to listen to proposals for
peace, Napoleon, after five weeks' res-
idence at Moscow, was obliged to with-
draw. In the celebrated retreat which
followed, the French army was utterly
destroyed, more by the climate than
by the enemy ; the emperor himself es-
caj^ed with difficulty.

The spirit of the French people was
roused by this disaster, and Napoleon
speedily found himself at the head of
another vast army. But Prussia and
Sweden now Joined the league against
bim, and experience had made liis ene-
mies more fit to cope with him ; and
though, in 1813, he won the battles of
Lutzen and Bautzen in Saxony, he de-
rived no material advantage from them.
Having refused to accede to the terms
proposed through the mediation of
Austria, which would have restricted
France to her ancient power and boun-
daries, this state also took part with
the allies against him. After gaining
the battle of Dresden, in August, Na-
poleon was compelled, by the succes-
sive defeat of four of his marshals, to
abandon his position on the Elbe, and

NAPOLEON BONAPAETE.

357

retire on Leipsic. In October was
fought the great battle of Leipsic,
where, in three days, the French lost
upwards of fifty thousand men. The
emperor then retreated across the Rhine.
The Rhenish Confederacy was forthwith
dissolved, and the pope and Ferdinand
were permitted to return to their respec-
tive dominions.

Napoleon having thus lost all his
allies and foreign possessions, still re-
vised the reasonaTde terms of peace
which were offered to him, and pre-
pared to defend France against inva-
sion. Wellington crossed the Pyrenees
in 1814, and about the same time the
Russian and German armies passed
the Rhine. During this campaign
Napoleon showed wonderful energy
in encountering his numerous enemies,
but still adhered, with o})stinate ar-
rogance, to what he considered due
to his own personal glory, and re-
fused to treat for peace. After losing
the battles of Brienne and La Rothiere,
in February, he entered on a negotia-
tion with the allies ; during the discus-
sion of which he attacked and defeated
the Prussians on the Marne; and, on
the 17th and 18th, with a perfect
knowledge that his minister had sign-
ed the preliminaries of peace, he as-
saulted the Austrians and defeated
them at Nangis and Montereau. These
successes were useless, and only served
to exasperate his foes. In March he
was beaten at the battles of Craonne
and Laon, and finding the allies getting
the superiority, he skilfully marched
on their rear with the view of inclos-
ing them 1)et\veun his own army and
the capital. But the allies obtained
possession of Paris, and llniling the

people alienated by the tyranny of the
emperor, declared they would no more
treat with Napoleon Bonaparte. The
weakened state of his army, and the
defection of most of his ministers and
generals, left him without resources.
On the 11th of April, Napoleon re-
nounced, for himself and his heirs, the
thrones of France and Italy.

The allies having left Napoleon the
choice of his retreat, he chose the
island of Elba, near to his native Cor-
sica, and set out, accompanied by four
commissioners, one from each of the
great allied powers. He was allowed
to retain the title of Emperor, and to
take alonsr with him a small number of
those veteran soldiers who had accom-
panied him in so many dangers and
whose attachment was not shaken
by his misfortunes. On the 4th of
May he landed in Elba, wherein, be-
ing separated from his wife and son,
and without any projects for the
future, he seemed to regard himself
as politically dead to Europe, with no
other task remaining for him to per-
form but that of writing the history
of the rise and fall of his power.

Napoleon anxiously watched the
progress of events, which outran his
expectations; he was also ■well inform-
ed as to what passed at the congress of
Vienna; and having learned in time
that the ministers of Louis XVIII. had
projiosed to the congress to remove
him from Elba, in order to send him
in exile to St. Helena, he conceived a
project which cii'cumstances indicated
as the only reasonable course to be
followed. He resolved to return to
France.

His preparations were not long ; he

358

NAPOLEON BONAPAETE.

brought nothing with him but arms,
and tnasted that France would pro-
vide the rest. After a passage of five
days, he Landed without opposition at
Cannes, near tlic spot ^\•]lL're, fifteen
years before, he had disembarked on his
return from Egypt. This memorable
event took place on the 1st of March,
1815. He had no determinate plan,
because he wanted particular data as
to the state of affairs; his intention
Avas to be guided by events, making
provision only for probable contin-
gencies. Nor was he at all embar-
rassed as to the route he should take ;
for he required a point of support, and
as Grenoble was the nearest fortress,
he lost no time in directing his march
on that place, which opened its gates
to receive him. The enthusiasm of
the troops knew no bounds, and the
reception which he everywhere met
with confirmed him in his project. In
fact, his march to Paris was through-
out a triumphal procession. In twenty
days this new revolution was termina-
ted without having cost a single di'oj)
of blood. Amidst the acclamations
of all France, Napoleon was reinstated
on the throne. The grandeur of his
enterprise had effaced the recollection
of his misfortunes ; it had restored to
him the confidence of the French peo-
ple ; and he was once more the man of
their choice.

In a proclamation published by the
Congress of Vienna to all Europe, it
was declared that Napoleon, " by ap-
pearing again in France, had deprived
himself of the protection of the law,
and manifested to the world that there
could neither be peace nor truce with
him." Nothing remained, therefore,

but to commit the future destiny of
Europe to the arbitrament of arms.
Various attempts were made to open
a negotiation with the allies, but all
proved abortive ; and as Najjoleon had
no intention to await the onset of his
enemies, he resolved to fall upon the
Anglo-Prussians, before the troops of
Austria or Russia could be in a condi-
tion to take part in the conflict. By
the end of May he had about 180,-
000 men ready to take the field, and by
the middle of July this number would
have been increased to 300,000; but
by transporting the seat of war into
Belgium, he would save France from
invasion, and perhaps take the ene-
my unprepared. These considera-
tions decided him to become the as-
sailant. On the 12th of June he set
out from Paris, and on the 14th he es-
tablished his head-quarters at Beau-
mont, where, in order to profit by the
dissemination of the enemy, he judged
it necessary to open the campaign
without a moment's delay.

Accordingly, he passed the frontier
of Belgium on the 15th, and on the
following day advanced to Fleurus,
where he discovered the Prussian army
ranged in order of battle between St
Amand and Sombref. Ney had receiv
ed orders to push forward with 42,000
men by the Brussels road as far as
Quatre Bras, an important point sit-
uated at the intersection of the roads
leading to Brussels, Neville, Charleroi,
and Namur, and there to keep the
English in check and prevent them
from advancing to the aid of the Prus-
sians, whom Napoleon proposed to at-
tack with the 72,000 men that remain
ed under his command. The battle of

NAPOLEON EONAPARTE.

359

Ligny followed, in which the Prussians
were defeated ; and so complete was
the rout, that, of 70,000 men, their
generals were never afterwards able to
assemble more than about 30,000. A
night pursuit would have annihilated
them. But Ney had l)een much less
fortunate at Quatre Bras, where he
displayed great infirmity, neither bring-
iu<j his whole force to bear on the Ena;-
lish, nor tlirowing himself back on Bry
to act on the rear of the Prussians.
The Prussian army being thus defeat-
ed. Grouchy was detached in pursuit
of it with 3.5,000 men, whilst Napoleon
proceeded to turn his efforts against
Wellington. In the great battle of
Waterloo, the fate of Bonaparte was
decided, and with it that of Europe.
The result, more fatal to France than
that of either Agincourt or Poictiers,
is known to every one. By the time-
ly arrival of the Prussians, who had
given the slip to Grouchy, and their
junction with the English, the French
army was not only defeated, but total-
ly (lisj^ersed.

Napoleon returned to Paris, in the
hope that the national spirit might be
roused, and that all good Frenchmen
would unite in defending tlieir coun-
try against another foreign invasion.
But he soon found that he had deceiv-
ed himself. Misfortune had deprived
him of all consideration; he experienc-
ed opposition where he least expected
it ; the chambers rose in a state of in-
surrection against him; and, in a short

time, he was compelled to sign a sec
ond abdication. He then decided to
retire to America, and at first proposed
to embark at Bordeaux, where his
brother Joseph had hired a merchant-
vessel for the purpose. But he after-
wards changed his purpose, and set
out for Rochefort, wliere he arrived
on the 3d of July. Finding it impos-
sible, however, to put to sea, and near-
ly equally perilous to return to the in-
terior, he took the resolution of throw-
ing himself upon the generosity of the
prince regent of England ; and, on the
15th, embarked on board of the Bel-
lerophon, in Aix Roads. By a formal
decision of the English government, he
was sent as a prisoner of war to St.
Helena, where he })ined aAvay in hope-
less exile, until death put an end to his
existence on the 3d of May, 1821. In
his will he had expressed a desire that
his body should he conveyed to France
and buried on the banks of the Seine,
" amongst the French people whom he
had loved so well ;" but this request
could not, it seems, be complied with
until 18-40, when, at the request of the
government of Louis Philipjie, Britain
permitted the removal of his remains
to France. The l)0(ly was accordingly
deposited with iinparalleled pomp and
display in the Hotel des Invalides, on
the loth December, 18-40.*

* Abridged from the Encyclopodift Britnnnica
and the "Gallery of Portnvits " of tho Society
for tho Diffusion of Useful Knowledge.

ROBERT FULTON.

THIS distinguished meclianician
and original inventor was a gen-
uine product of tlie American soil.
The genius, indeed, of the men whom
America produced in various depart-
ments of science in the last century,
the Franklins, the Rittenhouses, the
Kinnersleys, the "Whitneys, should be
more highly estimated than the paral-
lel attainments of our own day. At
present thousands of instructors and
thousands of new influences are pav-
ing the way to fresh inventions. Com-
mon schools and academies furnish the
pupil with profound elementary knowl-
edge ; libraries disclose the myriad
achievements of the past ; special news-
papers and magazines carry knowledge
to every hamlet ; kindred sciences wel-
come and assist one another ; social or-
ganizations encourage new discovery ;
government offers its prizes ; accumu-
lated commercial and manufacturinsr
wealth rewards the inventor on the
instant. How different this splendid
triumphal procession, from the first ele-
ments of science to fame and fortune,
from the groping into light of the hea-
ven-so\vn genius in the infant society
of America a hundred years ago ! It
must needs have been a plant of no

(360)

common hardihood, fully predestined
to growth and vitality, which could
then penetrate the crust of the world
in our western wilderness.

It has been remarked as a notewor-
thy coincidence, that Benjamin West
and Eol)ert Fulton came into the world
in the same vicinity, in what was, at
the time of their birth, a wild and un-
cultivated portion of the country, more
remote ffom the seaboard in means of
access and culture, than Arkansas is
at present. It is owing to one of these
men that the distance has been dimin-
ished, and that we are enabled to make
this truthful comparison. West was
born at Springfield, Pa., in 1738. Rob-
ert Fulton first saw the light in a town-
ship of Lancaster County, Pa., then
called Little Britain, but now bearing
the name of Fulton, in the year 1765.
His father, of the same name, was an
emigrant from Ireland. He was at
one time, we are told, a tailor, but at
his son's birth was the occupant of a
farm. He died too early to influence
the child's education, which was pick-
ed up mainly by himself, though we
hear of his being at school, and, as is
not uncommon with boys of genius, of
being accounted a dull fellow. This,

ROBERT FULTON.

361

in such cases, means simply that na-
ture is working in a way of her own,
independent of the schoolmaster. Of
the anecdotes related of his inter-
course with his Quaker schoolmaster,
Caleb Johnson, there is one of peculiar
significance. " I have," said that zeal-
ous instructor, in answer to the inqui-
ries of the boy's mother, " used my best
endeavors to fasten his attention uj)on
these studies, but Robert pertinacious-
ly declares his head to be so full of
original notions that there is no vacant
chamber to store away the contents of
any dusty books." * The busy brain
of the boy in fact teemed with notions.
At fourteen, he is at home in all the
workshops of the place. He contrives
for his companions a paddle-wheel
worked by a crank, for their flat-bot-
tomed fishing-boat, to relieve the cum-
brous poling on the Conestoga. He
has got the nick-name of " Quicksilver
Bob " among the workmen at the
smithery where the government arms
were made in those days of the Revo-
lution, in consequence of his ready cal-
culations of balls and distances, and
his consumption of that article in his
private exjieriments. He has also a
talent for drawing, displayed in cari-
caturing the Whig and Tory boys in
their fi<jhts in the streets of Lancaster.
At the a2;e of seventeen, followimz the
track of West, he finds his way to
Philadelphia, with the intention of
supporting himself as a painter, and is
so successful in the })ursuit that at the
age of twenty-one he is enabled to es-
tablish his mother on a farm of eighty-

* Reigart's Life of Fulton, Phaadelphia, 1856
— a book which contains niimorous anecdotes
of these early years.
46

foui' acres, in the distant Washinsrton
County of the State, the consideration
for which expressed in the deed is
eighty pounds " lawful money paid by
Robert Fulton, miniature painter, of
the city of Philadelphia and State
aforesaid;" — lawful money, truly, and
very creditable not only to the youth's
industry and family piety, but to the
appreciation of the good people of
Philadelphia. It is pleasant to know,
from the enthusiastic narrative of Mr.
Reigart, that for fourteen years, the
remainder of her life, " this earthly
heritage gave peace and comfort to
the widow's heart," and was after-
wards enjoyed by her daughter.

Some symptoms of disease, of a dis-
tressing pulmonary character, coming
upon him at this time, and his artistical
reputation being somewhat establish-
ed, he was induced by his friends to
visit England, with the expectation of
improved health, and aid and counsel
in his profession from Benjamin West,
who had become established in the
favor of the court and patrons of art
of that country. The kind Quaker
l)n inter received him with friendly hos-
pitality, making him a sliarer of his
home and artistic resources for several
years. At the end of this genial ap-
prenticeship, or, as we sliould rather
say, fellowsliij), Fulton j)Ui-sued his
course about England, with the design
of studying the masterpieces of art
conirrecratod in the rural mansions of
the nol)ility. He was for a time at
Powderham Castle, the seat of the
Courtenays in Devonshire, engaged in
copying the works of the masters on
its walls. He seems to have resided
in this princely abode under the pro

tection of the steward, a man of conse-
quence on sucli estates. It was while
he was in the neighborhood of Exeter
that he made the acquaintance of the
Earl of Bridgewater, the famous parent
of the canal system in England. By
his advice and example and the kin-
dred encouragement of Lord Stanhope,
with whom he was intimate, it would
appear that Fulton was led to adopt
the profession of a civil engineer, in
which, and not as a painter, he was
destined to become so well known to
the world.

At this time, in 1793, he addressed
a letter to Lord Stanhope on the sub-
ject of some experiments in tke appli-
cation of steam to navigation, contain-
ing the views which he afterwards
put in practice on the Hudson, and
whick, if heeded by the noble earl,
" the important invention of a success-
ful steamboat," says Professor Ken-
wick, " might have been given to tke
world ten years earlier than its actual
introduction."

Fulton now took up his residence at
Birmingham, then illuminated by the
genius of James Watt, to whom he
was naturally attracted, and witk
whose labors on the steam-engine he
became acquainted. He employed
himself particularly in the study of
canals, and took out a patent for a
double-inclined plane of his invention
for measuring inequalities of height,
the principle of whick was exhibited
in the treatise on the improvement of
canal navigation whick he publisked
in Loudon in 1796, with numerous
well-executed plates fi-om designs by
his own hand. A copy of this work
was sent by the autkor to President

Washington, with the intention of
brino'ing its theories into practical use
in America. Another was forwarded
with a letter to Governor Mifflin, of
Pennsylvania, urging, with numerous
calculations, tke introduction of a
canal system into tkat State, " as a
great national question."

Fulton also patented in England a
mill for sawing marble, for wkick ke
received tke tkanks of tke Britisk So-
ciety for tke Promotion of Acts and
Commerce, and an konorary medal ;
also mackines for spinning flax, mak-
ing ropes, and an eartk-excavator for
dicfo-ino- canals.

Li 1797, ke passed over to Paris,
witk tke design of bringing to tke no-
tice of tke Frenck Government kis in-
vention of tke torpedo, a device for tke
blowing up of enemies' vessels by at-
tacking beneath tke water a copi^er
canister of gunpowder, to be dis-
ckarged T)y a gunlock and clockwork.
He found kis ingenious countryman,
Joel Barlow, in tke Frenck capital, a
kindred spirit witk wkom ke formed
an acquaintance, wkick, as in tke case
of West, was intimately continued for
years under tke same roof. Fulton
availed kimself of tkis opportunity to
study tke Frenck and German and
Italian languages, and improve kis ac-
quaintance witk tke kigher branckes
of meckanical science. Among otker
employments, ke jirojected, it is said,
two buildings for tke exkibition of
panoramas, tke success of wkick owed
muck to kis assistance. On tke arrival
of Ckancellor Livingston in France, in
1801, as minister, ke found a ready as-
sistant in Fulton to the schemes of
steam navigation in which he had been

EOBEET FULTOX.

363

already engaged on the Hudson. Ex-
periments were set on foot in tlie two
following years wliicli resulted in suffi-
cient success in the movement of a
l)oat of considerable size, propelled by
steam on the Seine, to justify the pro-
secution of the work in America. An
engine of a peculiar construction, plan-
ned by Fulton, was ordered in Eng-
land from Watt and Bolton at Bir-
mingham. The preparation of this
machinery was in part superintended
by Fulton himself.

He had not, it would seem, relin-
quished his favorite schemes of tor-
pedo warfare, and finding little en-
couragement or success in his opera-
tions at Brest, under the auspices of
Napoleon, entered into a negotiation,
at the instance of Earl Stauhojie, who
thought the thing of importance, with
the English Government. This, how-
ever, also proved fruitless. The steam-
engine was comjileted and sent to New
York in 1806. In December of the
same year Fulton arrived in that city,
and immediately directed his attention
to his favorite projects. He enlisted
the Government in his scheme of " tor-
pedo warfare," which he brought to
the attention of the citizens in a lec-
ture before the magistrates and a few
invited persons on Governor's Island,
and a notable experiment in the har-
bor in July, 1807, when an old l)rig
was exploded by one of his heavily
charged canisters. A pleasant account
of the excitement into which the town
was thrown by tliese experiments may
be read in one of the numbers of Wash-
ington Irving's "Salmagundi," in which
Will Wizard undertakes to give an ac-
count of the affair. The pretensions of

"The North River Society," which it
was alleged was intended to set that
river on fire, were a frequent sul)ject
of merriment with the young wags of
this merry periodical, and Fulton's pro-
ject seemed to bring the thing to a
head. "The society have, it seems,"
says the number for July, 1807, "in-
vented a cunning machine, shrewdly
yclept a Torpedo ; by which the stout-
est line-of -battle ship, even a Saniifisi-
ma Trinidad may be caught napping
and decomposed in a twinkling ; a kind
of sul )mariue i:)owder magazine to swim
under water, like an aquatic mole or
water rat, and destroy the enemy in
the moments* of unsuspicious security."
We shall presently see Fulton retui'u
ing to these inventions.

In the mean time he was proceeding
with the construction of the steamboat,
which was to be a greater marvel to
the quidnuncs of the town than the
torpedo itself. By a privilege already
granted by the Legislature of the State,
the exclusive right of navieatino: its
waters was reserved to himself and
Livingston. To supply funds for the
completion of his vessel, he offered
one-third of his patent right for sale ;
but no one was found with faitli
enough in the enterprise to induce him
to come forward as the purchaser. The
boat Avas, however, at last launched on
the East River, and, contrary to the
pul)lic expectation, was actually moved
by her machinery to her station on the
Iluflson.

The Clermont — the boat was thus
named from the seat of Chancellor Liv-
ingston on the Hudson — was next ad-
vertised to sail for Albany; and ac-
cordingly took her (bqiarturc on ^lon

361

ROBEET FULTOK.

day afternoon, September 14th, 1807,
fi-ora a dock in the upper part of the
city on the North River. In thirty-
two hours she made her destination, a
distance of one hundred and fifty miles.
On her return to New York, a few days
after, the voyage was made in thirty
hours. A passage firom the letter of
Fulton to his friend, Joel Barlow, af-
fords an interesting memorial of the
occasion. After stating that the voy-
age had turned out rather more favor-
al>ly than he had calculated, and re-
markinij that, with a lio;ht breeze
against him, he had, solely by the aid
of the engine, " overtaken many sloops
and schooners beating to Avindward,
and parted with them as if they had
been at anchor," he adds, " The power
of propelling boats by steam is now
fully proved. The morning I left New
York, there were not perhaps thirty
persons in the city who believed that
the boat would ever move one mile an
hour, or be of the least utility ; and
while we were putting off fi-om the
wharf, which was crowded with sj)ec-
tators, I heard a number of sarcastic
remarks. This is the way in which
ignorant men compliment what they
call philosojjhers and projectors. Hav-
ing employed much time, money and
zeal in accomjilishing this work, it
gives me, as it will you, great pleasure
to see it fully answer my exj)ectations.
It will give a cheap and quick convey-
ance to the merchandise on the Missis-
sippi, Missouri and other great rivers,
which are now laying open their treas-
ures to the enterprise of our country-
men; and although the prospect of
personal emolument has been some in-
ducement to me, I feel infinitely more

pleasure in reflecting on the immense
advantage my country will derive from
the invention."

We find Fulton thus alluding to the
navigation of the Mississippi. It was
the original intention in the model of
the Clermont, which was especially
adapted for shallow waters. Indeed,
up to this time, as remarked by Pro-
fessor Eenwick, " although the exclu-
sive grant had been sought and ob-
tained from the State of NeAv York, it
does not appear that either Fulton or
his associate had been fully aware of
the vast opening which the navigation
of the Hudson presented for the use
of steam." The demand for travel
soon outran the narrow accommoda-
tions of the Clermont, now put upon
her regular trips upon the river ; an-
other vessel was built, larger and of
finer appointments; punctuality was
established, and the brilliant steam-
boat service of the Hudson fairly com
menced.

After a re\aew of the pi-etensions of
all claimants, the honor appears fairly
due to Fulton, of the first practical
application of steam, worthy the men-
tion, to navigation. There had indeed
been earlier attempts, both in this
country and abroad ; but, as shown in
the concise yet comjjrehensive sum-
mary of Professor Renwick, they could
be of but little importance before
James Watt; in 1786, completed the
structure of the double-acting conden-
sing engine. After this invention be-
came known, the chief rival claimant
is Patrick Miller, of Dalswinton, who
does appear to have thought seriously
of the thing in 1787, and employed
the engineer Symington to complete a

model for liim in 1791. "If we may-
credit the evidence wliicli has been ad-
duced," says Renwick, " the experi-
ment was as successful as the first at-
tempts of Fulton ; hut it did not give
to the inventor that degree of confi-
dence which was necessary to induce
him to embark his fortune in the en-
terprise." Symington's su])sequent at-
tempt, in 1801, was but a renewal of
the idea and plan of Miller. Fulton's
first letter on the subject, to Earl Stan-
hope, it will be remembered, was in
1793, and his practical experiments in
France began in 1802. In the history
of inventions, it is not uncommon to
find in this way claimants starting up
after the fact is established; men of
half ideas and immature efforts; in-
telligent dreamers, perhaps, but want-
ing confidence or al)ility to put their
visions into act. It is emphatically
the man who accomplishes, who makes
a living reality of the immature pro-
ject, who is entitled to the credit. The
world thus pays a respect to Franklin
for his discoveries in electricity, which
he would never have gained had he
not demonstrated their truth by draw-
ins? down the lightning from heaven.
Potentially, the steamboat of Fulton
lay in the steam-engine of Watt. Prac-
tically, it did not exist l)efore the
American inventor directed the Cler-
mont along the waters of the Hudson,
" a thing of life." His successive adapt-
ations and improvements in the appli-
cation of tlie steam-engine to naviga-
tion are fi'eely admitted, even by those
who dispute the honor of the first in-
vention.

We may here pause \\ ith Professor
llenwick, the biographer of Fulton, to

dwell for a moment upon tliis period
of success, consecrated to felicity in
the mari'iage of the triumphant in-
ventor with the niece of his friend and
partner Chancellor Livingston. Miss
Harriet Livingston Avas the ornament
of the society of which her eminent
uncle was the head. " Preeminent,"
we are told, " in beauty, grace and ac-
complishments, she speedily attracted
the ardent admiration of Fulton ; and
this was returned by an estimate of
his talent and genius, amounting al-
most to enthusiasm. The epoch of
their nuptials, the spring of 1808, was
that of Fulton's greatest glory. Every-
thing, in fact, appeared to concur in
enhancing the advantages of his posi-
tion. Leaving out of view all ques-
tions of romance, his bride was such as
the most impartial judgment would
have selected ; young, lovely, highly
educated, intelligent, possessed of what,
in those days, was accounted wealth.
His long labors in adapting the steam-
engine to the purposes of navigation,
had been followed by complete suc-
cess; and that very success had opened
to him, through the exclusive grant of
the navigation of the Hudson, the
I^rospect of vast riches. Esteemed and
honored, even by those who had been
most incredulous whih' his scheme was
in embryo, he felt himself placed on
the highest step of the social sciile."

Then ft>Ilowed what may be called
the reaction — the test to which every
species of prosperity is in some way
exposed. The most ordinary acquisi-
tion of wealth requires the exercise of
new arts and ahility to retain it. i\[uc1i
more is the successtul inventor tracked
by a new swarm of opponents. The

306

KOBEET FULTON.

very men, perhaps, who laughed at his
folly before his iuveiition was com-
pleted, may assist in robbing him of
its results. Success, too, is sometimes
expensive. It requires constantly new
outlay to meet its own vociferous de-
mands. "What with the rapid increase
of travel, the consequent enlarged ex-
penditure, the necessary dependence
upon stewards, and above all the legal
attacks upon his patent, Fulton may
have felt with Frankenstein, that his
mechanism had given lurth and powers
to a monster, destined to vex and crush
him in its embrace. Instead of reap-
ing the rewards of the invention, he
was entangled in a business enterprise
of a costly character, beset with legal
difficulties. The exclusive navigation
of the waters of New York was too
wide a privilege to be given by the
Legislature of a single State ; so that
the discussion of the grant became a
grave political question.

This conflict of laws was especially
disastrous to Fulton, in the difficulties
which arose in New York and New
Jersey in respect to the ferry, at the
city, between the opposite shores, from
which he expected a considerable rev-
enue.

Having now seen Fulton place steam-
boat navigation on a permanent foot-
ing on the Hudson, we may return to
his favorite studies of the arts of mili-
tary warfare, in the destruction of ene-
mies' ships afloat. We find him follow-
ing up the successful exhibition of the
"torpedo" off the Battery, by fresh
appeals to Government, seconded by
the social influence of his friend, Joel
Barlow, who had now established him-
self at his seat, Kalorama, at Washing-

ton. A work was published by Ful
ton, fully describing his proceedings,
entitled, " Torpedo- war ; or. Submarine
Explosions " — with the motto. The Lib-
ertij of the Seas tvill he the Hajypiness of
the Earth. An appropriation was made
by Congress, and new experiments or-
dered at New York, before a board of
observation, in 1810. Commodore Rod-
gers was at the head of the commission.
Extraordinary precautions were taken
to defend the vessel exposed to attack,
which had the effect of baffiing the
inventor's efforts, while they proved
the formidable nature of the assailant
which they were intended to guard
against. Old naval officers are chary
of new inventions, and, it was thought
by some, hardly showed Fulton's con-
trivances fair play. The report to the
Government was a mutilated affair,
which, if it did not censure, found lit-
tle to commend. The invention, how-
ever, was not lost sight of when a
period of actual warfare called such
defences into requisition. His devices
seem to have had the effect, at least,
of infusing a wholesome dread into the
minds of British officers, cruising about
the waters in the vicinity of New York.
An incident related of Fulton, about
this time, by his earliest biographer,
Cadwalader D. Coldeu, may be narra-
ted as an amusing exhibition of a not
uncommon popular absurdity. An
unscrupulous, scientific quack, named
Redheffer, had deluded the Philadel
phians into the belief of his discover-
ing a species of perpetual motion. He
succeeded in a thorough mystification,
it is said, of some very clever people,
whose brains were entangled in his
wheels and weights; for there is, at

KOEEET FULTON.

367

times, no more credulous person tlican
your man of science, who spins a web
for his own imprisonment. Ingeniotis
theories were not wanting to account
for the prodigious working of the ma-
chine. Some recondite speculations,
well-fortified with figures, will be
found in the old " Port Folio." The
apparatus was brought to New York,
and set up to the admiration of the
gaping crowd, who dropped theii- dol-
lar at the door into the pockets of the
sho'svman, capacious as their own cre-
dulity. Fulton was, at length, induced
to join the crowd. The machine was
in an isolated house in the suburbs of
the city. Fulton had hardly entered,
when his practiced ear detected an ir-
regular crank motion. The whole
secret was betrayed to him in this
whisper. Presently entering into con-
versation with the showman, he de-
nounced the whole thing as an impo-
sition ; the usual amount of virtuous
indignation was expended by the ex-
hibitor ; the visitors ])ecame excited ;
Fulton was resolute. He proposed an
inspection behind the scenes, promis-
ing to make good any damage in the
process. A few thin strips of lath
were plucked away, ajipareutly used
only to steady the machinery, which
betrayed a string of catgixt, connecting
the work with something beyond. Fol-
lowing this clue through an upper
room, there was found, at its termina-
tion, the secret of the wondrous effect,
in " a poor, old man, with an inunense
beard, and all the a])pearauces of hav-

ing suffered a long imprisonment, seat-
ed on a stool, quite unconscious of
what had happened below, with one
hand gnawing a crust, and with the
other turning a crank." * The mob
demolished the machine, and Redhef-
fer disappeared with his vaporous de-
lusion.

In these later years of his life, for
unhajjpily he was now approaching its
close, Fulton was mainly employed at
New York, in building and equipping,
under the supervision of Government,
his femous cannon-proof steam-frigate,
named after him. The Fulton, and in
perfecting his favorite devices of sub-
marine sailing vessels, in connection
with the torpedo warfare. The steam-
frigate was launched in Octoljer, 1814,
but its projector did not live to wit-
ness its completion. He may l)e said,
indeed, to have been a martyr to the
undertaking. His constitution, not of
the strongest, was exposed to a severe
test in mid-winter, in January, 1815,
in a passage across the Hudson, amidst
the ice in an open boat. He was re-
turning from the Legislature of New
Jersey, at Trenton, whitlier he had
gone to give evidence in the protract-
ed steamboat controversy. He was
taken ill on his return home, and be-
fore he was fully restored, ventured
out to superintend some work on tlu^
exposed deck of the Fulton. This
brought on increased illness, wliicli
speedily terminated in death, Feliru
ary 24th, ]S1;5^

• Coldeus Life of Fulton, p. 219.

MADAME DE STAEL,

ANNE-MARIE LOUISE NECK-
ER Avas born at Paris in 1766.
Both her parents were remarkable per-
sons. Her father, James Necker, a
simple citizen of Geneva, began life as
clerk in a banker's office in Paris,
speedily became a partner, and by-
skill, diligence, sound judgment, and
strict integrity, contrived in the course
of twenty years to amass a large for-
tune and to acquire a lofty reputation.
While accumulating wealth, however,
he nesrlected neither literature nor so-
ciety. He studied both philosophy and
political economy ; he associated with
the Encyclopedists and eminent literati
of the time ; his house was frequented
by some of the most remarkable men
who at that period made the Parisian
salons the most brilliant in Europe ;
and he found time, by various writings
on financial matters, to create a high
and general estimation of his talents as
an administrator and economist. His
management of the affairs of the French
East India Company raised his fame in
the highest political circles, while, as
accredited agent for the Republic of
Geneva at the coui't of Versailles, he
obtained the esteem and confidence
both of the sovereign and the minis-

(308)

ters. So high did he stand both in
popular and courtly estimation, that,
shortly after the accession of Louis
XVI., he was appointed, although a
foreigner, Comptroller-General of the
Finances. He held this post for five
years, till 1781 ; and contrived not
only to effect considerable savings, by
the suppression of upwards of six hun-
dred sinecures, but also in some small
degree to mitigate and equalize taxa-
tion, and to introduce a system of or-
der and regularity into the public ac-
counts to AA hich they had long been
strangers. As proved by his celebrated
Compte ?'endu, which, though vehe-
mently attacked, was never success-
fully impugned, he found a deficit of
thirty-four millions when he entered
office, and left a surplus of ten millions
when he quitted it, — notwithstanding
the heavy expenses of the American
war. In the course of his administra-
tion, however, Necker had of course
made many enemies, who busied them-
selves in undermining his position at
court, and overruled the weak and
vacillating attachment of the king.
Necker found that his most careful
and valuable plans were canvassed and
spoiled by his enemies in the council,

jij^ ji^jyc^ ^

MADAME DE STAEL.

369

where he was not present to defend
them, and that, in fact, he had not and
could not have fail" play while he con-
tinued excluded from the Cabinet. He
demanded, therefore, the entry of the
Privy Council, resigned when it was
refused him, and retired to write the
celebrated work on the Administration
of the Finances, which at once placed
him on the pinnacle of popularity and
fame. Eighty thousand copies were
sold ; and henceforth Necker was the
man on whom all eyes were turned in
every financial crisis, and to whom the
nation looked as the only minister who
could rescue them from the difficulties
which were daily thickening around
them.

Then followed the reckless adminis-
tration of Calonne, whose sole princi-
ple was that of " making things pleas-
ant," and who, in an incredibly short
time, added one thousand six hundred
and forty-six millions to the capital of
the debt, and left an annual deficit of
one hundred and forty millions, instead
of an annual excess of ten. Brienne
attacked him, and succeeded him ; but
things went on from bad to worse, till,
when matters were wholly past a rem-
edy, in August, 1788, Necker was re-
called and reinstated. He struggled
with manly, but not hopeful courage,
for a terrible twelve months; using
his great credit to procure loans, spend-
ing his vast private fortune to feed the
famishing populace of Paris; commenc-
ing the final act of the long inchoate
revolution, by calling the States-Gene-
ral; insuring its fearful triumph by
the decisive measure of doubling the
numbers of the tiers-etat, and permit-
ting the states to deliberate in com-
47

mon ; devising schemes of finance and
taxation which were too wise to be
palatable, and too late to save; com-
posing speeches for the monarch to de-
liver, which the queen and the cour-
tiers ruined and emasculated before
they were made public; and bearing
the blame of faults and failures not
his OAvn. At length his subterranean
enemies prevailed : he received his se-
cret conge from the king in July, 1789,
and reached Basle, rejoicing at heart
in his relief from a burden of which,
even to one so passionately fond of
popularity as he was, the weight was
beginning to be greater than the
charms.

The people were furious at the dis-
missal of their favorite : the Assembly
aSfected to be so. Riots ensued ; the
Bastile was stormed; blood was shed;
the court was frightened ; and Necker
was once more recalled. The royal
messenger overtook him just as he was
entering Switzerland, with the com-
mand to return to Paris, and resume
his post. He obeyed the mandate
with a sad presentiment that he was
returning to be a useless sacrifice in a
hopeless cause, but with the convic-
tion that duty left him no alternative.
His journey to Paris was one long ova-
tion ; the authorities everywhere came
out to greet him ; the inhabitants
thronged around his path ; the popu-
lace unharnessed his horses and drew
his carriage a great part of the way ;
the minister drank deejily of the in-
toxicating cup of national gratitude
and popular applause ; and if he re-
lished it too keenly and regretted it
too much, at least he usod it nobly and
had earned it well. It would have

370

MADAME DE STAEL.

been far better for his own fame and
happiness if he had not retui'ned to
power : it could scarcely have been
worse for his adopted country. His
third and last administration was a
series of melancholy and perhaps ine-
vitable failures. The torrent of popu-
lar violence had become far too strong
to stem. The monarchy had fallen to
a position in which it was impossible
to save it. Necker's head, too, seems
to have been somewhat turned by his
triumph. He disappointed the people
and l:)ored the Assembly. The stream
of events had swept past him, and left
him standing bewildered and breath-
less on the margin.

Disheartened, in despair of the for-
tunes of France, he retired to his resi-
dence at Coppet, in Switzerland, where
Gibbon, who saw much of him at this
period of his career, says that he should
have liked to shew him in his then con-
dition to any one whom he desired to
cure of the sin of ambition. By de-
grees, however, this depression left
him, and he roused himself again to
interest and action. He sent forth
pamphlet after pamphlet of warning
and remonstrance to hostile readers
and unheeding ears. He offered him-
self to Louis as his advocate when that
monarch was brought to trial, and,
when his offer was declined, published
a generous and warm defence of his
old master. The remainder of his life
was passed in the enjoyment of family
affection, of literary labors, and of phi-
losophical and religious speculations ;
and he died in 1804, at the age of sev-
enty-two, happy in the conviction that
he was only exchanging the society of
his cherished daughter for that of his

faithful and long-respected wife, who
had died some years before.

Madame Necker, too, was, in her way,
remarkable enough. The daughter of
a Swiss Protestant minister of high re-
pute for piety and talent, and herself
early distinguished both for beauty and
accomplishments, her spotless character
and superior intellectual powers at-
tracted the admiration of Gibbon dur-
ing his early residence at Lausanne.
He proposed and was accepted; but
his father imagining that his son might
well aspire to some higher connection,
was very indignant, and forbade the
fulfilment of the engagement. Gibbon
submitted and moralized: "I sighed
as a lover (says he), and obeyed as a
son, and Mademoiselle Curchod is now
the wife of the favored minister of a
great kingdom, and sits in the high
places of the earth." They renewed
their acquaintance in after years, and
remained fast friends till death.

How such a child as Mademoiselle
Necker came to spring from two pa-
rents who resembled her so little, were
a vain conjecture. She was ft'om the
first the very incarnation of genius
and of impulse. Her precocity was
extraordinary, and her vivacity and
vehemence both of intellect and tem-
perament bafiied all her mother's efforts
at regulation and control. Her power
of acquisition and mental assimilation
were immense. At twelve years of
age she wrote a drama of social life,
which was acted by herself and her
young companions. Her remarkable
talent for conversation, and for under-
standing the conversation of others,
even at that early period, attracted the
attention and excited the affectionate

MADAME DE STAEL.

371

interest of many of the celebrated men
who fi'equented her father's salo7i •
and in spite of Madame Necker's dis-
approving looks, they used to gather
round her, listening to her sallies, and
provoking her love of argument and
repartee. " We entered the drawing-
room," writes Mdlle. Huber. " By
the side of Madame Necker's arm-chair
was a little wooden stool on which her
daughter was expected to sit, and to
keep herself very upright. Hardly
had she taken her accustomed place,
when three or four old people came
round her, and spoke to her with the
deepest interest. One of them, who
wore a little round wig, took her hands
in his, where he kept them a long
time, talking to her all the while, as if
she had been five-and-twenty years
old. This was the Abbe Raynal ; the
others were MM. Thomas, Marmontel,
the Marquis De Pesay, and Baron De
Grimm. Mademoiselle Necker at that
time was only eleven."

We can well comprehend the stimu-
lus which the intercourse with such
minds must have given to the bud-
dins: intellect of the daughter. The
frivolity of French society was already
wearing away under the influence of
the great events which were throwing
their shadows before them ; and even
if it had not been so, Necker's own
taste would have secured a graver and
more solid tone than prevailed in com-
mon circles. The deepest interests of
life and of the world were constantly
under discussion. The grace of the
old era still lingered ; the gravity of
the new era was stealing over men's
minds ; and the vivacity and l^rillianoy
which has never been wholly lost at

Paris, bound the two elements togeth-
er in a strangely fascinating union. It
was a very hot-bed for the develop-
ment of a vigorous young brain like
that of Mademoiselle Necker. Her
father, too, aided not a little to call
forth her powers ; he was proud of her
talents, and loved to initiate her into his
own philosophic notions, and to inocu-
late her with his generous and lofty
purposes; — and from her almost con-
stant intercourse with him, and his
tenderness and indulgent sympathy —
so different from her mother's uncaress-
ing and somewhat oppressive formal-
ism — sprung that vehement and ear-
nest attachment with which she re-
garded him through life.

At the age of twenty she had at-
tained a dangerous reputation as a wit
and a prodigy ; she was passionately
fond of the brilliant society in which
she lived, but set at naught its re-
straints, and trampled on its conven-
tionalities and bien-s-eances in a style
that was then rare, especially among
young women, but which the men for-
gave in consequence of her genius, and
the women in consideration of her ug-
liness. Her intellect was preternatu-
rally developed, but her heart seems
not to have been touched ; she wrote
and spoke of love with earnest-
ness, with grace, even with insight, —
but as a subject of speculation and de-
lineation only, not of deep and woful
experience. At this time, in 1786, she
made a mariage de convenance with as
cool and business-like an indifference
as if she had been the most cold and
phlegmatic of women. She was a
great heiress, and Eric Baron de Stael
was a handsome man, of noble bii'th and

372

MADAME DE STAEL.

good character. The consideration
which appears to have chiefly decided
the choice, both of herself and her pa-
rents, was that he was an attache to
the Swedish Embassy, was to become
ambassador himself, and was expect-
ed to reside permanently at Paris.
Parisian society had now become, what
it always remained, an absolute necessi-
ty of existence to Mademoiselle Necker ;
and in the arrangement she now made,
she married it rather than the baron.
The three years that followed her mar-
riage were probably the happiest of
her life. She was in Paris, the centre
of a varied and brilliant society, where
she could not only enjoy intercourse
Avith all the greatest and most celebra-
ted men of that remarkable epoch, but
could give free scope to those wonder-
ful and somewhat redundant conver-
sational powers which were at all times
her greatest distinction. We can well
imagine that her singular union of
brilliant fancy, solid reflection, and
French vivacity, must have made her,
in spite of the entire absence of per-
sonal beauty, one of the most attrac-
tive and fascinating of women. The
times too were beyond all others preg-
nant with that stranoje excitement
which gives to social intercourse its
most vivid charm. Everywhere the
minds of men were stirred to their in-
most depths; the deepest interests
were daily under discussion ; the grand-
est events were evidently struggling
towards their birth; the greatest in-
tellects were bracing up their energies
for a struggle " such as had not been
seen since the world was ;" the wild-
est hopes, the maddest prospects, the
most sombre terrors, were agitating

society in txirn ; some dreamed of the
regeneration of the world — days of
halcyon bliss — a land flowing with
milk and honey ; some dreaded a con-
vulsion, a chaos, a final and irrecover-
able catastrophe ; everything was hur-
rying onward to the grand denouement /
— and of this denouement Paris was to
be the theatre, and Necker, the father of
our heroine, the guiding and presiding
genius. All her powers were aroused,
and all her feelings stimulated to the
uttermost ; she visited, she talked, she
intrigued, she wrote ; — her first literary
performance, the "Lettres sur Rous-
seau," belong to this date. They are
brilliant and warm in style ; but their
tone is that of immatuiity.

These days soon past. Then follow-
ed the Reign of Terror. And now
it was that all the sterling qualities of
Madame de Stael's character came
forth. Her feelings of disappointment
and disgust must have been more vivid
than those of most, for her hopes had
been pre-eminently sanguine, and her
confidence in her father's powers and
destiny unbounded. Now all was lost ;
her father was discarded, her monarch
slain, her society scattered and deci-
mated, and Paris had lost all its charms.
Still she remained ; as Necker's daugh-
ter she was still beloved by many
among the people ; as the wife of an
ambassador she was as inviolable as
any one coidd be in those dreadful days.
"With indomitable courage, with the
most daring and untii'ing zeal, and the
most truly feminine devotion, she made
use of both her titles and influence to
aid the escape of her friends, and to
save and succor the endangered. She
succeeded in persuading to temporaay

MADAME DE STAEL.

373

mercy some of the most ferocious of
tlie revolutionary chiefs ; she concealed
some of the menaced emigres in her
house ; and it was not till she had ex-
hausted all her resources, and incurred
seriousperil to herself and her children,
that she followed her friends into exile.
Her husband, whose diplomatic char-
acter was suspended for a while, re-
mained in Holland, to be ready to
resume his functions at the first favor-
able opening. Madame de Stael join-
ed her friends in England, and estab-
lished herself in a small house near
Richmond, where an agreeable society
soon gathered round her, consisting,
besides a few English, of M. de Talley-
rand, M. de Narbonne, (whose life she
had saved by concealing him in her
house, and then dismissing him with
a false passport,) M. d'Arblay, (who
afterwards married Miss Burney,) and
one or two female friends. Here, in
spite of poverty, exile, and the mortifi-
cation of failure, and the fearful tidings
which reached them by nearly every
post, they continued to lead a cheerful
and not unprofitable life.

When the re-establishment of some-

thing

like regular government in

France, in 1795, permitted the Swed-
ish ambassador to resume his functions,
Madame de Stael returned to Paris,
and passed her time very happily for
the next four years, alternately there
and with her father at Coppet. Then
came the establishment of the Napole-
onic rule, and with that ended Madame
de Stael's peace and enjoyment for
nearly fifteen years. Bonaparte dis-
liked her, feared her, persecuted her,
exiled her, and bullied and banished
every one who paid her any attentions,

or showed her any kindness. He first
prohibited her residence in Paris, then
in France; and exile from her native
land, and from the scene of her social
pleasures and social triumphs, was to
her almost as dreadful as a sentence of
death. Of course she repaid her ty-
rannical persecutor in his own coin,
and vrith liberal interest. We need
not seek far for the explanation of
their mutual animosity. They were
antipathic in their views, in their posi-
tion, in every feeling of their hearts,
in every fibre of their character. Mad-
ame de Stael was a passionate lover of
constitutional liberty : Bonaparte was
bent upon its overthrow. The bril-
liancy and varied attractions of Mad-
ame de Stael's society made her an
actual power in Paris ; and Bonaparte
hated rivalry and could " bear no
brother near the thi'one." He loved
incense and homage ; and after the 18th
Brumaire, she would render him nei-
ther. She would not flatter him, and
he could not in his heart despise her
as he desired to do, and as he wished
it to be imagined that he did. Then,
whenever they met in society, she bor-
ed him dreadfully, and he snubbed
her rudely. He was cold and reserved,
— she was vehement and impulsive.
She stigmatized him as an enemy to
rational freedom ; and he pronounced
her to be an intriojuins and exaJtie wo-
man. They both loved influence dear-
ly ; and neither would succumb to the
influence of the other. All the em-
peror's power and prestige could not
extort from the woman one instant ot
submission or applause, — all the wo-
man's weapons of fascination and p(>r
suasion were wasted and blunted on

374:

MADAME DE STAEL.

tLe impenetrable cuirasse of the des-
pot. Their hatred was something in-
stinctive, and almost physical, — as nat-
ural and incurable as that of cat and
dog.

, During her fourteen years of exile,
Madame de Stael led a wandering life ;
sometimes residing at Coppet; ever
and anon returning for a short time to
France, in hopes of being allowed to
remain there unmolested, but soon re-
ceiving a new order to quit. She visited
Germany twice, Italy once, and at
length reached England, by way of
Kussia, in 1812. It was at this period
of her life that she produced the works
which have immortalized her — " De la
Littt'rature, De I'Allemagne, and Co-
rinue," and enjoyed intercourse with
the most celebrated men of Europe.
Nevertheless, they were years of great
wretchedness to her; the charms of
Parisian society, in which she lived,
and moved, and had her being, were
forbidden to her; she was subjected to
the most annoying and petty, as well
as to the most bitter and cruel perse-
cutions ; one by one her friends were
prevented from visiting her, or punish-
ed with exile and disgrace if they did
visit her; she was reduced nearly to
solitude — a state which she herself
describes as, to a woman of her viva-
cious feelings, almost worse than death.
Her sufferings during this part of her
life, are described with painful fidelity
in her " Ten Years of Exile."

Several of the great men whose so-
ciety she enjoyed during these memor-
able years of wandering, have left on
record their impression of her genius
and manners ; and it is curious to ob-
serve how uniform and self- consistent

this impression everywhei'e was. She
seems to have excited precisely the
same emotions in the minds of both
German literati and of English politi-
cians — vast admiration and not a little
fatigue. Her conversation was bril-
liant in the extreme, but apt to become
monologue and declamation. She was
too vivacious for any but Frenchmen :
her intellect was always in a state of
restless and vehement activity ; she
seemed to need no relaxation, and to
permit no repose. In spite of her
great knowledge, her profound and sa-
gacious reflections, her sparkling wit,
and her singular eloquence, she nearly
always ended by wearying even her
most admiring auditors : she left them
no peace ; she kept them on the stretch ;
she ran them out of breath.

Schiller, Avith whom she was often
in company at Weimar, while he fully
recognized the interest of her conver
sation in its exhibition of French cul
ture, and " the clearness, decidedness
and rich vivacity of her nature," was
overpowered by her oppressive mono-
logue and declamation. " One's only
grievance," he wi'ote to Goethe, " is the
altogether unprecedented glibness of
her tongue : you must make yourself all
ear if you would follow her." Goethe
also complained of her impatience in
conversation, " never granting, on the
most important topics, a moment of
reflection, but passionately demanding
that we should despatch the deepest
concerns, the mightiest occurrences, as
lightly as if it were a game at shuttle-
cock."

Sir James Mackintosh, who saw
much of her in England and greatly
admired her talents, says of her :

MADAME DE STAEL.

3Y5

" She is one of the few persons who
surpass expectation; she has every
sort of talent, and would be universal-
ly popular if, in society, she were to
confine herself to her inferior talents —
pleasantry, anecdote and literature —
which are so much more suited to con-
versation than her eloquence and gen-
ius." Lord Bp-on says of her in his
Diary, " Her works are my delight, and
so is she herself — for half an hour.
But she is a woman by herself, and has
done more intellectually than all the
rest of them together ; — she ought to
have been a man." Again, when in
Switzerland, he wrote : " Madame de
Stael has made Copj^et as agreeable as
society and talent can make any place
on earth." ... . " She was a
good woman at heart, and the clever-
est at bottom, but spoilt by a wish to
be — she knew not what. In her own
house she was amiable : in any other
person's you wished her gone, and in
her own ao-ain." In the more intimate
relations of life few persons were ever
more seriously or steadfastly beloved.
She was an excellent hostess, and one of
the most warm, constant, and zealous
of friends — on the whole, an admira-
ble, lovable, but somewhat overpow-
ering woman. On the abdication of
Napoleon she rushed back to Paris,
and remained there with few intervals
till her death, filling her di-a wing-rooms
with the brilliant society which she
enjoyed so passionately, and of which
she was herself the ])riglitest ornament.
But she survived the restoration of the
Bourbons only a short time ; her con-
stitution had been seriously undermin-
ed by the fatigues and irritations she
had undergone, and she died at Paris,

July 14th, 1817, the anniversary of the
taking of the Bastile, at the age of
fifty -one. Her husband, the Baron de
Stael, died in 1802. After many years
of widowhood, dui'ing her residence at
Coppet, she was privately man-ied to
Le Rocca, of an old family of Geneva.*
The chief literary productions upon
which the fame of Madame de Stael
as an author rests, are her essays on
"Literatui'e considered in its relations
with Social Institutions ;" her novels
" Delphine " and " Corinne ;" and her
work on " Germany." A common
philosophical spii'it runs through them
all. In the discussions of literature
and society in their influence upon one
another, she opened a field of specula-
tion which has been greatly improved
since she wrote, but which she was one
of the first, certainly the foremost of
her sex, to cultivate. It was something
new to listen to a woman, gifted with
the analytic and combining faculties,
discoursing in a philosophical vein of
the laws which govern the history of
the human mind and of the bearing of
mental development upon the improve-
ment of the Avorld. "While other
female writers," wrote Jeffrey, " have
contented themselves, for the most
part, with embellishing or explaining
the truths which the more robust intel-
lect of the other sex had pre\dously es-
tablished, — in making knowledge more
familiar, or virtue more engaging, — or,
at most, in multiplying the finer dis-
tinctions which may be detected about
the boundaries of taste or of morality,

* For the previous portion of this notice we are
indebted to an article on " The Life and Times
of Madame do StaOl." in the " North British
Review."

376

MADAME DE STAEL.

— and in illustrating the importance
of the minor virtues to the general
hapi)iuess of life, — this distinguished
person has not only aimed at extending
the boundaries of knowledge, and rec-
tifying the errors of received opinions
upon subjects of the greatest impor-
tance, but has uniformly applied her-
self to trace out the operation of gen-
eral causes, and, by combining the
past with the present, and pointing
out the connexion and reciprocal action
of all co-existent phenomena, to devel-
op the harmonious system which actual-
ly prevails in the apparent chaos of
human affairs ; and to gain something
like an assurance as to the complexion
of that futurity towards which our
thoughts are so anxiously driven by
the selfish as well as the generous prin-
ciples of our nature. We are not
acquainted, indeed, with any writer
who has made such bold and vigorous
attempts to carry the generalizing
spirit of true philosophy into the his-
tory of literature and manners, or who
has thrown so strong a light upon the
capricious and apparently unaccount-
able diversity of national taste, genius
and morality, by connecting them with
the political structure of society, the
accidents of climate and external rela-
tion, and the variety of creeds and su-
perstitions.''

By the side of the spirit of enquiry
in the mind of Madame de Stael there
was a certain intensity and enthusiasm
of genius which tinctured all her
thoughts and actions. Both were ex-
hiljited in her work on Literature.
By the one she marshalled the facts
supplied Ijy different countries bearing
upon her theme ; the other was ex-

pressed in her theory of human per
fectibility. She sought unity in her
subject by connecting its scattered
parts in a law of progress to be detect-
ed mainly in the growth and advance
of philosophical speculation acting
upon the welfare of the world. Com-
mencing with the literature of Greece
she traces with much insight and sym-
pathy the influence upon its great au-
thors of the peculiar mythology and
political institutions of the country,
and passing thence to Rome finds th»^
secret of her literature in the conditions
of her national existence, as in the ad-
option of the self-reliant Stoic philos-
ophy. Through, all the predominance
of the intellect is exhibited. In the
breaking up of the empire, and the
great change which was brought about
by the descent of the northern nations,
the amelioration of the barbarian is
mingled with the new life of strength
and courage infused into the conquered
races. Christianity, kept alive in the
institutions of the Middle Ages, with
the respect for woman which attended
its progress, prepared the way for mod-
ern civilization, when letters and phi-
losophy in the awakening of the human
mind again assumed theu* authority.
Under this general view is comprehen-
ded a special estimate of the literature
of the various European nations, in
which, if there is often something de-
ficient or erroneously conceived, it is
yet impossible not to admire the vivac-
ity and force of the author's mind, and
the wide range of her studies, pursued
under the disadvantages of her cheq-
uered life.

The heroines of her novels, Delphine
and Corinne, are rej^resentations of

MADAME DE STAEL.

377

herself at different periods of life, the
former in the turbiileuce of youth, the
latter in the maturity and under the
disappointments of middle life. Pas-
sion tinged with melancholy is the in-
forming spirit of Corinne, which has
retained its hold upon the reading
world by its glowing pictures of Italian
art and scenery. "With few features
of a story," writes "William Eoberts, in
a comparison of her genius with that of
Hannah More, " the tale is so contrived
as to keep attention and expectation
constantly on the stretch, and to occupy
the heart and engage its sympathies in
deep and continuous emotion. The
reader is hurried on without a breath-
ing interval, with his eyes forever on
Corinne, overlooking a multitude of
absurdities and contradictions for her
sake. All is in subjection to the bright
lady of the ascendant. There is cer-
tainly something very admii'able in the
art by which the author has contrived
to merge the vanity of her principal
character in the lirilliaucy with which
she has surrounded it. When Corinne
comes forth in the panoply of her en-
dowments, we think no more of her
vanity than of the Roman general pro-
ceeding with his trophies in triumph
to the capitol. There is a gayety and
a grace accompanying all she acts and
speaks, — a majesty in her brow, a god-
dess-like gait in her aj)proach, that
affiects us almost supernaturally. A
fatal passion seizes her: the Graces
and the Muses gradually forsake her :
the diadem drops from her temples :
the incense of praise is withdrawn : a
rapid dereliction of her powers lets her
down to the level of common beings :

she sinks into obscurity and dies a
pitiable death."

The work of Madame de Stael on
Germany, originally printed in Paris
in 1810 and suppressed by order of
Napoleon, was the first to present to
foreign nations a general review of the
growing intellectual wealth of the na-
tion. It is divided into foui* parts
treating respectively of " Germany and
the manners of the Germans;" of "Lit-
erature and the Arts ;" of " Philosophy
and Morals ;" of " Religion and Enthu-
siasm." " The voice of Europe," said
Sir James Mackintosh in his analysis
of the work, " has already applauded
the genius of a national painter in the
author of Corinne. But it was there
aided by the power of a pathetic fiction
— by the variety and opposition of
national character — and by the charm
of a country which unites beauty to
renown. Her work on Germany is
certainly the most vigorous effort of
her genius, and probably the most
elaborate and masculine production
of the faculties of woman. AVhat
other woman, indeed, or (to speak
the truth without reserve) what liv
ing man could have preserved all
the grace and brilliancy of Parisian
society in analyzing its nature; ex
plained the most abstruse metaphysic-
al theories of Germany precisely, yet
perspicuously and agreeably; and
combined the eloquence which inspires
the most pure, the most tender, and
the most sublime sentiments of virtue,
with the enviable talent of gently in-
dicating the defects of men or of nations
by the skilfully softened touches of a
polite and merciful pleasantry I "

HORATIO NELSON.

HOKATIO NELSON, the son of
Edmund and Catlieriue Nelson,
was born on the 29th of September,
1758, at the parsonage-house of Burn-
ham-Thorpe, a village in the county of
Norfolk, of which his father was rec-
tor. The maiden name of his mother
was Suckling ; her grandmother was
an elder sister of Sir Robert Walpole,
aud the subject of this notice was
named after the first Earl of Orford.
Mrs. Nelson died in 1767, leaving eight
out of eleven children. Upon this oc-
casion her brother, Captain Maurice
Suckling, of the navy, visited Mr. Nel-
son, and promised to take care of one
of the boys. Three years afterwards,
when Horatio was only twelve years
of age, and with a constitution natu-
rally weak, he applied to his father for
permission to go to sea with his uncle,
recently appointed to the Raisonnable,
of sixty-four guns. The uncle was ac-
cordingly written to, and gave a reluc-
tant consent to the proposal. " What,"
said he, in reply, " has poor Horatio
done, who is so weak, that he should
be sent to rough it out at sea ? But let
him come, and the first time we go into
action a cannon-ball may knock off his

Abridged from the "Encyclopaedia Britannica. "

(378)

head, and provide for him at once.'
The Raisonnable, on board of which
he was now placed as a midshipman,
was soon afterwards paid off, and Cap-
tain Suckling removed to the Triumph,
of seventy-four guns, then stationed as
a guard-ship in the Thames. This,
however, was considered as too inac-
tive a life for a boy, and Nelson was
therefore sent on a voyage to the West
Indies in a merchant ship. "From
this voyage I returned," he tells us in
his " Sketch of my Life," " to the Tri-
umph at Chatham in July, 1772 ; and,
if I did not improve in my education,
I returned a practical seaman, with a
horror of the royal navy, and with a
saying then constant with the seamen,
'Aft, the most honor; forward, the
better man.' " While in connection
with this guard-ship, he had the oppor-
tunity of becoming a skilful pilot, an
acquirement which he afterwards had
frequent occasion to turn to account.

Not many months after his return,
his inherent love of enterprise was ex-
cited by hearing that two ships were
fitting out for a voyage of discovery
towards the North Pole. From the
difficulties expected on such service,
these vessels were to take out none

^V ^^>v^ CTd^ ^ (7v4f_

USH'MM. IN^'W l"l I-.

HORATIO NELSON.

379

bat effective men, instead of the usual
number of boys. This, however, did
not deter Nelson fi'om soliciting to
be received, and by his uncle's interest
he was admitted as cockswain under
Captain Lutwidge, the second in com-
mand. The voyage was undertaken
in consequence of an application from
the Royal Society ; and the Honorable
Captain John C. Phipps, eldest son of
Lord Mulgrave, volunteered his ser-
vices to command the expedition. The
Racehorse and Carcass, bombs, were
selected as the strongest ships, and the
expedition sailed from the Nore on the
4th of June, 1773, and returned to
England in October. During this voy-
age Nelson gave several indications of
that daring and fearless spirit which
ever afterwards distinguished him.

The ships were paid off shortly after
their return, and the youth was then
placed by his uncle with Captain Far-
mer, in the Seahorse, of twenty guns,
which was about to sail for the East
Indies in the squadron of Sir Edward
Hughes. In this ship he was rated as
a midshipman, and attracted attention
by his general good conduct. But,
when he had Leen about eighteen
months in India, he felt the effects of
the climate of that country, so peril-
ous to European constitutions, and be-
came so enfeebled hy disease that he
lost for a time the use of his limbs,
and was brou<jht almost to the brink
of the grave. He embarked for Eng-
land in the Dolphin, Captain Pigot,
with a 1 )ody 1 >roken down by sickness,
and spirits which had sunk with his
strength. But his health materially
improved during the voyage, and his
native air speedily repaired the injuxy

it had sustained. On the 8th of April,

1777, he passed, with much credit to
himself, his examination for a lieuten-
ancy, and next day received his com-
mission as second lieutenant of the
Lowestoffe, of thirty-two guns, then
fitting out for Jamaica. In this frigate
he cniised against the American and
French privateers which were at that
time harassing the English trade in
the "West Indies; distinguished him-
self on various occasions by his activ-
ity and enterprise ; and formed a
fi"iendship with his captain, Locker, of
the Lowestoffe, which continued during
his life. Having been warmly recom-
mended to Sir Peter Parker, the com-
mander-in-chief upon that station, he
was removed into the Bristol flag-ship,
and soon afterwards became first lieu-
tenant. On the 8th of December,

1778, he was appointed commander of
the Badger brig, in which he rendered
important assistance in rescuing the
crew of the Glasgow, when that ship
was accidentally set on fire in Montego
Bay, Jamaica. On the 11th of June,

1779, he obtained the rank of post-cap-
tain, and with it the command of the
Hinchinl)rook, of twenty-eight guns.
As Count d'Estaing, with a fleet of 125
sail, men-of-war and transports, and a
reputed force of 25,000 men, now
threatened Jamaica fi'om St. Domingo,
Nelson offered his services to the ad-
miral and governor-general, Dalling,
and was appointed to command the
batteries of Fort Charles at Port Royal,
the most important post in the island.
D'Estaing, however, attempted noth-
ing with this formidable armament,
and the British general was thus left

which he had

to execute a

design

880

HORATIO NELSON.

formed against the Spanish colonies.
This project was to take Fort San
Juan, situated upon the river of that
name, which flows from Lake Nicara-
gua into the Gulf of Mexico ; to make
himself master of the lake itself, and
of the cities of Granada and Leon ; and
thus to cut off the communication be-
tween tlie northern and southern pos-
sessions of Spain in America. Nelson
was appointed to the command of the
naval department, and distinguished
himself greatly in the siege of Fort
San Juan and in taking the island of
St. Bartolomeo. Pestilence, however,
decimated the crew of the Hinchin-
brook ; and her gallant young com-
mander, prostrated by sickness, was
compelled to return to England. He
was taken home in the Lyon, by Cap-
tain, afterwards Admiral, Cornwallis,
to whose care and kindness he believed
himself indebted for the preservation
of his life. Li three months, however,
his health was so far re-established
that he applied for employment ; and,
being appointed to the Albermarle, of
twenty-eight guns, he was sent to the
North Seas, and kept there cruising
during the whole winter, which he did
not at all relish. In this cruise, how-
ever, he gained a considerable knowl-
edge of the Danish coast and its sound-
ings. On his return he was ordered to
Quebec, and during the voyage the Al-
bermarle had a narrow escape from
four French saU of the line and a fi-ig-
ate, which, having come out of Boston,
gave chase to her. Confiding in his
own skill and pilotage. Nelson, per-
ceiving that they gained on him, boldly
ran among the numerous shoals of St.
George's Bank, and thus escaped. In

October, 1782, he sailed from Quebec
Avith a convoy of transports for New
York, where he joined Lord Hood, and
accompanied him to the West Indies.
At the peace of 1783, the Albemarle
returned to England and was paid off.
After his arrival in England, Nelson,
finding it prudent to economize his half-
pay during the peace, went to St. Omer,
where he remained till the sj)ring of the
following year. On his return, he waa
appointed to the Boreas, of twenty-
eight guns, which had been ordered to
the Leeward Islands as a cruiser.
Whilst on this station, where he found
himself senior captain, and consequent-
ly second in command, he evinced the
utmost zeal and activity in protecting
British interests, and in enforcing the
Navigation Act, which brought him in
contact with American interests in the
West India Islands ; a line of conduct
which involved him in much trouble^
without procuring him reward or
even acknowledgment — the thanks of
the Treasury having been transmitted
to the commander-in-chief, who had
thwarted instead of encouraging him
in the dischartje of an arduous and im-
portant duty. On the 11th of March,
1787, Nelson married the widow of Dr.
Nisbet, a physician, and daughter of
Herbert, the president of the island of
Nevis. The Boreas returned to Eng-
land in June, but was not paid off till
the end of November, having been kept
nearly five months at the Nore as a slop
and receiving ship. Nelson was still
in a very precarious state of health;
and this treatment, whether proceeding
fi'om intention or neglect, excited in
his mind the strongest indignation.
His resentment, however, was appeased

HOKATIO NELSON.

381

by the favoraMe reception -whicli lie
met witli at court, when presented to
his majesty by Lord Howe ; and hav-
ing fully explained to that nobleman
the grounds upon which he had acted,
he retired to enjoy the pleasures of
domestic happiness at the parsonage-
house at Burnham-Thorpe, which his
father had given him as a residence.
But the vexatious affaii- of the Amer-
ican caj)tures was not yet terminated.
He was harassed with threats of pro-
secution, and, in his absence on some
business, a writ or notification was
served on his wife, upon the part of
the American captains, who now laid
their damages at twenty thousand
pounds. "When presented with this
paper, his indignation was excessive ;
and he immediately wrote to the Trea-
sury, that unless he was supported by
government he would leave the coun-
try. " If sixjjeuce would save me from
prosecution," said he, "I would not
give it." The answer he received, how-
ever, quieted his fears ; he was told
to be under no apprehension, for he
would assuredly be supported ; and
here his disquietude upon this subject
seems to have ended.

At the commencement of the French
war, it was judged expedient again to
employ Nelson ; and on the 30th of
January, 1793, he was appointed to
the Agamemnon, of sixty-four guns,
and placed under the orders of Lord
Hood, tlien holding the chief command
in the Mediterranean fleet. Being sent
to Corsica with a small squadron, to
co-operate with Paoli and the party
opposed to France, he undertook the
siegfe of Bastia, and in a short time re-
duced it. The place capitulated on

the 19th of May, 1794. He next pro-
ceeded in the Agamemnon to co-ope-
rate with General Sii* Charles Stuart
in the siege of Calvi. Here Nelson
had less responsibility that at Bastia ;
he was acting with a man after his own
heart, who slept every night in the
advanced battery. Nelson here re-
ceived a serious injury. A shot, having
struck the ground near him, drove the
sand and small gravel into one of his
eyes. He spoke of it lightly at the
time, and in fact suffered it to confine
him only one day ; but the sight of the
eye was nevertheless lost. After the fall
of Calvi his services were, by a strange
omission, altogether overlooked, and
his name was not even mentioned in
the list of wounded. Nelson felt him-
self not only neglected, but wronged.
"They have not done me justice," said
he ; " Init never mind, I '11 have a ga-
zette of my own." And on another
occasion the same second-sight of glory
led him to predict that one day or
other he Avould have a long gazette to
himself. " I feel," said he, " that such
an opportunity will be given me. If
I am in the field of glory, I cannot be
kept out of sight."

Lord Hood now returned to Eng-
land, and the command devolved upon
Admiral Hotham. Tuscany had now
concluded peace with France ; Corsica
was in danger ; Genoa was threatened ;
and the French challenged the English
on the sea. Having a superior fleet in
the Mediterranean, they now sent it
out with the express orders to seek the
Enfjlish and enc:acre them. In the ae-
tion which followed between the Eng-
lish fleet under Admiral Hotham, and
that which had come out from Toulon,

3S2

HORATIO KELSOX.

Nelson greatly distingiiislied himself,
manceuvring ami fighting his ship with
equal ability and determination ; and
when the action was renewed the fol-
h)wing day, he had the honor of hoist-
inor the English colors on board of the

• 111

9a Ira and the Censeur, which both
struck to him, and were the only ships
of the enemy taken on that occasion.
About this time Nelson was made
colonel of marines, a mark of approba-
tion which he had rather wished for
than expected; and soon afterwards
the Airamemnon was ordered to Genoa
to co-operate with the Austrian and
Sardinian forces. This was indeed a
new line of service, imposing multi-
farious duties, and involving great re-
sponsibility ; yet it was also one for
which Nelson had already evinced a
singular aptitude, and in which, had
he been at all seconded by the land
forces, his assistance would have led
to important results. Through the
gross misconduct, however, of the Aus-
trian general, Devins, the allies were
completely defeated by an army of
boys, and the French obtained posses-
sion of the Genoese coast from Savona
to Voltri, thus intercepting the direct
communication between the Austrian
army and the English fleet. After this
disgraceful aft'air, the Agamemnon was
recalled, and sailed for Leghorn to re-
fit, being literally riddled with shot,
and having all her masts and yards
seriously damaged.

Sir John Jervis having arrived to
take the command in the Mediterra-
nean, Nelson sailed from Leghorn in
the Agamemnon, which had now been
repaired, and joined the admiral in St.
Fiorenzo Bay. When the French took

possession of Leghorn, he blockaded
that port, and landed a force in the
Isle of Elba to secure Porto FeiTajo.
Soon afterwards he took the island of
Capraja ; and the British cabinet hav-
ing resolved to evacuate Corsica, he
ably performed this humiliating ser-
vice. He was then ordered to hoist
his broad pennant on board of the Mi-
nerve frigate. Captain George Cock-
burn, and to proceed with the Blanche
to Porto Ferrajo, and bring away the
troops and stores left at that place.
On his way thither he fell in with two
Spanish frigates, the Sabina and Ceres,
the former of which, after an action of
three hours, during which the Span-
iards lost one hundred and sixty-four
men, struck to the Miuerve. The Ceres,
however, had got off from the Blanche ;
and as the prisoners had hardly been
conveyed on board of the Minerve
when another enemy's frigate came up,
Nelson was compelled to cast off the
prize and go a second time into action.
But, after a short trial of strength, tliis
new antagonist wore and hauled off ;
and as a Spanish squadron of two sail
of the line and two frigates now came
in sight, the commodore made all sail
for Porto Ferrajo, whence he soon re-
turned with a convoy to Gibraltar.
Off the mouth of the Straits he fell in
with the Spanish fleet, and reaching
the station off Cape St. Vincent on the
13th of February, 1797, he communi-
cated this intelligence to Sir John Jer-
vis, by whom he was now directed to
shift his broad pennant on board the
Captain of seventy-four guns. Before
sunset the signal was made to prepare
for action, and to keep in close order
during the night ; and at daybreak on

HOEATIO NELSON.

383

the 14tli the enemy wore in sight. The
British force consisted of two ships of
100 guns, two of 98, two of 90, eight
of 74, and one of 64, with four frigates,
a sloop, and a cutter; the Spaniards
had one ship of 136 guns, six of 112
guns each, two of 84, and eighteen of
74, with ten fi-igates and a "brig. The
admiral. Sir John Jervis, made signal
to tack in succession. Nelson, whose
station was in the rear of the British
line, perceiving that the Spaniards were
hearing up before the wind, with an in-
tention of forming line and joining their
separated ships, or of avoiding an en-
gagement, disobeyed the signal with-
out a moment's hesitation, and ordered
his ship to be wore. This at once
brought him into action with seven of
the enemy's ships, four of which were
first-rates. After a desperate conflict,
in which Nelson was nol)ly supported
by Troubridge in the Colloden and by
Collingwood in the Excellent, the Sal-
vador del Mundo and San Isidro drop-
ped astern, and the San Josef fell on
board the San Nicolas. The Captain
being now incapable of further service,
eitlier in the line or in chase. Nelson
du'ected the helm to be put a-starboard,
and calling the boarders, ordered them
to board. The San Nicolas was can-ied
after a short struggle. Nelson himself
boarding her through the cabin -wan-
dows. The San Josef was instantly
boarded from the San Nicolas, the gal-
lant little commodore leading the way,
and exclaiming, " Westminster Abbey
or victory ! " This was the work of
an instant; but before Nelson could
reach the quarter-deck of the Spanish
ship, an officer looked over the rail and
said they surrendered. This daring

achievement was efi'ected with com-
paratively small loss, and Nelson him-
self received only a few bruises. The
Captain, however, had suffered severely
in the action. She had lost her fore-
topmast; not a sail, shroud, nor rope
was left ; her wheel had been shot
away ; and a fourth part of the loss
sustained by the whole squadi'on had
fallen upon that single ship. As soon
as the action was discontinued, Nelson
went on board the admiral's ship. Sir
John Jervis received him with open
arms, and said he could not sufficiently
thank him. For this victory the com-
mander-in-chief was rewarded with a
peerage and the title of Earl St. Vin-
cent; whilst Nelson, who, before the
action was known in England, had
been advanced to the rank of rear-ad-
miral, was knighted, and received the
insignia of the Bath, and a gold medal
from his sovereign.

In April, 1797, Sir Horatio Nelson,
having hoisted his flag as rear-admiral
of the blue, was sent to bring away the
troops from Porto Ferrajo ; and having
performed this service, he shifted his
flag to the Theseus, a ship Avhich had
taken part in the mutiny in England.
Whilst in the Theseus he was employ-
ed in the command of the inner squad-
ron at the blockade of Cadiz. During
this service his personal courage was
eminently signalized. In a night at-
tack upon the Spanish gun-boats (3rd
of July, 1797), his barge was assailed
by an armed launch, carrying twenty-
six men, whilst he had only the usual
complement of ten men and the cocks-
wain, besides Captain Freemantle. Af-
ter a severe conflict, hand to hand,
eighteen of the enemy were killed, all

384

HORATIO NELSON.

the rest wounded, and the launch
taken. Twelve days after this rencon-
tre, Nelson sailed at the head of an ex-
pedition against Teneriffe. It having
l)eeu ascertained that a homcAvard-
bouud Manilla ship had recently put
into Santa Cruz, the expedition was
undertaken in the hope of capturing
this rich prize. But it was not fitted
out upon the scale which Nelson had
proposed ; no troops were embarked ;
and althou(:ch the attack was made
with great intrepidity, the attempt
failed. The boats of the squadi-on being
manned, a landing was effected early
in the night, and Santa Cruz taken
and occupied for about seven houi"s ;
but the assailants, finding it impracti-
cable to storm the citadel, were obliged
to prepare for retreat, which they ef-
fected without molestation, agreeably
to stipulations which had been made
with the Spanish governor by Captain
Troubridge, whose firmness and pre-
sence of mind were conspicuously dis-
played on this occasion. The total loss
of the English in killed, wounded, and
di'owned, amounted to two hundred
and fifty. Nelson himself was amongst
the wounded, having, in stepping out
of the boat to laud, received a shot
through the right elbow, which shat-
tered the whole arm, and rendered am-
putation necessaiy. Nelson was now
obliged to return to England, where
honors awaited him sufficient to cheer
his mind amidst the sufterings occa-
sioned by the loss of his arm. Letters
were addressed to him by the first lord
of the Admiralty and the Duke of
Clarence ; the fi-eedom of the cities of
London and Bristol was transmitted to
him ; he was invested with the order

of the Bath; and he also received a
pension of one thousand, pounds a
year. His sufferings fi'om the lost
limb, however, were long and painful.
In April, 1798, he had so far recovered,
however, as to hoist his flag on board
the Vanguard, and was ordered to re-
join Earl St. Vincent. Immediately
on his arrival, he was despatched to
the Mediterranean with a small squad-
ron, to ascertain, if possible, the object
of the great expedition which was then
fitting out at Toulon. He sailed from
Gibraltar on the 9th of May for the
Mediterranean, with three seventy-
fours, four frigates, and a sloop of war.
On the 19th the squadron reached
the Gulf of Lyons; and on the 22d a
violent storm inflicted very serious in-
jury on the Vanguard ; but after ex-
traordinary exertions, the Vanguard
was refitted in four days, and he re-
ceived a reinforcement of ten ships of
the line and one of fifty guns, under
the command of Commodore Trou-
bridge. Baffled in his attempts to get
sight of the French fleet, he kept
scouring the Mediterranean waters un-
der a press of sail night and day for
nearly two months, till, on the 1st of
August, 1798, he came in sight of Al-
exandria, and at four in the afternoon
descried the French fleet. For several
days previous to this the admiral had
scarcely taken eitker food or sleep. He
now ordered his dinner to be served,
whilst preparations were making for
battle ; and when his officers rose from
table to repair to their several stations,
he said to them, " Before this time to-
morrow I shall have gained a peerage,
or Westminster Abbey."

Brueys, the admiral of the French

HOEATIO NELSON.

385

fleet, had moored his ships in Aboulvir
Bay, in a strong and compact line of
battle ; the headmost vessel being close
to a shoal on the north-west, and the
rest of the fleet forming a kind of curve
along the line of deep water, so as not
to be tui-ned by any means on the
south-west. The advautas-e of num-
bers, both in ships, guns, and men
was in favor of the French. They had
thirteen ships of the line and four frig-
ates, carrying 1196 guns, and 11,230
men. The English had the same num-
ber of ships of the line, and one fifty-
gun ship, carrpng in all 1012 guns
and 8068 men. The English ships
were all seventy-fours ; the French had
three eighty-gun ships, and one three-
decker of 120 guns. Nelson, accord-
ing to the preconceived plan of attack,
resolved to keep entirely on the outer
side of the French line, and to station
his shij^s, as flir as he was able, one on
the outer bow, and another on the
outer quarter, of each of the enemy's,
thus doubling on a certain portion of
their line. The battle commenced at
half-past six o'clock, a little before
sunset. As the squadron advanced, the
enemy opened a steady fire from the
starboard side of their line into the
bows of the leading British ships. It
was received in silence, whilst the men
on board of each ship were employed
aloft in furling the sails, and below in
tending the braces and making ready
for anchoring ; a proceeding which told
the enemy that escape was impossiljle.
Four ships of the British squadron,
having been detached previously to
the discovery of the French fleet, were
at a considerable distance when the
battle commenced, and, on coming up,
4'J

the Culloden, the foremost of these
ships, suddenly grounded in the dark-
ness, and, notwithstanding the great-
est exertions, could not be got oft' in
time to bear a part in the action. The
first two ships of the French line had
been dismasted within a quarter of an
hour after the commencment of the
action ; and the others had suffered so
severely that victory was already cer-
tain. At half-past eight o'clock the
third, fourth, and fifth were taken
possession of. In the meantime Nel-
son had received a severe wound on
the head from a langridge shot, which
cut a large flap of skin from the fore-
head, and occasioned such an effusion
of blood that the injury was at first be-
lieved to be mortal. But when the
surgeon came to examine the wound,
he found that the hurt was merely su-
perficial, and requested that the admi-
ral would remain quiet. Nelson, how-
ever, could not rest, and having called
for his secretary, had begun to dictate
his dispatches, when suddenly a cry
was heard upon deck that L'Orient
was on fire. In the confusion, he
found his way up unassisted and un-
noticed, and having appeared on the
quarter-deck, immediately gave orders
that boats should be sent to tLe relief
of the enemy. It was about ten min-
utes after nine o'clock when the fire
broke out in L'Orient. Brueys was
dead. He had received three wounds,
yet would not leave his post; and
when a fourth cut him almost in two,
he desired to be left to die upon deck.
In the meanwhile the flames soon mas-
tered the devoted ship, and by the
light of the conflagration, the situa-
tion of both fleets could be perceived,

386

HORATIO IsELSON.

their colors being clearly distinguisli-
aMe. Aliout ten o'clock the ship blew
up with a tremendous explosion, which
Avas followed by a pause not less awful.
The firing immediately ceased ; and the
first sound wliich broke the silence was
tlie dash of her shattered masts and
yards falling into the water from the
vast height to which they had been
projected by the explosion. The com-
bat recommenced with the ships to lee-
wavd of the centre, and continued till
about three in the morning. Of thir-
teen sail of the line, nine were taken,
two liurnt, and two escaped ; and of
four frigates, one was burnt and an-
other sunk. In short, it was a con-
quest rather than a victory. The Frencli
fleet had been annihilated ; and if the
English admiral had been provided
Avith small craft, nothing could have
prevented the destruction of the store-
ships and transports in the harbor of
Alexandria.

Nelson was now at the very summit
of glory. Congratulations, rewards,
and honors were showered upon him
by all the foreign states and powers, to
which his victory promised a respite
from French aggression. In his own
country he Avas created Baron Nelson
of the Nile and of Buruham-Thorpe,
with a pension of £2,000 a year for his
OAvn life and those of his tAvo immediate
successors. A grant of $10,000 was
voted to Nelson by the East India
Company ; the Turkish company pre-
sented him with a piece of plate ; the
city of London bestoAved honorary
swords on the admiral and his cap-
tains ; and the thanks of the parlia-
ment and gold medals were voted to
him and all the captains engaged in

the action. In the distribution of re-
Avards he was particularly anxious that
the captain and first lieutenant of the
Culloden should not be passed o\'er
because of their misfortune. " It Avas
Troubridge," said he, in addressing the
admiralty," who equipped the squadron
so soon at Syracuse ; it was Troubridge
who exerted himself for me, after the
action ; it was Ti'oubridge Avho saA^ed
the Culloden, where none that I know
in the service would have attempted
it."

HaA'ing made the necessary arrange-
ments in regard to the prizes, and left
a squadron before Alexandria, Nelson,
stood out to sea on the seA^enteentb
day after the battle, and early on the
2 2d of Sejjtember appeared in sight of
Naples, where the Culloden and Alex-
ander had preceded him, and given no-
tice of his approach. Here he AA^as re-
ceived with eA^ery demonstration of joy
and triumph, both by the royal family
and the people ; and it was here he
formed that unfortunate connection
Avith Lady Hamilton which exercised
so baneful an influence on the rest of
his life. The state of Naples at this
period Avas deplorable. The king, like
the rest of his race, was passionately
fond of field sports, and cared for al-
most nothing else. The queen had all
tbe vices of the house of Austria, Avith
little to mitigate and nothing to enno-
ble them. The people were sunk in
ignorance and debased by misgovern-
ment ; at once turbulent and cowardly,
ferocious and indolent, irreligious and
fanatical. Nelson was fully sensible
of the depravity and weakness of all
by whom he was surrounded ; yet, se-
duced by the blandishments of the

HOKATIO NELSON.

387

queen, the flatteries of the court, and
the pernicious influence which Lady
Hamilton now bes^an to exercise over
his mind, he sufl^ered himself to be im-
plicated in transactions which, to say the
least of it, were not calculated to bring
honor to his country, or to heighten
his own fame. The defeat of Mack at
Castellana, and the advance of the
French towards Naples, were followed
by the flight of the royal family, who
were conveyed by Nelson to Palermo.
After this an armistice was signed (10th
of January, 1799), by which the great-
er part of the kijigdom was given up
to the enemy ; and this cession neces-
sarily led to the loss of the whole.
Naples was occupied by the Fi'ench
under Championuet, and the short-liv-
ed Parthenopean republic soon after-
wards established. But the successes
of the allies in Italy speedily changed
the face of affairs, and prepared the
way for the restoration of the exiled
monarch.

Relying on the diminished numbers
of the enemy, whose force had been
greatly reduced, the royalists took the
field, and Cardinal Ruffo aj^peared at
the head of an armed rabble, which he
called the Christian army. Captain
Foote, in the Seahorse, with some Nea-
politan frigates, and a few smaller ves-
sels, was ordered to co-o])erate with this
force, and to give it all the assistance
ill Ills power. Rtiffo, advancing with-
out any plan, but ready to take advan-
tage of any accident which might oc-
cur, now approached Naples. Fort
St. Elmo, which commands the city,
was garrisoned by French troops;
but the castles of Uovo and Nuovo,
commanding the anchorage, were chief-

ly defended by the Neapolitan " patri-
ots," the leadino; men amongst them
having taken shelter there. As the
possession of these castles would great-
ly facilitate the reduction of Fort St.
Elmo, Ruffo proposed to the garrison
to capitulate, on condition that their
persons and property should be re-
spected, and that they should at their
own option, either be sent to Toulon
or remain at Naples, without being
molested in theii* persons. These terms
were accepted, and the capitulation
was signed by the cardinal, the Rus-
sian and Turkish commanders, and al-
so by Captain Foote as commanding
the British force. But Nelson, who
soon afterwards arrived in the bay
with a large fleet, made a signal to an-
nul the treaty, declaring that he would
grant to rebels no other terms than
those of unconditional submission ; and
notwithstanding the strenuous opposi-
tion of the cardinal, the garrisons of
the castles were delivered over as reb-
els to the veno^eance of the Sicilian
court. This questionable transaction
was followed by the execution of Car-
accioli. This aged prince, a man who
hitherto had borne a high character,
and who was a commodore in the Nea-
politan navy, had, from some motive or
other, joined the enemy ; and after be-
ing tried by a court-martial of Neapol-
itan ofiicers assembled on board of the
British flag-ship, ^va8 found guilty, and
sentenced to death. This sentence Lord
Nelson ordered to be carried into exe-
cution the same evening, on board the
Sicilian frigate La Minerva. As a re-
ward for these services, which have, in
the judgment of many, left a blot on
the scutcheon of the great admii-al,

388

iioiiATK) nelso:n.

Nelson received from the Sicilian court
a sword splendidly enriclied witli dia-
monds, in addition to the dukedom of
Bronte, with a domain worth about
£;^,000 a year.

After the appointment of Lord Keith
to the chief command of the fleet in the
Mediterranean, Nelson was so deeply
mortified that he made preparations
for his return to England ; and, as a
ship could not be spared to convey him
thither, he traveled through Germany
to Hamburg, in company with Sir
William and Lady Hamilton, and hav-
ing embarked at Cuxhaven, landed at
Yarmouth on the 6th of November,

1800, after an absence of three years
from his native country. He was wel-
comed in England Avith every mark of
popular respect and admiration ; in
the towns through which he passed
the people came out to meet him, and
in London he was feasted by the city,
drawn by the populace, thanked for
his \dctory by the common council,
and presented w^ith a gold-hilted sword
studded with diamonds. He had now
every earthly blessing except domestic
happiness, which, in consequence of
his infatuated attachment to Lady
Hamilton, he had forfeited forever.
Before he had been three months in
England he separated from Lady Nel-
son, after much uneasiness and recri-
mination on both sides. On takins;
final leave of her, on 13th January,

1801, hp emphatically said, " I call
God to witness there is nothing in
you or your conduct I wish other-
wise." His best friends remonstrated
against this causeless and cruel deser-
tion ; but their expostulations jiroduc-
ed no other effect than to make him

displeased with them, and dissatisfied
with himself.

The three northern courts of Den-
mark, Sweden, and Russia, had now
formed a confederacy for the purpose
of setting limits to the naval preten-
sions of Great Britain ; and as such a
combination, under the influence of
France, would soon have become for-
midable, the British cabinet instantly
prepared to crush it. With this view
a formidable fleet was fitted out for
the North Seas, and the chief com-
mand of it given to Sir Hyde Parker ;
under whom Nelson, who had recently
been made vice-admiral of the blue,
consented to serve as second in com-
mand. The fleet sailed from Yarmouth
on the 12th of March, 1801 ; and on
the 30th of the same month, Lord Nel-
son, having shifted his flag from the
St. George to the Elephant, led the
way through the Sound, which was
passed without any loss. The Danes
had made every preparation for a deter-
mined resistance. Besides, the navi-
gation was little known and extremely
intricate; all the buoys had been re-
moved ; the channel was considered as
impracticable for so large a fleet ; and
in a council of war, held on board of the
flag -ship, considerable diversity of
opinion prevailed. Nelson, however,
cut short the discussion by offering his
services for the attack, requiring only
ten sail of the line and the whole of
the smaller craft. Sir Hj^de Parker
assented, but gave him two more line-
of-battle ships than he had asked, and
left everything to his o^vn judgment.
On the morning of the first of April,
the whole fleet moved to an anchorage
within tw"0 leas:ues of the town ; and

HOEATIO NELSON.

389

about one o'clock, Nelson, having com-
pleted his last examination of the
ground, made the signal to weigh,
which was received with a shout
throuerhoiit the whole division destin-
ed for the attack. They Aveighed with
a light and favorable wind, the small
craft pointing out the course to be fol-
lowed ; and the whole division, having
coasted along the shoal called the Mid-
dle Ground, doubled its farther extrem-
ity, and anchored there just as the dark-
ness closed, the signal to prepare for
action having been made early in the
evening. As his anchor dropped, Nel-
son exclaimed, " I will fight them the
moment I have a fair wind."

On the following morning, at half-
past nine, the signal was made for the
ships to weigh in succession ; at ten
minutes after ten the action commenc-
ed, at the distance of about half a ca-
ble length from the enemy ; and by
half-past eleven the battle became gen-
eral. The plan of attack had been com-
plete ; but seldom had any project of
the kind been disconcerted by more
untoward accidents. Three of the
ships had grounded, and only one gun-
bris: and two bomb-vessels could be
got fairly into action. Nelson's agita-
tion was extreme when he found him-
self, before the action began, deprived
of a fourth part of his force ; Imt no
sooner was he in action than the wild
music of the fight seemed to drive
away all anxious thoughts ; his coun-
tenance brightened, and his conversa-
tion became joyous, animated, and de-
lightful. At one o'clock the enemy's
fire continued unslackened ; and the
commander-in-chief, despairing of suc-
cess, made the signal for discontinuing

the action. At this moment, whilst Nel-
son was pacing the quarter-deck in all
the excitement of battle, a shot, passing
through the main-mast, knocked the
splinters about. "It is warm work,"
said he, " and this day may be the last
to any of us at a moment ; but, mark
you," he added, " I would not be else-
where for thousands." The signal-
lieutenant now called out that the sig-
nal for discontinuing the action had
been thrown oiit by the commander-
in-chief. Nelson continued to walk
the deck, and appeared not to notice
it. At the next turn, the lieutenant
asked if he should repeat the signal.
" No," replied Nelson ; " acknowledge
it." He then called to know if the
signal for close action was still hoist-
ed ; and being answered in the afiirm-
ative, said, " Mind you keep it so."
A little after, " I have a right to be
blind sometimes, Foley," added he, ad-
dressing the captain ; then putting the
glass to his blind eye, in a mood of sport-
ive bitterness, Avhich gives an iuex]')ress-
ible interest to the scene, "I really
do not see the signal," he exclaimed ;
and after a pause, " Keep mine for
closer battle flying ; that's the way I
answer such signals ; nail mine to the
mast."

Between one and two o'clock, how-
ever, the fire of the Danes slacken-
ed : by half -past two the action had
ceased, except with the Crown batter-
ries, and one or two ships which had
renewed their fire, though with but
little effect. At this critical moment,
Nelson, A\ itli liis accustomed presence
of mind, resolved to secure the advan-
tage he had gained, and to open a ne-
gotiation. He retired into the stern

390

HOKATIO ISTELSON.

galleiy, and -vyrote to the Crown Prince
thus : '' Vice- Admiral Lord Nelson has
been commanded to spare Denmark
when she no longer resists. The line
of defence ^\•hich covered her shores has
struck to the British flag;— but if the
firing is continued on the part of Den-
mark, he must set on fire all the prizes
he has taken, without having the pow-
er of saving the men who liave so nobly-
defended them. The brave Danes are
the brothers, and should never be the
enemies of the English." This, after
an interchange of communications, led
to an interview between Nelson and
the Crown Prince, at which the pre-
liminaries of negotiations were adjust-
ed ; and a treaty was at length con-
cluded, by which the northern confed-
eracy was dissolved, and the maritime
superiority of Britain unequivocally
recognized. For the battle of Copen-
hagen, Nelson was raised to the rank
of viscount, and, on the recall of Sir
Hyde Parker, ajipointed to the chief
command in the North Sea.

Having settled affairs in the Baltic,
Lord Nelson returned in a frigate to
England. But he had not been many
Aveeks ashore when he was called upon
to attack the flotilla which had been
prepared at Boulogne for the threaten-
ed invasion of England. The enemy
were fully prepared, however, and
though nothing could exceed the gal-
lantry Avith which they were assailed,
the enterprise proved unsuccessful. He
now desired to be relieved from this
boat-service, thinking it an unsuitable
emplojTnent for a vice-admiral ; and
his wishes were speedily gratified by
the signature of the preliminaries of
peace.

He had purchased a house and an
estate at Merton in Surrey, meaning
to pass there the remainder of his
days, in the society of Sir- William
and Lady Hamilton. But the happi-
ness which he had promised himself
was not of long continuance. Sir
"William Hamilton died early in 1803.
A few weeks subsequent to this event
the Avar was renewed ; and the day
after his majesty's message to parlia-
ment, announcing the recommencement
of hostilities, Lord Nelson departed to
assume the command of the fleet in the
Mediterranean.

On the 20th of May, 1803, he hoist-
ed his flag on board the Victory, and
having taken his station immediately
off Toulon, he there waited with inces-
sant watchfulness for the coming out of
the enemy ; yet notAvithstanding all his
vigilance, the Toulon fleet put to sea
on the 18th of January, 1805, and
shortly afterwards formed a junctioii
with the Si^anish squadron at Cadiz.
Nelson had formed his own judgment
of their destination, when Donald
Campbell, then an admiral in the Por-
tuguese service, Avent on board the Vic-
tory, and communicated his certain
knowledge that the combined French
and Spanish fleets were bound for the
West Indies. Tlie enemy had five and
thirty days' start ; but Nelson calcula-
ted that he should gain eight or ten
days by his exertions. To the West
Indies therefore he bent all sail with
his ten ships, in eager pursuit of eigh-
teen, and on the 4th of June reached
Barbadoes, whither he had sent dis-
patches before him. DeceiA'ed by false
intelligence, he then stood to the south-
ward in quest of the enemy ; but ad-

IIOKATIO NELSON.

391

vices having met him by the way that
the combined fleets were at Martinique,
he immediately sailed for that island,
where he arrived on the 9th, and re-
ceived certain intelligence that they
had passed to the leeward of Antigua
the preceding day, and taken a home-
ward-l^ouud convoy. It was now clear
that the enemy, having accomplished
the object of their cruise, were flying
back to Europe ; and accordingly, on
the 13th, he steered for Europe in pur-
suit of them. On the l7th July he
came in sight of Cape St. Vincent, and
directed his course towards Gibraltar,
where he soon afterwards anchored,
and went on shore for the first time
since the 16th of June, 1803. The
combined fleet having thus eluded his
pursuit, he returned almost inconsola-
ble to England, to reinforce the Chan-
nel fleet with his squadron, lest the
enemy should bear down upon Brest
with their whole collected force.

Having landed at Portsmouth, Lord
Nelson at length received news of the
enemy's fleet. After an inconclusive
action, in which they had run the
gauntlet through Sir Robert Calder's
squadron on the 22d of July, about
sixty leagues west of Cape Finisterre,
they had proceeded to Ferrol, brought
out the squadron which there awaited
theii" arrival, and with it entered Cadiz
in safety. Upon receiving this intel-
ligence. Nelson again offered his ser-
vices, which were willingly accepted.
The Victory, destined once more to
bear his flag, was refitted with incredi-
ble dispatch ; and such was his impa-
tience to be at the scene of action, that,
although the wind proved adverse, he
worked down the Channel, and, after

a rough passage, arrived off Cadiz on
the 29th of September, the day on
which the French admiral, Villeneuve,
had received peremptory orders to put
to sea the very first opportunity. Fear-
ing that the enemy, if they knew his
force, might be deterred from ventur-
ing to sea, he kept out of sight of land ;
desired Collingwood to hoist no colors,
and fire no salute ; and wi'ote to Gib-
raltar to request that the force of the
fleet might not be inserted in the ga-
zette published there. The station
which he chose was some fifty or sixty
miles to the westward of Cadiz, off
Cape St. Mary's.

On the 9th of October, Lord Nelson
communicated to Admiral Collinorwood
his plan of attack. The order of sailing
was to be the order of battle. His ob-
ject he declared to be close and decisive
action. " In case signals cannot be
s-een or clearly understood," said he,
" no captain can do Avrong if he j)lace
his ship alongside that of an enemy."
This was what he called the Nelson-
toiicli. It was a mode of attack equal-
ly new and simple. Every one com-
prehended it in a moment, and was
convinced that it would succeed. In
fact it proved irresistible.

Villeneuve, relying upon the infor-
mation he had received, put to sea on
the 19th, and at daybreak, on the 21st
of October, 1805, the combined fleets
were distinctly seen from the deck of
the Victory, formed in a close line
ahead, about twelve miles to the lee-
ward, and standing to the soutlnrard,
off Cape Trafalgar. The British fleet
consisted of twenty-seven sail of the'
line and four frigates ; the enemy's
fleet of thii'ty-three sail of the line and

392

HOKATIO NELSOK

seven frigates. But tlieir superiority
was greater in size and in weiglit of
metal than in numbers ; tliey had
4,000 troops on board; and the best
riflemen who coukl be procured, many
of them Tyrolese, were dispersed
throughout the ships. Soon after
daylight Nelson came on deck, and
the signal was made to bear down on
the enemy in two lines, upon which
the fleet set all sail ; CoUingwood, in
the Eoyal Sovereign, leading the lee
line of thirteen ships, and Nelson, in
the Victory, leading the weather line
of fourteen. Having seen that all was
right, he retired to his cabin, and wrote
a devout prayer, in which, after be-
seeching the Almighty to grant a great
and glorious victory, he committed his
life to the God of Battles ; and in an-
other writiner which he annexed in the

same diary, he bequeathed Lady Ham-
ilton as a legacy to his king and coun-
try, and commended to the public be-
nificence his adopted daughter, Hora-
tia, desiring that in future she would
use the name of Nelson only. Black-
wood went on board the Victory about
six, and found him in good spirits, but
very calm, and with none of that ex-
hilaration which he had dis2)layed on
entering into battle at Aboukir and at
Copenhagen. With a prophetic antici-
pation, he seems to have looked for
death with almost as certain a convic-
tion as for victory. His whole atten-
tion was fixed upon the enemy, who
now formed their line with much skill
on the larboard tack. Then appeared
that signal — Nelson's last signal —
which will be remembered as long as
the language or even the memory of
England shall endure : — " England ex-

pects every man to do his duty." It
was received throughout the fleet with
a responsive burst of acclamation, ren-
dered sublime by the spirit which it
breathed, and the determination which
it expressed. " Now," said Nelson, " I
can do no more. We must trust to
the great disposer of all events, and
the justice of our cause. I thank God
for this great ojiportunity of doing my
duty."

On this memorable day Nelson wore,
as usual, his admiral's frock-coat, bear-
ing ujjon the left breast the various
orders with which he had at different
times been invested. Decorations which
rendered him so conspicuous a mark to
the enemy were beheld with ominous
apprehension by his officers, especially
as it was known that there were riflemen
on board the French ships, and it could
not be doubted that his life would be
j)articularly aimed at. This was a point,
however, on which it was hopeless to
reason or remonstrate with him. " In
honor I gained them," said he, when
allusion was made to the insio-uia he
wore, "and in honor I will die with
them." Nevertheless, Captain Black-
wood, and his own captain, Hardy,
having represented to him how ad-
vantageous it would be to the fleet
were he to keep out of action as long
as possible, he consented that the Tem-
eraire and the Leviathan, which were
sailing abreast of the Victory should
be ordered to pass ahead. But the
order was unavailing ; for these ships
could not pass ahead if the Victory
continued to carry all her sail ; yet, so
far from shortening sail, Nelson took
an evident pleasure in pressing on, and
rendering it impossible for them to

HOEATIO NELSON.

393

obey his own order. As the enemy
sho^yed no colors till late in the action,
the Santissima Trinidad was distin-
guishable only by her four decks ; and
to the bow of his old opponent in the
action off Cape St. Vincent he ordered
the Victory to be steered. In the
meantime, an incessant raking fire was
kept up on the Victory; and as the
ship approached. Nelson remarked,
" This is too warm work to last lonsr."
She had not yet returned a single gun,
though by this time fifty of her men
had been killed or wounded, and her
mjiin-top-mast, with all her studding-
sails and Ijooms, shot away. A few
minutes after twelve, however, she
opened her fire from both sides of her
deck, and soon afterwards ran on board
the Redoubtable, just as her tiller ropes
were shot away. Captain Harvey, in
the Temeraire, fell on board the Re-
doubtable on the other side ; and an-
other enemy's ship, the Fougueux, fell
on board the Temeraire ; so that these
four ships formed as compact a tier as
if they had been moored together, their
heads lying all the same way. The
lieutenants of the Victory now de-
pressed their guns, and fired with a
diminished charge, lest the shot should
pass through and injure the Temeraii'e ;
and as there was danger that the
Redoubtable might take fire from
the lower-deck guns, the muzzles
of which Avhen run out, touched
her sides, the fireman of each gun
stood ready with a bucket of water,
which, as soon as the gun had been
discharged, he dashed into the hole
made by the shot. In this situation,
the Victory ke^^t up an incessant fire
fi'om both sides, directing her larboard
50

guns on the Bucentaur and Santissima
Trinidad.

But Nelson's hour was now come.
It had been part of his prayer that the
British fleet might be as distinguished
for humanity in victory as for bravery
in battle. Setting an example himself
he twice gave orders to cease firing
upon the Redoubtable, supposing she
had struck, because her great guns
were silent ; for as she carried no flag,
it was impossible instantly to ascertain
the fact. From the ship which he had
thus twice spared he received his death-
wound. In the heat of the action,
about a quarter after one o'clock, a
musket-ball from the mizen-top of the
Redoubtable struck the epaulette on
his left shoulder ; and he fell iipon his
face on the spot covered with the blood
of his secretary, Mr. Scott, who had
been killed a short time befora " They
have done for me at last. Hardy," said
he, as a serjeant of marines and two
seamen raised him fi'om the deck. " I
hope not," replied Captain Hardy.
"Yes," he rejoined; "my back-bone is
shot through." But, though mortally
wounded, he did not for a moment
lose that presence of mind for which
he was ever distinguished. As they
were caiTying him down the ladder to
the cockpit, he observed that the tiller
ropes, which liad been shot away early
in the action, were not yet replaced,
and ordered that new ones should be
immediately rove. He Avas laid upon
a pallet in the midshipman's liertli,
and the surgeon bein<r called it was
soon perceived that the wound he had
received would speedily prove mortal ;
])ut this was concealed from all except
Ca^jtaiii Hardy, the chaplain, and the

394

HOEATIO NELSON.

medical attendants. Being certain,
however, from the sensation which he
felt m his back, and the gush of blood
within his breast, that no human aid
could avail him, he insisted that the
surgeon should leave him, and attend
to those to whom he might be useful,
" You can do nothing for me," said he.
Suffering from intense thirst, and in
great pain, he expressed much anxi-
ety as to the fate of the action ; and
his countenance brightened with a
gleam of joy as often as the hurrah of
the crew of the Victory announced that
an enemy's ship had struck.

At length he became very impatient
to see Cajjtain Hardy, whom he re-
peatedly sent for ; but that officer
could not leave the deck, and upwards
of an hour elapsed before he could quit
his station. When they met they
shook hands in silence. Hardy strug-
gling to suppress his emotions. " Well,
Hardy," said Nelson, " how goes the day
with us ? " " Very well," replied the
cajitain ; " ten ships have struck, but
five of the enemy's van have tacked,
and show an intention of bearing down
on the Victory. I have called two or
three of our fresh shij)s around and
have no doubt of giving them a drub-
bing." " I hope " said Nelson, " none
of our ships have struck." " There is
no fear of that " answered Hardy ; upon
which the dying hero said, " I am a
dead man : I am going fast ; it will
soon be all over with me ; my back
is shot through." Hardy, unable any
longer to suppress his feelings, hastened
upon deck ; but in some fifty minutes
returned, and taking the hand of his
dying commander, congratulated him
on having gained a complete victory.

He did not know how many of the
enemy had struck, as it was impossible
to perceive them distinctly; but four-
teen or fifteen at least had surrendered.
" That's well," answered Nelson ; " but
I had bargained for twenty." Then,
in a stronger voice, he said, "Anchor,
Hardy, anchor ; " and again, most ear-
nestly, " Do you anchor." Next to
his country, Lady Hamilton occupied
his thoughts. " Take care of my dear
Lady Hamilton, Hardy ; take care of
poor Lady Hamilton ; " and a few
minutes before he expired, he said to
the chaplain, " Kemember that I leave
Lady Hamilton and my daughter Ho-
ratia as a legacy to my country." The
last words he was heard to utter dis-
tinctly were, "I thank God, I have
done my duty." He expired at half-
past four o'clock, three hours and a
quarter after he had received his fatal
wound.

The total loss of the British in the
battle of Trafalgar amounted to 1587.
Twenty of the enemy struck, and of
the shijjs which escaped, four were
afterwards taken by Sir Richard Stra-
han. But unhappily the fleet did not
anchor, as Lord Nelson with his dying
breath had enjoined ; a heavy gale
came on from the S. W.; some of the
prizes went down, some were driven
on the shore, one effected its escape
into Cadiz, others were destroyed, and
four only were by the greatest exer-
tions, saved. Still, by this mighty
achievement, the navies of France and
Spain received a blow from which they
were not destined soon to recover ;
the gigantic combinations of Napoleon
with a view to a descent upon England
were completely baffled ; and the sue-

HOEATIO NELSON.

395

cess of his campaign of Austerlitz
was in a great measure neutralized.
The remains of Lord Nelson were
buried at St. Paul's on the 9th of
January, 1806. It is needless to
add, that all the honors which a
grateful country could bestow were
heaped on the memory of the man
who had achieved this unequalled
victory.

Lord Nelson's brother, the Rev.
William Nelson, D. D., was created
Earl Nelson of Trafalgar and of Merton
on the 20th November, 1805, with an
annual grant of £6000, and with per-
mission from his majesty to inherit his
deceased brother's Sicilian dukedom
of Bronte. Besides £100,000 for the
purchase of an estate, £10,000 were
voted to each of the hero's sisters.
His dying request in behalf of Lady

Hamilton and his " adopted daughter
Horatia Nelson Thompson," the Brit-
ish nation saw fit to utterly disregard.
The one he left, in a codicil to his will
written a few hours before his fall, " a
legacy to my king and country ;" and
the other "to the beneficence of my
country." " These " continues the
document, " are the only favors I ask
of my king and country at this mo
ment, when I am going to fight their
battle ;" yet this codicil was virtuously
concealed by the hero's reverend bro-
ther until the parliamentary grant to
himself was duly completed. Lady
Hamilton died at Calais in extreme
poverty and great distress on the 6th
January, 1814. Nelson's daughter
Horatia, was married in February,1822,
to the Rev. Philip Ward, an English
clergyman.

JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN.

yOHN PHILPOT CURRAN, the
^ wittiest and most eloquent lawyer
of his day, was born at Newmarket, a
small village of the county of Cork,
Ireland, on the 24th of July, 1750.
He was thus four years younger than
his great associate in fame, Henry Grat-
tan. Much has been said about his
humble origin ; but his ancestry was
respectable, and though he rose in life
by the exertion of his own talents with
little aid fi'om fortune, he can hardly
be classed with those who have had to
contend in the pursuit of knowledge
with extraordinary difficulties. His
father, James Curran, descended, we
are told, from one of the soldiers who
came over £i"om England to assist in
the ruthless subjugation of Ireland, in
Cromwell's army, held the position of
seneschal of a manor court at Newcastle
and possessed some acquirements above
his station, having some acquaintance
with the Greek and Roman classics.
Phillips in his animated work on " Cur-
ran and his Contemporaries" speaks
rather slightingly of these attainments,
saying that " Old James Curran's ed-
ucation was pretty much in the ratio
of his income," which, he tells us, " be-
sides the paltry revenue of his office,

(396)

was very moderate." All parties agree,
however, in their tributes to the bright
intellectual qualities of the mother,
which conquered all defects of educa-
tion. This lady, whose maiden name
was Philpot, belonged to a respectable
family and was noted for the impres-
sion made by her character upon those
about her. She was witty, humorous,
renowned in her neiarhborhood for her
good stock of legendary lore. " The only
inheritance," Curran would say in after
life, " that I could boast of from my poor
father, was the very scanty one of an
unattractive face and person like his
own ; and if the world has ever attrib-
uted to me something more valuable
than face or person, or than earthly
wealth, it was that another and a
dearer parent gave her child a portion
from the treasure of her own mind."*
She lived to witness her son's success
at the bar, and, when she died about
the year 1783 at the age of eighty, her
son recorded his sense of his obligations
to her in this monumental inscription,
" Here lies the body of Sarah Curran.
She was marked by many years, many
talents, many virtues, few failings, no

* Life of Curran, by his son, William Henry
Curran.

JOHN PHILPOT CUREAK.

397

crime. This frail memorial was placed
here by a son wliom she loved."

The young Curran was fortunate in
finding an appreciator of his boyish
talents in the resident clergyman at
Newcastle, the Rev. Nathaniel Boyse,
who had such regard for his parents,
and who was so pleased with the child
that he took him into his own house and
personally instructed him in the rudi-
ments of a classical education. With
this encouragement of his powers, the
boy, with the further assistance of a
pecuniary grant from his benefactor,
was sent to the school at Middleton,
where he was prepared for admission
to Trinity College, Dublin. Curran
never forgot his obligation to Boyse.
In his social hours he used to relate,
with his mingled humor and feeling, to
his biographer Phillips, how the kind
clergyman had one day found him, a
light-hearted, waggish boy, playing in
the village ball-alley, and in pursuit of
his benevolent intentions had seduced
him to his home by a gift of sweet-
meats, and in due time sent him forth
on the high road to learning', having
made a man of him. " I recollect,"
said Curran," "it was about five-and-
thirty years afterwards, when I had
risen to some eminence at the bar, and
when I had a seat in parliament, and
a good house in Ely Place, on my re-
turn one day from court I found an
old gentleman seated alone in the draw-
ing-room, his feet familiarly placed on
each side of the Italian marble chimney-
piece, and his whole air bespeaking
the couciousness of one quite at home.
He turned round — it was my friend of
the ball-alley ! I rushed instinctively
into his arms. I could not help burst-

ing into tears. "Words cannot describe
the scene which followed. ' You are
right, sir; you are right; the chim-
ney-piece is yours — the pictures are
yours — the house is yours; you gave
me all I have — my friend — my father !'
He dined with me ; and in the evening
I caught the tear glistening in his fine
blue eye when he saw his poor little
Jacky, the creatiire of his bounty, ris-
ing in the House of Commons to reply
to a right honorable. Poor Boyse ! he
is now gone ; and no suitor had a lar-
ger deposit of practical benevolence in
the court above. This is his wine — •
let us drink to his memory." Curran
entered Trinity College, Dublin, as a
sizer in 1769. He was now, at the age
of nineteen, a lively imaginative youth,
with wit apparently at will, or rather
an instinctive faculty with him, turn-
ing to ready account the felicities of
Horace, already a favorite author, and
to be cherished with Vii'gil as the com-
panion of his life. He became cele-
brated in his professional career for
his ready humorous application of
verses from the classic poets, which
was highly valued as an accomplish-
ment in his day in the courts and in
parliament.

When Curran entered college it
was with the expectation, at least on
the part of his family and friends, that
he would one day take orders in the
church. There was a prospect of a
small living in the gift of a distant
relative; and the idea, at the outset,
seems to have had some encouragement
fr'om his tastes and disposition. It
was soon, however, dissipated, much to
the regret of his mother, who, witness-
ing tlie effect of his eloquence at the

398

JOHN PHILPOT CUREAN.

bar in later years, is said to have ex-
claimed, "Oh, Jaeky, Jacky, what a
preacher was lost in you !" The law
Avas in fact his proper destination, and
his son records the incident to which
he attributed his first impression of
his fitness for the calling. "He had
committed some breach of the college
regulations, for which he was sentenced
by the censor. Dr. Patrick Duigenan,
either to pay a fine of five shillings, or
to translate into Latin a number of the
'Spectator.' He found it more con-
venient to accept the latter alternative ;
but, on the appointed day, the exercise
was not ready, and some unsatisfactory
excuse was assigned. Against the
second ofi'euce a heavier penalty was
denounced — he was compelled to pro-
nounce a Latin oration in laudem de-
cori from the pulpit in the college
chapel. He no longer thought of eva-
ding his sentence, and accordingly
prepared the panegyric ; but when he
came to recite it, he had not proceeded
far before it was found to contain a
mock model of ideal perfection, which
the doctor instantly recognized to be
a glaring satire upon himself. As
soon, therefore, as the young orator
had concluded, and descended from his
station, he was summoned before the
Provost and Fellows to account for
his behaviour. Doctor Duigenan was
not very popular, and the provost was
secretly not displeased at any circum-
stance that could mortify him. He,
therefore, merely went through the
form of calling upon the offender for
an explanation, and, listening with in-
dulgence to the ingenuity with which
he attempted to soften down the libel,
dismissed him with a slight reproof.

When ]Mr. Curran returned among his
companions, they surrounded him to
hear the particulars of his acquittal.
He reported to them all that he had
said, ' and all that he had not said, but
that he might have said ;' and impres-
sed them "with so high an idea of his
legal dexterity that they declared, by
common acclamation, that the bar
and the bar alone, was the proper
profession for one who possessed the
talents of which he had that day given
such a striking proof. He accepted
the omen, and never after repented of
his decision."

His disposition, it may readily be
seen, would have been ill-suited to the
church, unless his countryman, Sterne,
is to be accepted as a model of a divine.
He was much too full of pranks for
the sober conduct of the gown. When
he was but a small boy, an itinerant
showman, who had come to Ne-\vniar-
ket, became too ill to exhibit his per
f ormance of Punch ; but Curran, child
as he was, readily undertook the part,
and, as we are told, caricatured and
satirized his audience without mercy,
turning inside out the whole scandal-
ous gossip of the place, not sparing in
his ridicule the very priest of the
parish. In his college days he was
among the wildest and boldest of his
companions, engaging in many a dare-
devil fi'olic and nocturnal broil, after
one of which he was left wounded and
insensible from loss of blood to pass
the night on the Dublin pavement.
To add to his it-regularities, he was
often without funds, and, when pro-
vided by his relatives, would dissipate
the scant allowances in entertain ina:
his friends ; like Goldsmith in his ini-

JOHN PHILPOT CUEEAN".

399

providence, and like him too in his
cheerfulness and good humor, which
carried him triumphantly through his
adverse fortunes.

From Trinity College, having quali-
fied himself for a Master's degree. Cur-
ran, in 1773, went to London to enter
his name as a student of law in the
Middle Temple. Of his employment
at this period, during the two years of
his novitiate, we have some interesting
notices in his correspondence with his
Mend, the Rev. Henry Weston — a se-
ries of letters which, in their humor,
character and fresh observation of life,
remind us of those sent home to his
friends by Oliver Goldsmith when he
left Ireland to study medicine at Edin-
burgh. Curran, however, with equal
gayety and sensibilit}', appears the more
serious student of the two. For the
first five months of his residence in the
English capital he was almost a recluse,
and, after that, still continued devoted
to his studies. " I still read," he writes
to his friend, "ten hours every day,
seven at law and three at history, or
the general principles of politics ; and
that I may have time enough, I rise at
half after four. I have contrived a
machine after the manner of an hour-
glass, which, jDerhaps, you may be curi-
ous to know, awakens me regularly at
that hour. Exactly over my head I
have suspended two vessels of tin, one
above the other; when I go to bed,
which is always at ten, I pour a bottle
of water into the upper vessel, in the
bottom of which is a hole of such a
size as to let the water pass through
so as to make the inferior reservoir
overflow in six hours and a lialf. I
have had no small trouble in propor-

tioning those vessels ; and I was still
more puzzled for a while how to con-
fine my head so as to receive the drop,
but I have at lenfrth succeeded."
Amusement and relief from this exact-
ing course of study he found in the
coffee-house, where he passed a couple
of hours of the evening, listening to
the discussion of politics, which proved
a solvent for the otherwise unsociable
habits of the people. This humble
species of club life had for him a kind
of philosophical attraction. " Six or
seven old fellows," he writes, " who
have spent the early part of their lives
in a variety of adventures, and are
united at last by no other principle
than a common vacancy, which makes
it necessary for them to fill up their
time by meddling in other people's
business, since they have none of their
own, is certainly a miscellany not un-
worthy a perusal ; it gives a facility
at least of discerning character, and
what is no less useful, enures us to a
toleration that must make our passage
through life more easy." At another
time he writes, " I sometimes find en-
tertainment in visiting the diversity of
eating places with which this town
abounds. Here every coal-porter is a
politician, and vends his maxims in
public with all the importance of a
man who thinks he is exerting himself
for the puldic service; he claims the
privilege of looking as wise as possi-
ble, and of talking as loud, of damning
the ministry and abusing the king,
with less reserve than he would his
own equal. Yet, little as these poor
people understand of the liberty they
contend so warmly for, or of the me*
sures they rail against, it reconciles one

400

JOKN PHILPOT CUEEAN.

to their absurdity, by considering that
they are happy at so small an expense
as being ridiculous ; and they certainly
receive more pleasure from the power
of aljusing, than they would from the
reformation of what they condemn.^ I
take the same satisfaction in this kind
of company, as, while it diverts me, it
has the additional recommendation of
reconciling economy with amusement.'
Economy, indeed, was an important
consideration with our young adven-
turer. On one occasion, when from
lack of an endorsement a bill of ex-
change drawn upon a London bank-
ing house proved not negotiable, leav-
ing him sadly in need of the remittance,
he turned into St. James' Park to the
traditional dinner with Duke Humph-
rey. Seating himself upon one of the
benches he consoled himself with whist-
ling a melancholy old Irish air, which
attracted the attention of a person at
the other end. "Pray, sir," said the
stranger — we give the story as it is
related by Curran's son — " may I ven-
ture to ask where you learned that
tune?" "Indeed, sir," replied the
whistler, in the meek and coui'teous
tone of a spirit which affliction had
softened, "indeed you may, sir; I
learned it in my native country, in Ire-
land." " But how comes it, sir, that at
this hour, while other people are dining,
you continue here, whistling old Irish
airs ? " " Alas ! sir, I too have been in
the habit of dining of late, but to-day,
my money being all gone, and my
credit not yet arrived, I am even
forced to come and dine upon a whistle
in the park." Struck by the mingled
playfulness and despondence of this
confession, the benevolent veteran ex-

claimed: "Corn-age, young man! I
think I can see that you deserve better
fare; come along with me, and you
shall have it." This sympathizing
stranger proved no less a person than
the eminent actor, Macklin ; and some
time after when the tragedian came to
Dublin, when his dinnerless acquaint-
ance had risen to eminence in politics
and at the bar, the circumstance be-
came the occasion of a very pleasant
renewal of the acquaintance of the two
parties. Macklin did not recognize
Curran till he prepared the way by a
circumstantial account of the scene,
relating it as an instance of the regard
Irishmen have for one another. This
brought the occurrence to the actor's
recollection. " If my memory fails me
not," he said, " we have met before."
"Yes, Mr, Macklin," replied Curran,
taking his hand, " indeed we have met ;
and, though upon that occasion you
were only performing upon a private
theatre, let me assure you that — to
adopt the words of a high Judicial per-
sonage, which you have heard before —
you never acted letter^'' The allusion
was to a comjiliraent in those words
addressed by Lord Mansfield fi-om the
bench to Macklin in reference to his
liberal conduct in a cause under adju-
dication. Macklin was the only ac-
quaintance Curran made of the emi-
nent men of the time during his terms
at the Temple. He saw Goldsmith
once at a coffee-house. Garrick, of
course, was visible to him at the the-
atre, and made a great impression upon
him, as did Mansfield presiding in
court.

He was meanwhile not only a dili-
gent reader in private, but sought op-

JOHN PHILFOT CUKRAN.

401

portunities in debating clubs to fami-
liarize himself with oratorical expres-
sion. At first bis babit of stammerina-
appeared so irremediable that his friend
Apjobn advised him to prepare him-
self by study for the duties of chamber
counsel exclusively, as nature had never
intended him for an orator. But he
resolutely persisted in his attempts at
sjDeaking, till one day his genius was
fully roused by some contemptuous
opposition, and the precipitation and
confusion of speech which had gained
him from his schoolfellows the appel-
lation of " Stuttering Jack Curran,"
was clarified and concentrated in that
bold, imj^etuous flow of eloquence,
which was for the succeeding genera-
tion to charm senates and popular as-
semblies. He now lost no time in per-
fecting himself, by assiduous attend-
ance at the Robin Hood and other de-
batino; clubs, in skill and readiness in
discussion, thus making himself a mas-
ter of all the exigencies of extempore
speaking ; preparing himself adequate-
ly beforehand, and trusting to the oc-
casion for expression. During his resi-
dence in London, before his studies
were completed, he thought of emigra-
ting to America to try his fortune at
the bar in this country ; but this de-
sic;n he soon abandoned.

In 1775 he was called to the Irish
bar ; and, assisted by the moderate
marriage portion of Miss Creagh, of
the county of Cork, to whom he had
been united the year before, was en-
abled with the fees which he derived
from his profession to lead an inde-
pendent life in pecuniary matters from
the beginning. His success as an ad-
vocate was steady in its progress, his
51

note-book recording the receipt of
eighty-two guineas in retainers the first
year, between one and two hundred the
second, and so on in pi'oportion. Not-
withstanding his practice in the deba-
ting clubs, he was so overcome with
agitation on his first appearance in the
Court of Chancery, that he was unable
to read a sentence from the brief which
he held, and a friend by his side did
this olBce for him. He, however, soon
became distinguished by his boldness
and the readiness and fertility of his
illustrations, his high spirit, easily pro-
voked, calling forth all his powers
when he was met by opj^osition.
Pleading one day before Judge Robin-
son, he remarked, " that he had never
met the law as laid down by his lord-
ship in any book in Ms library."
" That may be, sir," said the judge in
a contemptuous tone, " but I suspect
that your library is very small." The
Judge being the author of several
anonymous pamphlets, remarkable for
their party spirit and despotic violence,
Curran instantly retoi'ted, admitting
that his library might be small, but
professing his thankfulness to heaven
that it contained none of the wretched
productions of the frantic pamph-
leteers of the day. " I find it more in-
structive, my lord," said he, " to study
good books than to compose bad ones ;
my books may be few, but the title-
pages give me the writers' names ; my
shelf is not disgraced by any of such
rank absurdity that their very authors
are ashamed to own them." He was here
interrupted by the judge, who said,
" Sir, you are forgetting the respect
which you owe to the diguity of the
judicial character." •' Dignity ! " ex-

402

JOHN PHILPOT CUEEAN.

claimed Curran ; " my lord, upon that
point I sliall cite you a case from a
Look of some authority, with which
you are perhaps not unacquainted."
The book was Smollett's "Koderick
Random," and the story which he pro-
ceeded to relate was an adventure of
Strap. " A poor Scotchman, upon his
arrival in London, thinking himself
insulted l\y a stranger, and imagining
that he Avas the stronger man, resolved
to resent the affront, and taking off
his coat, delivered it to a by-stander to
hold ; but having lost the battle, he
turned to resume his garment, when he
discovered that he had unfortunately
lost that also, that the trustee of his
habiliment had decamped during the
affray. So, my lord, when the person
who is invested with the dignity of
the judgment-seat lays it aside, for a
moment, to enter into a disgraceful
personal contest, it is vain, when he
has been worsted in the encounter,
that he seeks to resume it — ^it is in
vain that he endeavors to shelter him-
self from behind an authority which
he has abandoned." To Avhich the
judge answered, " If you say another
word, sir. Til commit you," and Cur-
ran, closing in triumph, responded,
"Then, my lord, it will be the best
thing you'll have conmiitted this term."
A scene like this miarht not have
gained a young barrister much credit
in the English courts, but in Ireland,
where greater latitude was allowed, and
the conflict of partisan warfare was
more intense, it was much to his ad-
vantage. Curran's wit and intrepidi-
ty began now to be generally recog-
nized, and a cause, which he undertook
about 1780, brought him into still

more prominent notice. The case was
one to call out much popular enthu-
siasm for the advocate. An Lish no-
bleman. Lord Doneraile, instigated by
his mistress, committed an assault on
an aged Roman Catholic clergyman,
who, in the exercise of his vocation,
had been called to adminster some
religious censure upon the broth-
er of the kept lady. The clergyman,
the Rev. Ml". Neale, brought an action
against the nobleman, whose position
in the county of Cork was so strong,
that an advocate who would under-
take the case was long looked for by
the poor clergyman in vain, Curran
hearing of the affair, tendered his ser-
vices to the priest, and pleaded his
cause so successfully, that a verdict
was obtained in his favor, with thirtj"
guineas damages. No printed report
of the trial was made, but if we may
judge of the spii'it of Curran's appeal
by the severity of his remarks on Mr.
St. Leger, the brother of Lord Done-
raile, Avho had been present at the as-
sault, his language must have been
sufficiently energetic. He described
that gentleman, who had lately left a
regiment which had been ordered on
active service, as " a renegado soldier,
a di'ummed-out dragoon, who wanted
the courage to meet the enemies of his
country in battle, but had the heroism
to redeem the ignominy of his flight
from danger by raising his arm against
an aged and unoffending minister of
religion, who had just risen from put-
ting up before the throne of God a
prayer of general intercession, in Avhich
his heartless insulter was included."
The necessary result of this license was
a challenge from the military man,

JOHN PHTLPOT CUERAN.

403

whicli Curran, in the state of opiniou
in Ireland on that subject, felt that he
could not shelter himself behind any
professional privilege of the court-room
to decline. He met his antagonist, re-
ceived his fire without injury, and gal-
lantly refused to return it. A more
solemn and interesting scene, as related
by Mr. Curran's son, soon followed.
" The poor priest was shortly after
called away to another world. When
he found that the hour of death was at
hand, he earnestly requested that his
counsel, to whom he had something of
importance to communicate, might be
brought into his presence. Mr. Curran
complied, and was conducted to the
bedside of his expiring client. The
humble servant of God had neither
gold nor silver to bestow, but what he
had, and what with him was above all
price, he gave — the blessing of a dying
Christian upon him who had employed
his talents, and risked his life, in re-
dressing the wrongs of the minister of
a i^roscribed religion. He caused him-
self to be raised for the last time from
his pillow, and, placing his hands on
the head of his young advocate, pro-
nounced over him the formal benedic-
tion of the Roman Catholic Church, as
the reward of his eloquence and intre-
pidity. Mr. Curran had also the sat-
isfaction of being assured by the lower
orders of his countrymen, that he might
naw fight as many duels as he pleased,
without apprehending any danger to
his person — an assurance which sub-
sequently became a prophecy, as far as
the event could render it one."

Curran became a member of the L'ish
House of Commons in 1783, and was,
of course, immediately enrolled on the

opposition side. It was the jq&v after
the consummation of the great act of
parliamentary independence, and agi-
tations were rife on all questions of
reform. Curran bore his part in them ;
but as his speeches were never fully re-
ported, and he took no pains for their
preservation, but little remains to add
to his other claims to reputation that
of the parliamentary orator. Compar-
ed with his great contemporary so dis-
tinguished in debate, possessed of the
wit, he lacked the concentration and
judgment, the philosophical acumen
and senatorial mind of Grattan. His
speech on the Pension List, in which
he advocated retrenchment, some pas
sages of which are given by his biog-
rapher, exhibits his trenchant style
and the easy familiarity of his illus-
trations.

A passage of some moment in Cui-
ran's parliamentary career was his con-
test with Fitzgibbon, then attorney-
general and subsequently Lord Chan-
cellor, better know perhaps under his
later title of Lord Clare. This person-
age seems to have been the natural an-
tagonist of Curran, opjjosed to him in
temperament, in turn of mind and in
social manners, and, in his conservative
predilections, in constant conflict with
the other's somewhat careless affection
for the revolutionary agitators of the
day. The characteristic cii'cunistances
which led to their encounter in a duel,
the culmination in Ireland in those
days of most antipathies, happened in
this way: in a debate on the Abuse
of Attachments by the King's Bench
in the Irish House of Commons in
1785, as Curran rose to speak against
them, perceiving that Mr. Fitzgibbon

404

JOim PHILPOT CUEEAN.

had fallen asleep in his seat, he thus
poinineiiced : " I hope I may say a few
words ou this great subject without
disturbing the sleep of any right hon-
orable memljer, and yet, perhaps, I
ought rather to envy than to blame
the tranquillity of the right honorable
gentleman. I do not feel myself so
happily tempered as to be lulled to re-
pose by the storms that shake the land.
If they invite rest to any, that rest
ought not to be la\'ished on the guilty
spirit." Provoked by these expres-
sions and by the observations which fol-
lowed, Fitzgibbon replied with much
personality, among other things calling
him a " puny babbler." Curran retort-
ed in this personal thrust : " I am not
a man whose respect in person and
character depends upon the impor-
tance of his office ; I am not a young
man who thrusts himself into the fore-
ground of a picture which ought to be
occupied by a better figure ; I am not
one who replies with invective when
sinking under the force of argument ;
I am not a man who denies the neces-
sity of parliamentary reform at the time
that he proves its expediency by revil-
ing his own constituents, the jiarish
clerk, the sexton and grave-digger ; and
if there be any man who can apply
what I am not to himself, I leave him
to think of it in the committee, and to
contemplate upon it when he goes
home." The result of the altercation
was a duel, in which the parties ex-
changed shots without the occasional
reward of such encounters, a better
understanding for the future. Phillips,
it may be remarked in his book on Cur-
ran and his Contemporaries, gives an-
other version of this duel, makins; it

consequent upon a different parlia
mentary altercation.

As a diversion from his now labor-
ious life, Curran, in the summer of
1787, paid a visit to France. The let-
ters which he wrote on this tour, giv-
en in his biography, are hardly equal
in style or interest to those in which
he recorded his first youthful impres-
sions of Enojland. His admiration of
what he saw was not very enthusiastic.
He liked the social turn of the people,
and did not fail to notice some of the
incongruities, in the contrast between
outside pretension and beggarly home
comforts, which marked the general
condition of the country in the period
preceding the Revolution. But even
reformers like Curran had not then
learnt the tests of political security in
the welfare of the masses, and he took
things for the most part as he found
them, not anticipating the coming
storm.

Eeturning to Curran's career at the
bar, we find him now acquiring his
most permanent claim to distinction
in his forensic pleadings following the
course of the Revolutionary efforts,
culminating in the Rebellion of 1798,
the participators in which so often
looked to him for counsel and defence.
The precui'sor of these more serious
state trials was the case in 1794 of
Archibald Hamilton Rowan, Secretary
to the Society of United Irishmen in
Dublin, who was prosecuted for utter
ing a seditious libel in publishing an
address to the Volunteers of Ii'eland,
then disbanded, inviting them to re-
sume their arms for the preservatior
of the general tranquillity. A better
case for the lasting fame of the advo

cate could not have occurred. Rowan
was in every respect an amiable gen-
tleman and disinterested patriot, not a
man given to revolutionary extrava-
gance, a benefactor of Lis species, and
as it happened, though convicted of the
liljel on insufficient evidence, neither
its author nor publisher.

The topics discussed in this speech
of Curran, included several of perma-
nent interest, among them the li1)erty
of the press, the national representa-
tion and Catholic emancipation. The
first he looked at by the light of its
advantages, comparing the insecurity
of despotism with the security of free-
dom. But the finest passage of this
oration was unquestionably the appeal
of the speaker to the spirit of the com-
mon law of England on the subject of
" Universal Emancipation," one of the
o])noxious terms in the alleged libel-
lous address. " I speak," said he, " in
the spirit of the British laAV, which
makes liberty commensurate with, and
inseparable from British soil — which
proclaims even to the stranger and the
sojourner, the moment he sets his foot
upon British earth, that the ground
on which he treads is holy, and con-
secrated by the genius of universal
emancipation. No matter in what
language his doom may have been pro-
nounced — no matter what complexion,
incompatible with freedom, an Indian,
or an African sun may have burned
u}>on him — no matter in what disas-
trous battle the helm of his liberty may
have been cloven down — no matter
with what solemnities he may have
been devoted upon the altar of slavery
— the moment he touches the sacred
soil of Britain, the altar and the god

sink together in the dust, his soul
walks abroad in its own majesty, his
body swells beyond the measure of
his chains, which burst from around
him, and he stands redeemed, regene-
rated, and disenthralled by the irre-
sistible genius of universal emancipa-
tion."

"When Mr. Curran," -writes his
friend, Phillips, " terminated this mag-
nificent exertion, the universal shout
of the audience testified its enthusi-
asm. He used to relate a ludicrous
incident which attended his departure
from court after the trial. His path
was instantly beset by the populace,
who were bent on chairing him. He
implored — he entreated — all in vain.
At length, assiuuing an air of author-
ity, he addressed those nearest to him :
' T desire, gentlemen, that yoii will de-
sist.' ' I laid great emphasis,' says Cur-
ran, ' on the word " desist," and put on
my best suit of dignity. However,
my next neighbor, a gigantic, brawny
chairman, eyeing me with a somewhat
contemptuous affection from top to
toe, bellowed out to his companion,
"Arrah, blood and turf! Pat, don't
mind the little crature ; here, j^itch
him up this minute upon my shoulder^''
Pat did as he was desired ; " the little
crature " was carried, nolens volenn^ to
his carriage and drawn home by an
applauding populace.' It was a great
treat to hear Curran describe this
scene, and act it^

Various state trials followed, in
which Curran ai>peared for the defend-
ants, in vain exerting his eloquence
to repel the system of informatiou and
the strong tide of severity which was
setting in, in the prosecutions of the

dominant party. On tlie trial of the
Eev. Williaiu Jackson, a clergyman of
the Church of England, who was con-
victed of high treason, for being the
medium of communication between
the Committee of Public Safety in Paris,
and the L-ish malcontents who looked
for aid in their schemes from France,
Curran sought in vain to influence the
jiu-y by a withering sketch of the in-
famous Cockaigne, the single witness,
the paid agent of Pitt, who had 'shared
in the treasonable transactions that he
might act the part of a spy and in-
former. But when the prisoner was
brought up for judgment, the law was
disappointed in its victim. Before
sentence could be pronounced, Jack-
son, who had taken poison, fell dead
in the dock. Another case which ex-
cited much interest, and iu which the
eloquence of Curran saved his client,was
that of a Mr. Peter Finnerty, the pub-
lisher of a newspaper called the " Press,"
who was tried for a libel on Lord Cam-
den's administration, in publishing an
article on the execution of William
Orr, a victim of these unhappy times,
whose offence had been the adminis-
tration of the unlawful United Irish-
man's oath. On this Finnerty trial,
Curran put forth his utmost powers in
an exhibition of the character and pro-
ceedings of the chief witness in the
case, the informer, James O'Brien,
whose name he made for ever memor-
able in the history of this disastrous
period.

The Rebellion of 1798 ensued. In
the year previously, Curran, in com-
pany with Grattan and others, unable
to realize theii' patriotic ideas for the
welfare of their country or affect with

moderation the dominant party in the
harsh repressive work at hand, had
withdi'awn from their seats in the Irish
House of Commons. "I agree," said
Curran, in his parting words to his fel-
low members, "that unanimity at this
time is indispensable ; the house seems
pretty unanimous for force; I am
sorry for it, for I bode the worst from
it : I shall retire from a scene where 1
can do no good, and where I certainly
should disturb that equanimity; I can
not, however, go without a 2:)arting en
treaty, that men would reflect upon
the awful responsibility in which they
stand to their country and their con-
science, before they set an example to
the people of abandoning the consti-
tution and the law, and resorting to
the terrible experience of force." It
is to the credit of Curran, that in the
bloody scenes that followed, as well as
in those which had gone before, his
best services were ever at the call of
the unhappy victims, whether of their
own treasonable folly or of the system
of repression adopted by the govern-
ment. Much of the peculiar force and
variety of talent which he brought to
this forensic work, perishing with the
occasion, has been inevitably lost to
his posterity. Few of his speeches were
preserved, and those few were inade-
quately reported, and necessarily so,
for what skilled reporter, if such a one
had been present, could render the
thousand momentary graces of expres-
sion, elicited on the instant and de-
pendent upon some sudden and fleet-
ing exigency of the case ? The words
of Hamlet are in everybody's liauds,
but who could supply the acting of
Garrick ? " Of all orators, " says the

JOHN PHILPOT CUKEAN.

407

Rev. George Croly, " Curran was
the most difficult to follow by tran-
scription. The elocution — rapid, exu-
berant, and figurative in a singular
degree — was often compressed into a
pregnant pungency which gave a sen-
tence in a word. The word lost, tlie
charm was undone. But his manner
could not be transferred, and it was
created for his style : — his eye, hand
and figure were in perpetual speech.
Nothing was alnnipt to those who
could see him — nothing was lost, ex-
cept when some flash would burst out,
of such sudden splendor as to leave
them suspended and dazzled too
strongly to follow the lustres that
shot after it with resistless illumina-
tion."

In 1803 came that ill-judged and mel-
ancholy sequel to the rebellion which
had paid the penalty of its daring in
the death or exile of its unhappy abet-
tors. This was the short-lived eflfort
at insurrection of Robert Emmet and
his friends in Dublin. To add to Cur-
ran's embarrassment in this hopeless
affair in which he was much too wise
to participate, the arrest of Emmet, by
an accident of fortune, was connected
with an attachment which he had
formed for Curran's daughter, Sarah.
He might, it is said, have escaped from
the country with his life, but he would
not leave without seeking an interview
with the lady to whom he was ardently
devoted ; so he took refuge in a house
situated between Dublin and Curran's
country seat, where he might have the
opportunity of carrying out his inten-
tions. In this place he was arrested,
and some papers being found upon his
person exhibiting his correspondence

with Miss CuiTan, her father's house
was searched for further letters, by
which means Curran first became ac-
quainted with this intimacy on the
part of his daughter. His own posi-
tion was above suspicion, and the pain-
fulness of the affair was confined to his
private domestic sorrow. Had it not
been for these unhappy circumstances,
he would doubtless have acted as the
counsel for Emmet on his trial, for
whose character he had great regard,
and whose melancholy fate, endured
with the most chivalric spirit, no one
could have more sincerely lamented.
Sympathy for the daughter of Curran
still survives in the hearts of all readers
touched by the feeling and graceful
tribute of the poet Moore, and em-
balmed in that plaintive utterance of
Washington Irving, the paper entitled
" The Broken Heart," in the " Sketch-
Book."

" She is far from the land where her young
hero sleeps,
And lovers around her are sighing ;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and
weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying."

When these public and private trou-
bles were over and Ireland had settled
down under the Union, Curran, on the
Whigs coming into power in 1806, was
appointed Master of the Rolls in Ire-
land, and a member of the Privy Coun-
cil, a judicial position which he held
for about eight years, when failing
health comi^elled him to relinquish it.
It was in this period of his career that
the eminent Counsellor Phillips, to
whose glowing narrative of his career,
which Lord Brougham pronounced
" one of the most extraordinary pieces
of biograj)hy ever produced, Boswell

408

JOKN PHILPOT CUERAN.

minus Bozzy," we have been much
iudebtcd in this sketch,— first made
Curran's acquaintance. Nothing can
be more graphic than the words in
which he has related his imiwessions of
the man at this mature period of his
career. " When I was called to the bar,"
says he, " he was on the bench ; and, not
only bagless, but briefless, I was one
day, with many an associate, taking
the idle round of the Four Courts,
when a common friend told me he was
commissioned by the Master of the
EoUs to invite me to dinner that day
at the Priory, a little country villa
about four miles from Dublin. Those
who recollect their first introduction to
a really great man, may easily com-
prehend my delight and my consterna-
tion. Hour after hour was counted as
it passed, and, like a timid bride, I
feared the one which was to make me
happy. It came at last, the important
jive o'chch^ the ne plus ultra of the
guest who would not go dinnerless at
Curran's. Never shall I forget my sen-
sations when I caught the first glimpse
of the little man through the vista of
his avenue. There he was, as a thou-
sand times afterward I saw him, in a
dress which you would imagine he had
borrowed from his tip-staff — his hands
on his sides — his face almost parallel
with the horizon — his under lip pro-
truded, and the impatient step and the
eternal attitude only varied by the
pause during which his eye glanced
fi'om his guest to his watch, and fi'om
his watch reproachfully to his dining-
room. It was an invincible peculiarity,
one second after five o'clock, and he
would not wait for the viceroy. The

moment he perceived me, he took me
by the hand, said he would not have
any one introduce me, and with a man-
ner which I often thought was charmed^
at once banished every apprehension
and completely familiarized me at the
Priory. I had often seen Curran — often
heard of him — often read him — but no
man ever knew anything about him
who did not see him at his own table
with the few whom he selected. He
was a little convivial deity. He soared
in every region, and was at home in
all ; he touched everything, and seem-
ed as if he had created it ; he mastered
the human heart with the same ease
that he did his violin. You wept and
you laughed, and you wondered ; and
the wonderful creature who made you
do all at will, never let it appear that
he was more than your equal.

After this, we have but little to re-
cord, though the detail of his strongly
marked personal character as given by
his appreciative biographers might sup-
ply many a page of amusing and in-
structive incident. His last years were
passed in broken health, chiefly in Dub-
lin and London, in intimacy with the
society gathering about the brilliant
Whig leaders of the time. His death,
following upon an attack of apoplexy,
occurred at his lodgings at Brompton,
a suburb of London, on the 14th of
October, 1817, in the sixty-eighth year
of his age. His remains were privately
interred in a vault of one of the Lon-
don churches, and seventeen years
after, were removed to a public ceme-
tery at Dublin, where they repose in a
massive sarcophagus, simply inscribed
with the name of Curean.

^^ c>2>^^*^2i.*^

JANE AUSTEN

THE readers of the novels of Jane
Austen, and tlie class includes a
large number of persons of taste and
refinement, have only of late had the
opportunity of becoming, as it were,
personally acquainted with her, in the
possession of any adequate notice of
her modest, unobtrusive life, outside
of a private circle of family and friends.
She was slightly kno^vn to her own
generation, except by her writings ;
and as these were not published till
the later years of her short life, and
her name was not given on the title-
page of any of them till after her death,
though there was no mystery of con-
cealment, she attracted but little of
the notice of her contemporaries. There
is probably no other example in the
history of English literature of an au-
thor of so much merit having courted
or received so little personal attention.
This arose from no defect on either side.
The fair authoress, if she had sought
the society of the literary celebrities of
the day, might have been received with
as much distinction as her predecessor,
Miss Burney; but her lot was cast
apart from the great world of London,
in a happy sphere of provincial life,
congenial and all-sufficient to her hab-
52

its and inclinations, and she had ap-
parently no wish to go beyond it. It
is of this serene home-life, though it
might have been suspected from her
writino-s, that the readincr world has
its first accurate knowledge in a singu-
larly appropriate Memoir, published
in 1870, more than half a century after
her death, by her nephew, J. E. Austen-
Leigh, vicar of a country parish in Eng-
land.

Jane Austen was born December
16th, 1775, at the Parsonage House of
Steventon, in Hampshire, England.
Her father, the Rev. George Austen,
rector of the parish, was of an old
established family in Kent ; he had
been well educated, and had obtained a
fellowship at St. John's College, Ox-
ford. He was married to the daughter
of a fellow clergyman, the Rev. Thomas
Leigh, of Warwickshire, a younger
brother of Dr. Theophilus Leigh, cele-
brated for his longevity — he held the
mastership of Baliol College at Oxford
for more than half a century — and for
his ready wit, which would have de-
lighted Sydney Smith. Of this we
have an instance in a letter of Mrs.
Thraleto Doctor Johnson, Avritten when
tlie Master was eighty-six. "I never

(409)

JANE AUSTEN.

heard," she says, " a more perfect or
excellent pun than liis, when some one
told him how, in a late dispute among
the privy counsellors, the Lord Chan-
cellor struck the table with such vio-
lence that he split it. ' No, no, no,' re-
plied the ]\[aster ; ' I can hardly per-
suade myself that he split the table,
though I believe he divided the Board.''
His humorous cheerfulness remained
with him to the last. Only three days
before he expired, at the age of ninety,
he was told that an old acquaintance
was lately married, who had recovered
from a long illness by eating eggs, and
that the wits said that he had been
eo-o-ed on to matrimony. " Then," said
he, on the instant, " may the yoke sit
easy on him." " I do not know," says
Mr. Austen-Leigh, "from what com-
mon ancestor the Master of Baliol and
his great-niece, Jane Austen, Avith some
others of the family, may have derived
the keen sense of humor which they
certainly possessed."

The Austens, the father and mother
of Jane, lived at Steventon for about
thirty years, a family of five sons and
two daughters growing up about them.
Of the sons, the oldest, James, the fath-
er of our biographer, in his youth at
Oxford, was the projector and chief
supporter of the collection of essays on
University subjects entitled, " The
Loiterer;" the second, adopted by his
cousin, Mr. Knight, a wealthy gentle-
man in Hampshire, came into posses-
sion of his name and property; the
thii'd became a clergyman, and the two
youngest entered the navy, both at-
taining the rank of admiral. The elder
of the two sisters, Cassandra, to whom
Jane was devotedly attached, is spoken

of as remarkable for her prudence and
judgment. Educated by their father,
the children all proved in their sever-
al walks of life, persons of intelligence
and character, acting well their parts
in the world, repaying to their home
the benefits of its amiable culture.
" This was the small circle, continually
enlarged, however, by the increasing
families of four of her brothers, within
which Jane Austen found her whole-
some pleasures, duties and interests,
and beyond which she w^ent very little
into society during the last ten years
of her life. There was so much that
was agreeable and attractive in this
family party, that its members may be
excused if they were inclined to live
somewhat too exclusively within it.
They might see in each other much to
love and esteem, and something to ad-
mire. The family talk had abundance
of spirit and vivacity, and was never
troubled by disagreements, even in lit-
tle matters, for it was not their hal)it
to dispute or argue with each other :
above all, there was strong family af-
fection and firm union, never to be
broken but by death. It cannot be
doubted that all this had its influence
on the author in the construction of
her stories, in which a family party
usually supplies the narrow stage,
while the interest is made to revolve
round a few actors.

The parsonage at Steventon was
pleasantly situated in the midst of a
generally agreeable rural district, and a
sufficiently commodious dwelling, large
enough not only for the rector's family,
but for the accommodation of pupils,
by whose instruction he added to his
income. It was the seat of a liberal,

JA^E AUSTEN.

411

hospitable mode of living, representing
tLe upper rank of the prosperous mid-
dle class of England, with the advan-
tages of a superior education on the part
of the inmates. A carriage and pair of
horses were kejit, and the society of the
family at home and in its various con-
nexions, was enlarged by intimacy with
many cultivated persons of the neigh-
borhood. In the midst of these asso-
ciations, Jane developed an early taste
for composition. "It is impossible,"
writes her biographer, " to say at how
early an age she Ijegan to write. There
is extant an old copy-book containing
several tales, some of which seem to
have been composed while she was
quite a girl. These stories are of a
slight and flimsy texture, and are gen-
erally intended to be nonsensical ; but
the nonsense has much spirit in it.
Perhaps the most remarkable thing
about them is the pure and idiomatic
English in which they are comjDosed,
quite different from the ornamented
style which might be expected from a
very young writer."

Succeeding these first rollicking ef-
fusions of her animal spirits, came an-
other class of writings, also unpublish-
ed, and very unlike those by which her
fame was established. "Instead of
presenting faithful copies of nature,
these tales were generally burlesques,
ridiculing the improbable events and
exao-fjerated sentiments which she had
met with in sundry silly romances.
Something of this fancy is to be
found in ' Northanger Abliey ' (the
earliest written of her printed works),
but she soon left it far behind her in
her subsequent course. It would seem
as if she were first taking note of all the

faults to be avoided, and curiously con-
sidering how she oucfht not to write, be-
fore she attempted to put forth her
strength in the right direction." The
value of this discipline can hardly
be overrated. Her wi'itings were
to be the foundation of a new school
of fiction in English literature, that
of the quiet, natural yet humorous, and
intelligent representation of the scenes
of every-day life ; and to obtain mas-
tery in this, it was necessaiy that she
should fi-ee her mind of all the adverse
influences in the distorted romantic or
sentimental novels of the day. Her
sense of humor led her to ridicule their
defects; so that when she fairly set
about writing for the public, herself,
she was not only on her guard, but
extremely sensitive in rejecting every-
thing which would mar the purity of
her conceptions. Pure writing, free
from all falsities and exaggerations, a
just understanding of life and its rela-
tions in the sphere within which she
worked, had become to her matters of
instinct, and when she put pen to pa-
per, it was to litter the dictates, as it
were, of her literary conscience. A
more perfect illustration of uneri'ing
taste and self-knowledge, of natural
powers so habitually under the control
of judgment, is not probably to be found
in the whole world of authorship in
fiction.

Her books in their kind are unique.
Their peculiar charm of ease, simplicity,
truthfulness and honestly won interest,
has been felt by the finest minds. Cole-
ridge, the most subtle of English critics,
whose unerring genius penetrated every
subject, pronounced them "in their
way, perfectly genuine and individual

412

JAXE AUSTEK

productions;" Mackintosh, a kindred
spli'it, admired the geuiiis which had
shown itself in "sketching out that
new kind of novel ;" Whately brought
his logical faculty to the analysis of
their secret excellence ; Lord Holland
was never weary of theii- humor ; and
other illustrious eulogists might be
cited, but the highest tribute of all,
perhaps, is that paid to the author by
Sir Walter Scott in his diary, where
he records, in 1826, "Eead again, for
the third time at least, Miss Austen's
finely written novel of ' Pride and
Prejudice,' That young lady had a
talent for describing the involvements
and feelings and characters of ordinary
life, which is to me the most wonder-
ful I ever met with. The big bow-wow
strain I can do myself like any now
going ; but the exquisite touch which
renders ordinary common-place things
and characters interesting from the
truth of the description and the senti-
ment, is denied to me. What a pity
such a gifted creature died so early !"

The novel thus admired by Scott
was begun in 1796, before the writer
was twenty-one years old, and comj^le-
ted within the following ten months.
She then proposed to call it " First
Impressions." No sooner was it finish-
ed than another was commenced on
the basis of a still earlier comj)osition,
" Elinor and Marianne," the work in
its new and enlarged form bearing the
title, " Sense and Sensibility," the first
pu1)lished of her novels, though not
till some twelve or thirteen years after
the time at which it was written,
" Northanger Abbey " was also compos-
ed at this early date at Steventou. Much
of the terseness and neatness of ex-

pression which characterizes the style
of these books is doubtless due to this
long period of opportunity for revision.
Changes had meanwhile taken place in
the old home. Her father, at the age
of seventy, resigned his rectory to his
son, who was to be his successor, and
removed with his family to Bath, where
four years were passed till his death
in 1805, after which the widow with
her daughters resided an equal period
at Southampton, In 1809 Jane Austen
was finally settled with her mother at
a house belonging to her brother, who,
as we have mentioned, had assumed
the name of Knight, at Chawton, still
in her old county of Hampshire. Here
the last eight years of the authoress
were spent ; here she prepared her
earlier writings for the press, and here
she added to the stock several others,
completing the standard series of her
works. In their first reception by
the trade we have the story, common
enough in the history of literature, of the
indifterence of ptiblishers to the merit
of works, which on their appearance
have proved decided favorites with
the public. In 1797, immediately after
its completion, the Rev. Mr. Austen
wi'ote to Cadell the jjublisher, offering
for his consideration the manuscript
of "Pride and Prejudice," which he
declined even to look at. In 1803
" Northanger Abbey " was sold to a
publisher in Bath for ten pounds, and
he thought so little of his purchase
that he would not venture the further
cost of printing, and kept the manu-
script unused for years, till the success
of the author's other works led to the
repui'chase of it by the family at the
price which had been originally paid.

JANE AUSTEI^.

413

At leugtli, in 1811, a publisher, Eger-
ton, was found for "Sense and Sensi-
Lility;" "Pride and Prejudice" follow-
ed in 1813 ; " Mansfield Park " appear-
ed tlie following year ; " Emma," in
1815 ; " Northanger Abbey " and " Per-
suasion" appeared three years later,
after the author's death.

A uniform tone runs through these
various compositions. Tlie characters
are chosen from the upper walks of
English life, in that medium class be-
low the nobility and above the vulgar ;
such people, in fact, as the station of her
father and the general prosperity of the
family brought her in contact with.
She wrote largely fi'om her observation,
indeed confined herself to the circle of
her experience, yet she copied what
she saw in no literal or servile spirit.
Fond of producing the familiar scenes
of common life, she yet infused into
them a grace and manner of her own ;
so that the picture, whether heightened
or subdued by her genius, was always
distinguished by a certain harmony of
expression. By patient thought and
long discipline her natural powers
were cultivated to an exquisite percep-
tion of the proprieties. Writing to
please herself and satisfy her own
judgment, without dictation fi-om pub-
lishers or critics, she had nothino: to
turn her aside fi'om that charmius:
simplicity which was the law of her
nature. It was impossible to di-
vert her from the path which her own
genius had marked out for her. To a
suggestion from a friend, who had been
appointed Secretary to Prince Leopold
about the time of his marriage to the
Princess Charlotte, that an historical
romance illustrative of the House of

Cobourgh would be an acceptable
work from her pen, she replied that
such a. composition "might be much
more to the purjiose of j)rofit or pop-
ularity than any such pictures of do-
mestic life in country villages as I deal ;
but I could no more wi'ite a romance
than an epic poem. I could not sit
seriously down to write a serious ro-
mance under any other motive than to
save my life ; and, if it were indispen-
sable for me to keep it up, and never
relax into laughing at myself or at
other people, I am sure I should be
hung before I had finished the first
chapter. No, I must keep to my own
style, and go on in my own Avay ; and
though I may never again succeed in
that, I am convinced that I should to-
tally fail in any other." The same friend
had proposed for her consideration the
character of a melancholy clergyman,
passing his time between city and coun-
try, absorbed in his literary studies.
" The comic part of the character," she
replies, " I might be equal to, but not
the good, the enthusiastic, the literary.
Such a man's conversation must at
times be on subjects of science and
philosophy, of which I know nothing ;
or at least be occasionally abxmdaut in
quotations and allusions which a woman
who, like me, knows only her own
mother tongue, and has read little in
that, would be totally Avithout the pow-
er of giving. A classical education,
or at any rate a very extensive acquain-
tance with English literature, ancient
and modern, appears to me quite indis-
pensable for the person who would
do any justice to your clergyman ; and
I think I may boast myself to be, Avith
all possible vanity, the most unlearned

414

JANE AUSTEK

ami uiiiuformed female who ever dared
to be ail authoress." Again, in a letter
to a friend, who appears to have been
engaged in the composition of a ro-
mance : " I am quite concerned for the
loss your mother mentions in her letter.
Two chapters and a lialf to be missing
is monstrous ! It is well that I have
not been at Steventon lately, and there-
fore cannot be suspected of purloining
them ; two strong twigs and a half
towards a nest of my own would have
been something. I do not think, how-
ever that any theft of that sort would
be really very useful to me. What
should I do with your strong, manly,
vigorous sketches, full of variety and
glow? How could I possibly joiu
them on to the little bit (two inches
wide) of ivory on which I work with
so fine a brush, as produces little effect
after much labor ? "

It is precisely in this fine work and
assiduous labor that the excellence of
Miss Austen's writings consists. By
this they have outlived whole genera-
tions of fiction perishing on the shelves
of circulating libraries — their subject
matter being of a general, not merely
local or particular interest. An inti-
mate study of humau nature was the
author's great resourse. It would seem
harsh to compare her delicate products
with the coarser works of Fieldina- and
Smollett, yet, in a far gentler walk, she
was a pupil with them of the same
school, interpreting life and manners,
and the actions of the heart. Her char-
acters thus, spite of the change of hab-
its, are alive among us at the present
day, and it is because we see the per-
sons of our acquaintance reflected in
their various moods upon her page,

that we enjoy and admire her books,
Macaulay in his comparison of her ge-
nius with that of Madame D'Arblay,
has gone so far as to class her in this
portraiture of character with the great-
est of dramatists. " Shakespeare," says
he, " has had neither equal nor second.
But among the writers who, in the va-
riety which we have noticed, have ap-
proached nearest to the manner of the
great master, we have no hesitation in
placing Jane Austen, a woman of whom
England is justly proud. She has giv-
en us a multitude of characters, all, in
a certain sense, commonjjlace, all such
as we meet every day ; yet they are
all as perfectly discriminated from each
other as if they were the most eccentric
of human beings. There are, for in-
stance, four clergymen, none of whom
we should be surprised to find in any
parsonage in the kingdom, Mr. Edward
Ferrars, Mr, Henry Tilney, Mr. Edmund
Bertram, and Mi\ Elton. They are all
sjjecimens of the upper part of the mid-
dle class. They have all been liberally
educated. They all lie under the re-
straints of the same sacred profes-
sion. They are all young. They are
all in love. Not one of them has
any hobby-horse, to use the phrase
of Sterne. Not one has a ruling pas-
sion, such as we read of in Pope. Who
would not have expected them to be
insipid likenesses of each other ? No
such thing. Harpagon is not more un
like to Jourdain, Joseph Surface is not
more unlike to Sir Lucius O'Trigger,
than every one of Miss Austin's young-
divines to all his reverend brethren.
And almost all this is done by touches
so delicate, that they elude analysis,
that they defy the powers of descrip-

JA^E AUSTEN.

415

tion, and that we know them to exist
only by the general effect to which
they have contributed." A similar
remark has been made by Arch-
bishop Whately in a noticeable pas-
sage of his article on the writings of
Miss Austen, in the " Quarterly Re-
view." " She has not been forgetful,"
he writes, " of the important maxim,
so long ago illustrated by Homer, and
afterwards enforced by Aristotle, of
saying as little as possible in her own
person, and giving a dramatic air to
the narrative, by introducing frequent
conversations, which she conducts with
a regard to character hardly exceeded
even by Shakspeare himself. "

Passages like these might be multi-
plied from the tributes paid to the ge-
nius of Miss Austen by her critics.
But we have cited enough to indicate
to the reader her refined and substan-
tial merits. Turning from her books to
the authoress herself, we find her rep-
resentinor in her own character the best
qualities of her fictitious personages,
cheerful, self-denying, constant in her
affections, always relied upon for her
prudence and judgment. "In person,"
as she is described by her biographer,
" she was very attractive ; her figure
was rather tall and slender, her step
light and firm, and her whole appear-
ance expressive of health and anima-
tion. In complexion, she was a clear
brunette with a rich color; she had
full round cheeks, with mouth and
nose small and well formed, briglit
hazel eyes, and brown hair forming
natural curls close round her face. If
not so regularly handsome as her sister,
yet her countenance had a peculiar
charm of its own to the eyes of most

beholders. At the time of -which I
am now writing, she was never seen
either morning or evening ^dthout a
cap ; I believe that she and her sister
were generally thought to have taken
to the garb of middle age earlier than
their years or their looks required ; and
that, though remarkably neat in their
dress as in all their ways, they were
scarcely sufiiciently regardful of the
fashionable, or the becoming."

Referring the reader for many inter-
esting details of Miss Austen's j)ersonal
habits to the memoir by her nephew
and to an appreciative review of it by
a female writer of our own day of ge-
nius kindred to her own,* we must
hasten to the closing scene of this fair
maiden's life. In 1816, symptoms be-
gan to be apparent of the progress of
the fatal consumptive malady which
had settled upon her. Her strength
was declining, but not her constitu-
tional cheerfulness, which sustained
her to the last. She went on with the
work she had in hand, her novel " Per-
suasion," and re-wrote two of its most
important chapters. This was finished
in the summer. In the spring of the
following year, 18 IP, she removed foi
medical advice to Winchester, where,
lovingly attended by her sister, she
linsjered in increasins: feebleness till
her death, on the 18th of July. Her
last words, on being asked by her at-
tendants whether there was any thing
she wanted, were, " Nothing but death."
Her remains were interred in Win-
chester Catliedral. A slab of black
marlde marks the place, near the tomb
of William of Wykeham.

* Miss Thackeray, in the " Co rnhill Magazine "
for August, 1S71.

WILLIAM WILBERFORCE.

WILLIAM WILBERFORCE was
born at Hull, in Yorkshire,
Enpland, the 24tli of August, 1759.
Though the first of his name to bring
the family into prominent notice be-
fore the public, he came of an ancient
stock. His grandfather, who was twice
mayor of Hull, changed the name from
its older form,Wilberfoss. He was pos-
sessed of considerable property by in-
heritance and was engaged in business
in the Baltic trade, at the head of a mer-
cantile house in which his son Robert
had a share. The latter was married to
the daughter of Thomas Bird, of Barton,
in Oxfordshire. Four children were
the offspring of this marriage, of whom
"William was the third — the only son.
He was apparently of weak constitu-
tion in his infancy, small and feeble,
but with indications of a vigorous intel-
lect. His disposition in these early years
is spoken of as singularly affectionate.
At the age of seven, he was sent to the
grammar-school of his native place, pre-
sided over by Joseph Milner, elder
brother of the celebrated Isaac Milner,
Dean of Carlisle, who was at this time
Lis assistant. Wilberforce was noticed
at the school for the beauty of his elo-
cution, his recitations being held forth

(416)

to the other boys as a model for imi-
tation. His father dying when his son
was but nine years old, he was trans-
ferred to the care of his uncle, William
Wilberforce, at London, who placed
him as a parlor boarder in a school at
Wimbledon, kept by a Scotchman,
chiefly frequented by the sons of mer-
chants, where, as he afterwards said,
" they taught everything and noth-
ing." Here he remained two years,
passing his holidays at his uncle's
house, with occasional visits to Not-
tingham and Hull. The example or
exertions of his aunt, a member of the
Thornton family, a great admirer of
the preaching of Whitefield, seemed
likely permanently to affect his relig-
ioiis character by drawing him within
the fold of Methodism, for which his
mother, who was afterwards descril)ed
by Wilberforce himself, as "what I
should call an Archbishop Tillotson
Christian," seemed to have little sym-
pathy, if not a decided repugnance.
Becoming acquainted with the impres-
sions thus made upon his mind, she
promptly withdrew him from what the
family considered a dangerous influ-
ence and brought him home again.
The views of his grandfather on the

WILLIAM WILBEEFORCE.

417

subject were expressed in the promise
that when he came of age he should
travel with Isaac Milner, accompanied
hy the threat that if he turned Method-
ist he should not inherit a sixpence of
his money. His fi'iends also set about
to effect a diversion by engaging the
youth — he was then but twelve — in a
round of social entertainments and
amusements. Hull, as he wrote in a
reminiscence of this period of his life,
" was then as gay a place as could be
found out of London. The theatres,
balls, great suppers and card parties
were the delight of the principal fam-
ilies in the town. The usual dinner
hour was two o'clock, and at six they
met at sumptuous suppers. This mode
of life was at first distressing to me,
but by degrees I acquired a relish for
it, and became as thoughtless as the
rest. As grandson to one of the prin-
cipal inhabitants, I was everywhere
invited and caressed; my voice and
love of music made me still more ac-
ceptaltle. The religious impressions
which I had gained at Wimbledon
continxied for a considerable time after
my return to Hull, but my friends
spared no pains to stifle them. I
might almost say that no pious parent
ever labored more to impress a beloved
child with sentiments of piety than
they did to give me a taste for the
world and its diversions." He was
noAv, while partaking of these gayeties,
pursuing his studies for the university
in the grammar-school at Pocklington,
in Yorkshire. One of his school-fellows
afterwards recalled the circumstance
that he placed in his hands a commu-
nication for the York paper, which he
said was "in condemnation of the
53

odious traffic in human flesh," an indi
cation that in his disposition the boy
was father of the man. He was fond
of English poetry, aud excelled in
composition, for which he had great
readiness, and being sufficiently in-
structed in the classics entered St.
John's College, Camliridge, in the au-
tumn of 1776, at the age of seventeen.
Coming into possession of a large
property by the death of his grand-
father and uncle, he Avas now left free
in a great measure to follow his own
inclinations, and appears at the outset
of his college life to have fallen in, to
some slight extent, with the dissipa-
tions of his fellow-students. " On the
first night of my arrival at Cambridge,"
he writes, " I was introduced to as li-
centious a set of men as can well be
conceived. They di'auk hard, and
their conversation was even worse
than their lives. I lived amongst them
for some time, though I never relished
their society ; often, indeed, I was hor-
ror struck at their conduct, and after
the first year I shook off in great mea-
sure my connection with them." He
was never, indeed, censurable for any
gross immoralities. Though accustom-
ed in later years to judge himself some-
what severely, he admitted in his favor
that though he had altered his mode
of life and thinking, he was in his ct)l-
lege days, " so far from being what the
world calls licentious, that he was
rather complimented on being better
than young men in general." He soon,
w'hile he remained at the university,
sought the acquaintance of the higher
circle of the place, became intimate
with the Fellows, and, though he
charged himself with neglecting the

418

WILLIAM WILBERFOKCE.

mathematics, much to his disadvantage
as he came to think, he was yet a good
scholar and acquitted himself well at
the examinations, and obtained a de-
gree.

Before leaving the university, the
mercantile business, in which he might
have engaged, being no longer a ne-
cessity to him, he had turned his
thoughts towards political life, and a
speedy dissolution of parliament being
expected, looked forward to the repre-
sentation of his native town of Hull.
In anticipation of this event, he en-
gaged actively in the canvass on the
spot, and followed iip a body of the
freemen of the jjlace who resided in
the vicinity of the Thames in London,
entertaining them at suppers at Wap-
ping, and practicing the art of popular
eloquence in addressing them. The
dissolution opportunely came off just
after he arrived at age, an event which
was duly celebrated with the roasting
of an ox and other festivities on his
own grounds. In the election which
followed he was success%l against
powerful opposition in the county, ac-
cording to the custom of the day pay-
ing the voters freely for their suffrages.
The election cost him over eight thou-
sand pounds. His success gave him a
brilliant introduction to the capital.
" When I went up to Cambridge," he
said, " I was scarcely acquainted with
a single person above the rank of a
country gentleman ; and even when I
left the university, so little did I know
of general society, that I came up to
London stored with arg-uments to
prove the authenticity of Rowley's
Poems ; and now I was at once im-
mersed in politics and fashion. The

very first time I went to Boodle's, I
won twenty-five guineas of the Duke
of Norfolk. I belonged at this time
to five clubs, — Miles and Evans's,
Brookes's, Boodle's, White's, Goos-
tree's. The first time I was at Brookes's,
scarcely knowing any one, I joined from
more shyness in play at the faro-table,
where George Selwyn kept bank. A
fi-iend who knew my inexperience, and
regarded me as a victim decked out for
sacrifice, called to me, ' What, Wilber-
force, is that you ? ' Selwyn quite re-
sented the interference, and turning to
him, said in his most expressive tone,
" O, sir, don't interrupt Mr. Wilber-
force, he could not be better employed.'
Nothing could be more luxurious than
the style of these clubs. Fox, Sheri-
dan, Fitzpatrick and all your leading
men, frequented them, and associated
upon the easiest terms; you chatted,
played at cards, or gambled, as you
pleased."

Wilberforce had formed the ac-
quaintance of Pitt at Cambridge ; they
were born in the same year, and com-
menced their parliamentary career
about the same time. An intimacy
was formed between them in their
friendly association at the club at
Goostree's, of which Pitt at this time
was a constant frequenter, and where
the society was composed mostly of a
number of intellectual young men re-
cently from theu' university studies,
and then entering upon public life.
" Pitt," saj^s Wilberforce, in his memo-
randa of this period, " was the wittiest
man I ever knew, and what was quite
peculiar to himself, had at all times his
wit under perfect control. Others ap-
peared struck by the unwonted asso-

WILLIAM WLLBEEFOECE.

419

elation of brilliant images ; but every
possible combination of ideas seemed
always present to bis mind, and be
could at once produce wbatever be de-
sired. I was one of tbose wbo met to
spend an evening in memory of Sbak-
speare at tbe Boar's Head, Eastcbeap.
Many professed wits were present, but
Pitt was tbe most amusing of tbe party,
and tbe readiest and most apt in tbe
required allusions. He entered witb
tbe same energy into all our different
amusements; we played a good deal
at Goostree's, and I well remember tbe
intense earnestness wbicb be displayed
wben joining in tbose games of cbance.
He perceived tbeir fascination, and
soon after suddenly abandoned tbem
for ever." Wilberforce bimself, as be
intimates, was inclined to play deeply.
He more tban once lost a bundred
pounds at tbe faro-table. One nigbt,
in tbe absence of tbe person wbo kej^t
tbe bant, be accepted a playful cbal-
lenge to preside bimself, and rose a
winner of six bundred pounds. As
mucb of tbis fell upon young men,
beirs in expectancy, wbose pockets were
not over supplied witb money, Wilber-
force was naturally pained at tbe an-
noyance to wbicb tbey were subjected,
and was tbus cured, say bis biogra-
pbers, of bis fondness for tbe gambling-
table.

He was in tbe meantime closely at-
tentive to bis parliamentary duties,
watcbing tbe deljates and studying
tbe House of Commons. He main-
tained bis independence ; tbougb gen-
erally in opposition to Lord Noi'tb's
administration, particularly on tbe
American question, sometimes acting
witb it. He was in no baste to speak,

bad no desire to tbrust bimself into a
debate, but wisely waited till tbe per-
sonal occasion arose. His first speecb
was in May, 1781, against tbe revenue
laws, in support of a petition wbicb
be presented from tbe town of Hull.
Having no country residence on any
of bis landed property in Yorksbire,
and being exceedingly fond of tbe
pleasures of rural life, be made bis re-
sort at tbe close of tbe session of par-
liament, at a bouse wbicb be rented
for seven years at Rayrigg, on tbe
banks of Lake Windermere, in West-
moreland. Here, we are told, be re-
tired in tbe first summer recess, witb a
goodly assortment of books, classics,
statutes at large and bistory, but an
influx of Loudon and college friends,
witb tbe society of bis motber and sur-
viving sister, effectually put a limit to
study. " Boating, riding and continual
parties at my own bouse and Sir Mi-
cbael le Fleming's fully occupied my
time until I returned to London in tbe
following autumn." Tbe next session
be took a more prominent part in tbe
House by a speecb in February against
Lord Nortb's administration, obtaining
tbe commendations of Tbomas Town-
sbend, and tbe especial notice of Fox
and Lord Rockingbam. Tbe debate
was on a motion of General Conway
for peace witb America, and wben tbe
vote was taken, it was virtually a de-
feat of tbe minister, tbe majority in
bis favor being only one. Wilber-
force was now on increasing terms of
intimacy witb Pitt, spending tbe Easter
bolidays witb bini at Batb, and subse-
quently sbaring witb liim tbe country
residence at Wimbledon, Avbicb bad
fallen to bim h\ tbe deatb of bis uncle.

i20

WILLIAM WILBEHFOKCE.

This, in the view of Lis biographers
(his sons Robert, Isaac, and Samuel,
the present Bishop of Winchester), was
the nio.st critical period of his course.
' He had entered in his earliest man-
hood upon the dissipated scenes of
fashionable life, with a large fortune
and most acceptable manners. His
ready wit, his conversation continually
sparkling with polished raillery and
courteous repartee, his chastened live-
liness, his generous and kindly feelings;
all secured him that hazardous ap-
plause with which society rewards its
ornaments and victims. His rare ac-
complishment in singing tended to in-
crease his danger. ' Wilberforce, we
must have you again ; the prince says
he will come at any time to hear you
sing,' v/as the flattery which he receiv-
ed after his first meeting with the
Prince of Wales, in 1782, at the luxu-
rious soirees of Devonshire House. He
was also an admii'able mimic, and un-
til reclaimed by the kind severity of
the old Lord Camden, would often set
the table in a roar by his perfect im-
itation of Lord North. His affection
for Lord Camden was an intimation
at this very time of the higher texture
of his mind. Often would he steal
away from the merriment and light
amusements of the gayer circle, to
gather wisdom from the weighty words
and chosen anecdotes in which the
veteran chancellor abounded. His
aifection was warmly returned by
Lord Camden, who loved the cheerful
earnestness with which he sought for
knowledge. 'Lord Camden noticed
me particularly,' he said, ' and treated
me with great kindness. Amongst
other things he cured me of the dan-

gerous art of mimicry. When invited
by my friends to witness my powers
of imitation, he at once refused, saying
slightingly for me to hear it, " It is but
a vulgar accomplishment." "Yes, but
it is not imitating the mere manner;
Wilberforce says the very thing Lord
North would say." " Oh," was his re-
ply, " every one does that." This friend-
ly intercourse was long continued.
' How many subjects of politics and
religion,' writes the old lord, with a
pressing invitation to Camden Place,
in 1787, ' might we not have settled by
this time, in the long evenings.' "

We have incidentally noticed the
fondness of Wilberforce for the coun-
try. It was a happy trait in his dis-
position which was an indication of
character, and doubtless had an in-
fluence in its formation. To a politi-
cian or statesman, such a resource of
escape for a time from the engrossing
excitement and disturbances of the
world seems indispensable, a retreat
where

Wisdom's self
Oft seeks to sweet retired Solitude,
"Where with her best nurse, Contemplation,
She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her

wings.
That in the various bustle of resort
Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair'd.

This advantao^e Wilberforce found at
Wimbledon. Writing to his sister in
the summer of 1783 — a remarkable
letter, which exhibits the formation of
his full speaking style, and the con-
sciousness with the growth of his moral
conscientiousness — he says, "The ex-
istence I enjoy here is of a sort quite
different from what it is in London.
I feel a load off my mind ; nor is it in
the mighty powers of Mrs, Siddons,

WILLIAM WILBERFOECE.

421

nor in the yet superior and more ex-
alted gratifications of tlie House of
Commons, wbicli you seem to think
my swmmum lonum, to compensate to
me for the loss of good air, pleasant
walks, and what Milton calls * each
rural sight, each rural sound.'
If my moral and religious principles
be such as in these days are not very
generally prevalent, perhajis I owe the
continuance of them in a great measure
to solitude in the countiy. This is not
merely the difference between theory
and practice, it is not merely (though
that be something) that one finds one-
self very well able to resist temptations
to vice, when one is out of the way of
being exposed to them ; but in towns
there is no leisure for thouojht or seri-
ous reflection, and we are apt to do
that, with regard to moral conduct,
which we are in vain advised to do in
the case of misfortunes — to look only
on those who are worse than ourselves,
till we flatter ourselves into a favorable
opinion of our own modes of life and
exalted ideas of our own virtue. But in
the coimtry a little reading or reflection
presents us with a more complete and
finished model, and we become sensible
of our own imperfections ; need I add
that trite maxim, which, however, I
will, for it is a true one, that, humility
is the surest guide both to virtue and
wisdom. For my own part, I never
leave this poor villa without feeling
my virtuous affections confirmed and
strengthened ; and I am afraid it would
be in some degree true if I were to add,
that I never remain long in London
without their being somewhat injured
and diminished."

In the autumn of 17S3, during the |

recess of parliament, Wilberforce, with
Pitt, who was now his constant com-
panion, spent a few days at the seat of
Mr, Bankes, in Dorsetshire. The
friends were out shooting, when, it is
said, Pitt had a narrow escape from
Wilberforce's gun. The two friends,
joined by Mr. Eliot, immediately after
embarked at Dover for an excursion to
Paris. The tour appears to have been
somewhat hastily contrived, for on
their arrival at Rheims, where they
proposed to rest for a time to gain
some knowledge of the language, they
found themselves with but a sino-le let-

ter of introduction, obtained for them
fi-om the banker, Thellusson, and ad-
dressed to a M. Constier, a correspond-
ent of his house. " It was with some sur-
prise," -writes "VVill)erforce to his friend
Bankes, " that the day after our arri-
val, having dressed oui'selves unusually
well, and proceeded to the house of ]\I.
Constier, we found him behind a coun-
ter distributing figs and raisins, I had
heard that it was very usual for gen-
tlemen on the continent to practice
some handicraft trade or other for
their amusement, and, therefore, for
my own part, I concluded that his
taste was in the fig way, and that he
was only playing at grocer for his di-
version ; and viewing the matter in
this light, I could not help admiring
the excellence of his imitation ; but we
soon found that Mons. Constier was a
' veritable epicier^ and that not a very
eminent one. Pie was very fair and
candid, however, and acknowledged to
us that he was not acquainted with any
of the gentry of the place, and there-
fore could not introduce us to them,
"We retui-ned to our inn, and after

422

WILLIAM WILBEEFOECE.

spending nine or ten days without mak-
ing any great progress in the French
lano-uasye, which could not indeed be
expected from iis, as we spoke to no
human heins; but each other and our
Irish courier, and when we began to en-
tertain serious thoughts of leaving the
phice in despair, by way of a parting
effort we waited upon our epkiei\ and
prevailed on him to put on a bag and
sword and carry us to the intendant
of police, whom he supplied with gro-
ceries. This scheme succeeded admira-
bly. The intendant was extremely
civil to us, and introduced us to the
archbishoji, who gave us two very good
and pleasant dinners, and would have
had us stay a week with him. (N. B.
Archbishops in England are not like
Arclieviques in France; these last are
Jolly fellows of aljout forty years of
age, who play at billiards, etc., like
other people.) We soon got acquainted
with as many of the inhabitants as we
could wish, especially an Abbe De
Lageard, a fellow of infinite humor,
and of such extraordinary humanity,
that to prevent our time hanging heavy
on our hands, he would sometimes make
us visits of five or six hours at a stretch.
Our last week passed very pleasantly,
and, for myself, I was really very
sorry when the day arrived for our set-
ting off for Paris." This Abbe De
Lageard, in the revolution which en-
sued, became a I'efugee in England,
when Willierforce amply returned the
hospitality he had received at Rheims.
The story of this adventure preceded
the party to Fontainebleau, where, on
their arrival, they were entertained by
the court, Mr. Pitt, we are told, being
often rallied by the queen on his ac-

quaintance with the epicier. Franklin
was then in Paris, and was warm in
his greetings of Wilberforce, whose
course in opposition to the war with
America he had watched with interest.
Lafayette also attracted much of the
travellers' attention. Wilberforce no-
tices him in his diary, " A pleasing, en-
thusiastical man ; his wife, a sweet wo-
man." Pitt, being suddenly recalled
to London, the ftiends found them-
selves at the end of October again in
England, ready to take part in the im-
portant political movements of the day.
The opposition to the unnatural Fox
and North Coalition which then ruled
in parliament was rapidly rising to a
head; all eyes were on Pitt, who al-
ready, at the age of twenty-four, had
established for himself a distinguished
reputation in public affairs as the
worthy successor of his father, the
great Earl of Chatham ; and the first
determined shock given to the new ad-
ministration, in the vote on the India
question, brought Pitt into ofiice as
prime minister. His friend, Wilber-
force, had rendered him valuable ser-
vice in the preliminary agitation which
had brought him into power. Hasten-
ing to York, where the great whig
houses of the country had concerted a
movement in support of the ministry,
Wilberforce addressed a meeting in
the castle yard, convened with the ex-
pectation of securing a declaration in
favor of the coalition. The discussion
had been protracted through the day,
the weather was insufferably bad, and
the audience had grown weary when
Wilberforce mounted the table under a
wooden canopy before the high sheriff's
chair. Little was expected under such

"WILLIAM WILBEEFORCE.

423

circumstances from a speaker of sucli a
sligbt physical appearance. But the
charm of his voice, always of unusual
sweetness and clearness, with the
force and animation of his language,
held the attention of the company for
more than an hour. Boswell, the bi-
ographer of Johnson, happened to be
present and has described the effect of
the young orator's eloquence in a few
striking words, " I saw what seemed a
shi'imp mount on the table, but, as I
listened, he grew and grew, till the
shrimp became a whale." The speech
produced an immense effect, the gen-
eral views of the country being in his
favor, as he proceeded with his attack
on the coalition, describing the India
bill which they had proposed as " the
offspring of that unnatural conjunc-
tion, marked with the features of both
its parents, bearing token to the vio-
lence of the one and the corruption of
the other." Before he had concluded,
he was interrupted by the arrival of
an express from Pitt, informing him
that the king had dissolved the parlia-
ment, an announcement which he turn-
ed to account in his appeal to the as-
sembly. In the election which fol-
lowed he stood for the county; a
large sum of money was subscribed to
bear the expenses, and he was returned
member for Yorkshire, a signal honor
for his youthful experience; but the
fortunes of Pitt were in the ascendant ;
he had proved himself useful to the
risina: statesman and was now to share
in his successes.

He took his seat in the new parlia-
ment, supported Pitt in his majorities,
and at the end of the first session, after
renewiujJC his old riu-al associations in

Westmoreland, set out again in October
for the continent with a family party
composed of his mother, sister, two fe-
male cousins in search of health, and
a chosen companion for his own pri-
vate carriage in the person of his old
instructor Isaac Milner, now Fellow
of Queen's College, Cambridge. The
influence of Milner, a man of earnest
religious views, of what may be termed
the evangelical school, was to be of
the utmost importance in the develop
ment of the character of Wilberforce.
At first w^e hear little of this as the
friends jom'neyed through France, by
Lyons and the Rhone, on their way to
Nice, whence Wilberforce returned to
support the measures of Pitt at the
ojiening of parliament. In the summer
of the following year, 1785, he was
again at liberty in the recess to rejoin
the family party, now together at
Genoa, on their return home through
Switzerland. Travelling as before with
his friend Milner as the intimate com-
panion of his journey, he now began
to be seriously affected by his more
decided religious views. Up to this
time he had mingled freely with society,
and freely shared its pleasures and
amusements; but there was always a
latent inclination to piety in his dis-
position, derived perhaps from that
early contact with Methodism, which
led him safely through the grosser ex
citements of the world. The travellers
on this new journey read the Greek
Testament together and discussed its
doctrines. " By degrees," says Wilber-
force of this period, "I imbibed Milner's
sentiments, though I must confess with
shame that they loug remained merely
as opinions assented to by my under-

424

WILLIAM WILBEEFORCE.

standing, Ijiit not influencing my heart.
My iuteres^t in them certainly increased,
and at length I began to be impressed
with a sense of their importance.
Miluer, thoiigh full of levity on all
other sul»ject.s, never spoke on this but
Avith the utmost seriousness, and all
he said tended to increase my attention
to religion." At Aix-la-Chapelle, where
the party tarried some time, we hear of
Mrs. Crewe expressing some sui'prise at
his thinking it wrong to go to the the-
atre and abstaining from travelling on
Sunday. An earnest solemnity was
more and more taking possession of his
nature. " Often," he %vi-ites, " while
in the full enjoyment of all that this
world could bestow, my conscience
told me that, in the true sense of the
word, I was not a Christian. I laughed,
I sang, I was apparently gay and hap-
py, biit the thought would steal across
me, ' What madness is all this ; to con-
tinue easy in a state in which a sudden
call out of the world would consign
me to everlasting misery, and that,
when eternal happiness is within my
grasp.' For I had received into my
understanding the great truths of the
gospel, and believed that its offers were
free and universal ; and that God had
promised to give the Holy Spirit to
them that asked for it. At length
such thoughts as these completely oc-
cupied my mind and I began to pray
earnestly." He had in fact entered
upon a course of reflection, which soon
led him into a systematic religious life,
which determined as well the objects
as the motives of his future career, per-
sonal and political.

Among the earliest fruits of these
new resolutions, was the formation in

1787 of a Society for the Reformation
of Manners, supjjorted by a Royal
Proclamation against Vice and Im-
morality, and during the same year
the formal advocacy of a cause which
had some time previously engaged his
attention, and which became the long
and crowning effort of his career — the
abolition of the slave-trade. The in-
iquity of this traflic had, from the time
of its denunciation by William Penn,
more than a century before, excited
the horror of the members of the So-
ciety of Friends, and led to their plac-
ing themselves in an attitude of un-
yielding opposition to its continuance.
Granville Sharj) had published, in
1769, "A Representation of the In-
justice and Dangerous Tendency of
Tolerating Slavery in England," and,
by his protection and vindication of
the rights of the negro Somerset,
claimed as a slave by his old master,
had, in 1772, brought about the decision
in the courts, that the slave-owner could
not maintain his claim to his alleged
human property on English soil. After
this grand declaration of the freedom
of the slave was secured. Sharp con-
tinued his attacks against the institu-
tion of slavery itself. Quite recently,
in 1785, the vice-chancellor of the
University of Cambridge had an-
nounced as the subject of a prize Latin
dissertation for the senior bachelors,
the question : " Is it allowable to make
slaves of others against their will ? "
and the prize had been awarded to an
ingenious young man, the son of a
clergyman, Thomas Clarkson, who
thenceforth devoted his life to the
liberation of the opj)ressed negro race.
Clarkson's Essay, translated into Eng-

WILLIAM WILBERFOECE.

425

lisli, broiiglit vividly before tlie public
tlie miseries of the cruel traffic. It
was at this time that Wilberforce was
meditating and planning the introduc-
tion of the question into parliament,
as a work of national reform. In May,
1787, an " Association for the Aboli-
tion of Negro Slavery " was formed in
London, Granville Sharp being chos-
en chairman by the twelve persons,
mostly London merchants, and all
but two, Quakers, who composed its
first meeting. Clarkson was employed
with them, in collecting and diffusing
information, and, in co-operation with
the Association,Wilbei"force undertook
the work in parliament. It was es-
sentially with him a moral, rather than
a political movement ; certainly, not
with any view to personal aggrandize-
ment or advancement. It sprang di-
rectly from the greater conscientious-
ness of his new religious sentiments,
which impelled him to the labors of
Christian jihilauthropy. Hence, we
find in his private diary an increasing
sense of responsibility with more ex-
acting self-examination, especially as
he approaches this great question of
the aliolition of the slave-trade in par-
liament, which he felt had need of all
his faculties and resources. The so-
lemnity of the diary is noticeable in
anticipation of his advocacy of the
cause.

Pitt, who had entered parliament as
a reformer, was readily secured as a
supporter of the measure ; but, as the
02:)position to it in the first instance
was formidable from the pecuniary in-
terests of the traffic, intimately con-
nected with the cherished slave labor
of the West India planters, the pre-
54

liminary proceedings were to be taken
with caution. The first step was to
accumulate a sufficient body of evi-
dence on the subject to arouse the
conscience of the country and render
legislation imperative. A summons
was accordingly issued by Pitt, in
1788, to the Privy Council to examine
as a board of trade the state of the
commercial intercoiirse with Africa.
This was accepted by Wilberforce with
his characteristic prudence, in prefer-
ence to a hasty and ineffectual condem-
nation of the system by a mere resolu-
tion. The disease was deeply rooted,
and the cure was to be slow and ex-
haustive. While Will)erforce "s\'as at
the very commencement of his self-im-
posed task, his health suddenly failed
him, and there was every prospect that
his life would be prematurely cut short.
His constitution was always delicate,
and there now ajipeared to be an ab-
solute decay of the vital powers. His
frame was wasted, and his digestive
organs greatly impaired. A consulta-
tion of the leading physicians of the
day was held, and their opinion as de-
clared to his family was, that " he had
not stamina to last a fortnight." In
this strait he was sent to Bath to drink
the waters. Before he left, in antici-
pation of death, he solemnly entrusted
the cause of abolition to Pitt, who
promised to look after its interests.
Writing from Bath, in April, to Mr.
Wy vill, he says : " Behold me, a ban-
ished man from London and business.
It is no more than I can expect, if my
constituents vote my seat abdicated,
and proceed to the election of another
representative : however, I trust, I
shall yet be enabled, by God's bless-

426

VILLIAM WILBEEFORCE.

ing, to do the public and tliem some
service. As to the slave question, I do
not like to touch on it, it is so big a
one, it frightens me in my present
■weak state. Suffice it to say, and I
kno-\v the pleasure it will afford you
to li«ar it, that I trust matters are in a
very good train. To you, in strict con-
fidence, I ^vill entrust, that Pitt, with a
warmth of principle and fi'iendship
that have made me love him better
than I ever did before, has taken on
himself the management of the busi-
ness, and promises to do all for me if
I desire it, that, if I were an efficient
man, it would be proper for me to do
myself."

This assurance, doubtless, assisted
in his recovery. Pitt earnestly took
the matter in hand, superintended
the inquiries of the Privy Council,
and, in May, moved a resolution bind-
ing the House of Commons to consider
the circumstances of the slave-trade,
early in the following session. Burke
and Fox gave it their cordial support.
All looked to Wilberforce as the best
advocate of the cause. " It is better,"
said Fox, with the characteristic gen-
erosity of his temjjer, " that the cause
should be in his hands than in mine ;
from him, I honestly believe that it
^\'ill come with more weight, more au-
thority, and more probability of suc-
cess." Meanwhile, Wilberforce was re-
gaining health at Bath, his restoration
being attributed to a judicious use of
opium. He was soon enabled to visit
Cambridge and his favorite resort at
the lakes in Westmoreland, where he
remained surrounded by company the
remainder of the season.

The time was now at hand for for-

mally opening the question of the con
tinned existence of the slave-trade, in
the House. Wilberforce, as we have
intimated, was preparing his mind for
it by special discipline. He appears
in his diary constantly contending
against the distraction of too much
company — an inconvenience which one
in his position could not well avoid.
" I trust," he A\Tites in his diary, " I
can say in the presence of God, that I
do right in going into company, keep-
ing uj) my connections, etc. ; yet, as it
is clear from a thorough examination
of myself that I require more solitude
than I have had of late, let me hence-
forth enter upon a new system through-
out. Rules — As much solitude and
sequestration as are compatible with
duty. Early hours, night and morn-
ing. Abstinence, as far as health will
j^ermit. Regulation of employments
for particular times. Prayer, three
three times a day at least, and begin
Avith serious reading or contemplation.
Self-denial in little things. Slave-trade
my main business now.'''' On the 12th
of May, 1789, he opened the debate in
the House of Commons by moving a
series of resolutions founded on the
report of the Privy Council, express-
ing the various evils of the slave-trade,
and the expediency of its sujipression
— resolutions which he supported, not-
withstanding the delicate state of his
health, in a masterly and effective
speech of three hours and a half in
length, going over the whole subject
in detail, placing the evil on the foot-
ing of a national immorality, tracing
its injurious effects alike on Africa, the
slaves and their owners, and picturing
with sympathetic impressiveness the

WILLIAM WILBEEFORCE.

427

terrors of the middle passage, " so
much misery crowded into so little
room, where the aggregate of suffering
must be multij^lied by every individ-
ual tale of woe," while he summoned
Death as his "last witness, whose in-
fallible testimony to their unutterable
wi'ongs can neither be purchased nor
repelled." It is to be regretted that
we have no adequate report of this
memorable speech. Parliamentary re-
porting was in its infancy. There was
then no Dickens in the gallery, with
sympathetic power and feeling, to
spread its thrilling periods with con-
summate fidelity before the public.
But from the sentences given ffom the
notice of the address given by his bi-
ographers, we may infer something of
the value of the whole, which gained
at the time the plaudits of such dis-
tinguished judges as Pitt, Fox, Erskine
and Burke, who spoke of its " masterly,
impressive and eloquent manner — not,
perhaps, to be surpassed in the remains
of Grecian eloquence." Bishop Por-
teus, the amiable prelate who had late-
ly succeeded Lowth in the see of Lon-
don, and who brought the aid of his
position to the support of so many of
the generous enterprises of philanthro-
py of his time, was present at the de-
bate, and in a letter to the Eev. W.
Mason, pronounced the address of Wil-
berf orce " one of the ablest and most
eloquent speeches that was ever heard
in the House of Commons or any other
place. It made a sensible and powerful
impression upon the House. He was
supported in the noblest manner by
Mr. Pitt, Mr. Burke and Mr. Fox, who
all agreed in declaring that the slave-
trade was the disgrace and opprobium

of the country, and that nothing but
entire abolition could cure so mon-
strous an evil. It was a glorious night
for the country." The friends of the
cause, however, had to wait many anx-
ious years before their benevolent ef-
forts were carried into effect. The con-
sideration of the subject was adjourned,
through various vicissitudes of inter
ested opposition, with many obstrue
tions fi'om session to session, but Wil
berforce and his illustrious friends as
sociated with him in the cause of abo'
lition never wearied in their exertions
in its behalf.

An interesting episode in Wilber-
force's public career occurred in the
summer of 1789, during the recess of
parliament, in a visit to Hannah More,
at her residence at Cowslip Green.
While there, a visit was proposed to
the Cheddar Cliffs, in the vicinity, as
the chief natural curiosity of the re-
gion. He went with some reluctance,
admired the beauties of the spot, but
was sadly impressed with the neglect-
ed condition of the poor people whom
he found there. He determined at
once that something should be done
for them, and in the evening of the day
of the excursion proposed to Miss More
that if she would be at the trouble of
assisting them, he would be at the
expense. The result was the founda-
tion of the charitable schools in the
district, with their good work of re-
ligious and social improvement, which,
in sjjite of many obstacles, proved so
eminently successful under the super-
intendence of Miss More and her sis-
ters. Of these, Will)erforce was a
liberal supj^orter. "As for tlie ex-
pense," he wi'ote to Hannah More,

428

WILLIAM WILBERFORCE.

when her plans were matured, "the
best proof you can give me that you
believe me hearty in the cause, or sin-
cere in my wishes, is to call on me for
money -without reserve. Every one
shoiild contribute out of his own
proper fund. I have more money
than time, and, if you, or rather your
sister, on whom I foresee must be de-
volved the superintendence of our in-
fant establishment, will condescend to
be my almoner, you mil enable me to
employ some of the superfluity it has
pleased God to give me to good pur-
pose. . . I shall take the liberty of
enclosing a draft for forty pounds;
but this is only meant for beginning
with."

Of his personal habits and suiTound-
ings at this period of his career — he
was now at the age of thii'ty-one— we
have some interesting notices brought
together by his biographers. " His
house was continually open to an in-
flux of men of all conditions. Pitt and
his other parliamentary friends might
be found there at ' dinner before the
House.' So constant was theii" resort,
that it was asserted, not a little to his
disadvantage in Yorkshire, that he re-
ceived a pension for entertaining the
partisans of the minister. Once every
week the ' Slave Committee ' dined with
him. Messrs. Clarkson, Dickson, etc., jo-
cosely named by Mr. Pitt, ' his white ne-
groes,' were his constant inmates, and
were employed in classing, revising,
and abridging evidence under his own
eye. 'I cannot invite you here,' he
writes to a fi'iend who was about to
visit London for advice, 'for during
the sitting of parliament, my house is
a mere hotel.' His breakfast-table was

thronged by those who to came to him
on business, or with whom, for any
of his many plans of usefulness, he
wished to become personally acquaint-
ed. He took a lively interest in the
Elland Society ; and besides subscrib-
ing to its funds one hundred pounds
per annum (under four anonymous en-
tries, to avoid notice), he invited to
his house the young men under educa-
tion, that he might be able to distrib-
ute them in proper situations. No one
ever entered more readily into sterling
merit, though concealed under a rough
exterior. ' We have different forms,'
he said, ' assigned to us in the school
of life— different gifts imparted. All
is not attractive that is good. Iron
is useful, though it does not sparkle
like the diamond. Gold has not the
frasrance of a flower. So, different
persons have various modes of excel-
lence, and we must have an eye to all.'
Yet no one had a keener or more hu-
morous perception of the shades of
character. 'Mention when you write
next,' says the postscript of a letter to
Mr. Hey, on the announcement of a new
candidate for education, ' the length of
his mane and tail ;' and he would re-
peat with a full appreciation of its hu-
mor, the answer of his Lincolnshire
footman, to an inquiry as to the ap-
pearance of a recruit who presented
himself in Palace Yard, — ' ^Tiat sort
of person is he V ' Oh, sir, he is a
rough one.' The circumstances of his
life brought him into contact with the
greatest varieties of character. Hig
ante-room was thronged from an early
hour ; its first occupants being geuer
ally invited to his breakfast-table ; and
its later tenants only quitting it when

WILLIAM WILBEErOECE.

429

he himself went out on business. Like
every other room in his house, it was
well stored with books ; and the ex.
perience of its necessity had led to the
exchange of the smaller volumes, with
which it was originally furnished, for
cumbrous folios, which could not be
carried off by accident in the pocket
of a coat.' Its group was often
most amusing, and provoked the wit
of Mrs. H. More to liken it to ' Noah's
ark, full of beasts, clean and unclean.'
On one chair sat a Yorkshire consti-
tuent, manufacturing or agricultural;
on another a petitioner for charity, or
a House of Commons client; on an-
other a Wesleyan preacher ; while side
by side with an African, a foreign
missionary, or a Haytian professor,
sat perhaps some man of rank,
who sought a private interview, and
whose name had accidentally escap-
ed announcement. To these morn-
ings succeeded commonly an after-
noon of business, and an evening in
the House of Commons. Yet in this
constant bustle he endeavored still to
live by rule. ' Alas,' he writes upon
the 31st of January, 'with how little
profit has my time passed away since
I came to town ! I have been almost
always in company, and they think me
like them rather than become like me.
I have lived too little like one of God's
peculiar people.' ' Hence come waste
of time, forgetfulness of God, neglect
of opportunities of usefulness, mistak-
en impressions of character. Oh may
I be more restrained by my rules for
the future, and in the trying work up-
on which I aiu now entering, when I
shall be so much in company, and give
so many entertainments, may I labor

doubly by a greater cultivation of a
religious frame, by prayer, and by all
due temperance, to get it well over.' "
At the outset of his more immediate
philanthropic career, Wilberforce, af-
ter a careful survey of his powers,
wi'ote the following solemn declara-
tion : " God Almighty has set before
me two great objects, the suppression
of the slave trade and the reformation
of manners." The latter, illustrated in
many ways by his social influence and
example, found a special expression in
the composition of his moral treatise
entitled, "A Practical View of the
Prevailing Religious System of Pro-
fessed Christians in the Higher and
Middle Classes of this Country, Con-
trasted with Ileal Christianity." He
began this work at Bath, in the sum-
mer of 1793, and labored upon it at
intervals till its completion and publi-
cation, in 1797. It may have been sug-
gested by the corresponding essays of
Hannah More, "Thoughts on the Im-
portance of the Manners of the Great
to General Society," and " Estimate of
the Religion of the Fashionable World,"
which appeared respectively in 1788
and 1791. All of these works, as their
titles fully indicate, had a similar ob-
ject, and all were alike successful ; but
the book of Wilberforce, from his po-
sition in society and in parliament, as
might have been anticipated, had a
superior authority and weight of in-
fluence. So little promising, however,
as a pecuniary speculation did the
work appear to Cadell, the publisher,
that he expressed the opinion, that if
the author's name were put uj)on the
title-i)age, an edition of five hundred
copies might be ventured upon. So

430

WILLIAM WILBERFOECE.

eager proved the demand for it, that it
was out of print in a few days, and
within six months five editions — an
ao-o-i-eorate of V500 copies — were sold.
It long continued to be one of the
most popular religious books of the
age, edition after edition appearing in
England and America, where it was
warmly welcomed, while it was freely
circulated in India, and translated into
the French, Italian, Spanish, Dutch,
and German languages. It was hailed
with admiration at the start by some
of the finest and loftiest minds of Eng-
land, by Porteus, who expressed his
thankfulness to Providence for its op-
portune aj^pearance, and by Burke, then
about to leave the world, whose dying
hours it consoled with its words of
comfort and promise of usefulness. He
charged his friend. Dr. Lawrence, with
the expression of his thanks to its au-
thor " for havina; sent such a book into
the world." The same year of its pub-
lication, Wilberforce, in the month of
May, was married at Bath, to Barbara
Anne, eldest daughter of Isaac Spoon-
er, of Elmdon Hall, in the county of
Warmck.

Returning to the progress of the Ab-
olition question in parliament, we find
Wilberforce steadily at work at the
measure, meeting the powerful opposi-
tion of the African merchants and West
India planters organized against it. In
preparation for the debate in 1790, he
even sacrificed his ordinary scrupulous
observance of the Sunday, for what,
in spite of his regrets, he could but feel
was the higher duty of omitting noth-
ing which lay in his power to serve
til is great cause of humanity, in which
Uio interests of Christianity itself were

so deeply involved. " Spent Sunday,"
he writes in his diary, " as a working
day — did not go to church — slave
trade. Gave up Sunday to slave bus-
iness — did business, and so ended this
Sabbath. I hope it was a grief to me
the whole time to turn it from its true
purposes." Time wears on, and the
cause apparently makes little advance ;
but public opinion, sure to act upon
parliament in the end, is being enlight-
ened by the perseverance of Clarkson
and others. In vain, however, Wilber-
force introduces his motion in the
House for the abolition of the trade,
in 1792 ; something was gained there,
but the House of Lords delayed the
work, as they did again, after too long
an interval, in 1804, when the House
once more adopted the measure. Fi-
nally, after other vexatious interrup-
tions, in 1807, the act of abolition was
passed by both Houses, Fox, at the
special request of Wilberforce, intro-
ducing the bill in the House of Com-
mons, and Lord Granville, carrying it
through the House of Lords, the last
and crowning act of his ministry. Its
passage through the House was a con-
tinued scene of triumph for Wilber-
force, in whose honor every voice was
raised. Sir Samuel Eomilly ended his
speech with a tribute worthy of last-
ing remembrance, as he contrasted " the
feelings of Napoleon in all his great-
ness, with those of that honored indi-
vidual, who would this day lay his
head upon his pillow and remember
that the slave trade was no more. The
royal assent was given, and the iniqui-
ty, so far as England was concerned,
was abolished. Wilberforce received
many other congratulations on the

WILLIAM WLLBERFOECE.

431

event ; for himself lie had but one
thought : " What thanks," says he,
" do I owe the Giver of all good, for
bringing me in His gracious provi-
dence to this great cause, which at
length, after almost nineteen years la-
bor, is successful.

The great object of the life of Wil-
berforce was now achieved. More
than a quarter of a century yet remain-
ed to him of life. He remained in
parliament till 1825, when he finally
retired. For five succesive elections
he represented Yorkshire without a
contest — including the whole period
and beyond it of his Abolition strug-
gle. After 1812 he was returned for
the borough of Bramber. In his par-
liamentary career he had in 1794 been
opposed to the war with France, which
caused a temporary alienation from
Pitt, l)ut did not long interrupt their
mutual regard ; he had been in favor
of Catholic Emancijiation and general-
ly supported Reform, while every ben-
evolent measure found in him an ar-
dent advocate. He was one of the
originators of the Bible Society, of
which he continued a warm supporter,
and was associated -o-ith various other
forms of Christian philanthropic effort.
After his retirement from parliament
he occupied a house mth large grounds
which he had purchased at Highwood
Hill, in the suburbs of London. His
occupation of his time in this new home,
as described by his sons, exhibits an
old age of active mental employment.
" His days Avere very regularly spent.
He rose soon after seven, spent the
first hour and a half in his closet ; then
dressed, hearing his reader for three
quarters of an hour, and l)y half-past

nine met his household for family wor-
ship. At this he read a portion of the
Scriptures, generally of the New
Testament, in course, and explained
and enforced it, often with a natural
and glowing eloquence, always with
afi*ectionate earnestness and an extra-
ordinary knowledge of God's word.
After family prayers, which occupied
about half an hour, he never failed to
sally forth for a few minutes

'To take the air and hear the thrushes sing.'

He enjoyed this stroll exceedingly: 'A
delightful morning. Walked out and
saw the most abundant dew-drops spark-
ling in the sunbeams on the gazon.
How it calls forth the devotional feel-
ings in the morning when the mind is
vacant from worldly business, to see
all nature pour forth, as it were, its
song of praise to the great Creator and
Preserver of all things ! I love to re-
peat Psalms cin., civ., cxlv., etc., at such
a season.' His hal)its had Ions; since
been formed to a late hour of break-
fast. During his public life his eai'ly
hours alone were undisturbed, and he
still thoiight that meeting late tended
to prolong in others the time of morn-
ing prayer and meditation. Breakfast
was still prolonged and animated by
his unwearied powers of conversation,
and when congenial friends were gath-
ered round him, their discussions lasted
sometimes till noon. From the break-
fast room he went till post time to his
study, where he was commonly employ-
ed long about his letters. If they
were finished he turned to some other
business, never enduring to be idle all
the day. * H. is a man,' he says, after
a wholly interrupted morning, ' for

432

WILLIAM WILBERFOECE.

whom I feel unfeigned esteem and re-
gard, but it quite molests me to talk
for a whole morning. Nothing done
and no accession of intellect.' Soon
after his retirement he was invited as
an idle man to an amateur concert.
'What!' he exclaimed, 'music in a
morning ? Why it would be as bad as
dram-driukins:.' Yet his love for music
was as strono: as ever. . . About three
o'clock, when the post was gone, he
sallied forth into the garden, humming
often to himself, in the gladness of
his heart, some favorite tune, alone, or
in the company of some few friends, or
with his reader. Here he would pace
up and doAvn some sheltered sunny
walk, rejoicing especially in one which
had been formed for him by a son, and
was called ever after, with some hint
of affection, by his name.

" Who that ever joined him in it can-
not see him as he walked round his
gardens at Highwood ? Now in anima-
ted and even jjlayful conversation, and
then drawing from his copious pockets
(to contain Dalrymple's State Papers
was their standard measure) some fa-
vorite volume or other, a Psalter, a
Horace, a ShakesjDeare, or Cowper, and
reading, and reciting, or 'refreshing' pas-
sages ; and then catching at long-stored
flower-leaves as the wind blew them
from the images, or standing before a
favorite gum cistus to repair the loss.
Then he would point out the harmony
of the tints, the beauties of the pencil-
ling, the perfection of the coloring, and
run up all into those ascriptions of
praise to the Almighty, which were

ever welling forth from his grateful
heart. He loved flowers with all the
simjjle delight of childhood. He stayed
out till near dinner, which was never
after five, and early in the evening lay
down for an hour and a half. He
would then rise for a new term of ex-
istence, and sparkle through a long
evening, to the astonishment of those
who expected, at his time of life, to see
his mind and spirits flag, even if his
strength was not exhausted. The
whole evening was seldom spent in
conversation, for he had commonly
some book in ' family reading,' which
was a text for multiplied digressions
full of incident and illustration."

Days passed like these, were the pre-
lude to a happy death. After a resi-
dence at Bath in the early summer of
1833, he visited London to occupy for
a few days a house which had been
placed at his disposal in Cadogan
Place, Sloane street. Parliament was
then in session, engaged in the passage
of the final Emancipation Act. " Thank
God," said he, on hearing of the success
of the measure, " that I should have liv-
ed to witness a day in which England
is willing to give twenty millions stor-
ing for the abolition of slavery." He
survived but a few days longer, dying
with words of Christian resignation on
his lips, on the morning of July 29th,
in the seventy-fourth year of his age.
His remains were interred with public
honors in Westminister Abbey, in the
north transept, by the side of the graves
of Pitt, Fox and Canning, where a sta-
tue has been erected to his memory.

GEORGE STEPHENSON,

r^ EOEGE STEPHENSON, the em-
\Zr inent railway engineer, was born
at the colliery village of Wylam, about
eight miles west of Newcastle-on-Tyne,
on the 9th of June, 1781. He was the
second son of very poor, but very in-
dustrious, respectable, and amiable pa-
rents. His father had employment at
Wylam as fireman of the pumping en-
gine at the village colliery, close to
which the family occupied a cottage,
which stood beside the wooden tram-
way on which the coal-wagons were
drawn by horses from the coal pit to
the loading quay.

George Stephenson's first employ-
ment was, at the age of eight, to keep
the cows of a widow named Ainslie,
who occupied a neighboring farm-house.
The bent of his mind appears even then
to have exhibited itself, for it is re-
corded of him, that "his favorite amuse-
ment was erecting clay engines, in con-
Junction with his chosen playmate, Tom
Tholoway. They found the clay for
their engines in the adjoining bog, and
the hemlock, which grew about, sup-

* This sketch, derived from the" Quarterly Re-
view," is chiefly an abstract of the valuable "Life
of (Toorge Stophcnsou by Samuel Smiles," most
of the narrative being in his words.
65

plied them with abundance of imagi-
nary steam pipes." At the age of four-
teen, he was taken on as an assistant
to his father in firing the engine, a
promotion Avhich he had anxiously de-
sired, for, " since he had modeled his
clay engines in the bog, his young am-
bition was to be a fireman."

A new coal-pit being opened on the
Duke of Newcastle's property, at a
place called Water-row, George Ste-
phenson, at the age of seventeen, was ap-
pointed to act as its plugman. " The
duty of the plugman was to watch the
engine and to see that it kept well in
work, and that the pumps were efii-
cient in drawing the water. When the
water-level in the pit was lowered, and
the suction became incomplete through
the exjiosure of the suction holes, then
his business was to proceed to the bot-
tom of the shaft, and plug the tube so
that the pump should draw : hence the
designation of plugman. If a stoppage
in the engine took place through any
defect in it which he was iucapal)le of
remedying, then it was his duty to call
in the aid of the chief engineer of the
colliery to set the engine to rights.
But from the time when George Stephen-
son was appointed fireman, and more

(438)

431

GEOKGE STEPHENSON.

particularly afterwards as engine-man,
he devoted himself so assiduously and
so successfully to the study of the en-
gine and its gearing — taking the ma-
chine to pieces in his leisure hours for
the purpose of cleaning and mastering
its various parts — that he very soon
acquired a thorough practical knowl-
edge of its construction and mode of
working, and thus he very rarely need-
ed to call to his aid the engineer of the
colliery. His engine became a sort of
pet with him, and he was never weary
of watching and inspecting it with
devoted admiration."

At this time he was wholly unedu-
cated. There was a night-school in the
village, kept by a poor teacher, and
this School he determined to attend.
He took a particular fancy to figures,
and improved his hours by the engine-
side in solving the problems set him
l)y his master, and working out new
ones of his own. By the time he was
nineteen he had learnt under the vil-
lage dominie to read correctly, and
" was proud to be able to write his
own name."

At the age of twenty, when he was
acting as brakesman of an engine at
Black Callerton, his wages being about
eighteen shillings a week, he formed an
attachment for a respectable young
woman, named Fanny Henderson, a
servant in a neighboring farm-house.
His means, however, not permitting
him to marry, he began to make and
mend the shoes of his fellow workmen,
an occupation by which he contrived to
save his first guinea. He expressed an
opinion to a friend, that he was " now
a rich man," and the next year he mar-
ried Fanny Henderson, and furnished

a small cottage at Willington Quay,
near Wallsend, where he got an ap-
pointment as brakesman to an engine.
It was here that his son, Robert, was
born, and within a twelvemonth after,
Mrs. Stephenson died, to the great af-
fliction of her husband, who long con-
tinued to cherish her memory.

At this time all was distress with
him ; his father met with an accident,
by which he lost his eyesight, and was
otherwise injured ; the condition of
the working classes was very discour-
aging, in consequence of high prices
and heavy taxation ; George himself
was drawn for the militia, and had to
pay a heavy sum of money to provide
a substitute. He was almost in despair
and contemplated the idea of emigrat-
ing to America. " But his poverty pre-
vented him from prosecuting the idea,
and rooted him to the place where he
afterwards worked out his career."

Conscious of the disadvantages aris-
ing from want of instruction, George
Stephenson determined that his boy
should be taught, as soon as he was of
an age to go to school. Many years
after, speaking of the resolution which
he thus early formed, he said, " In the
earlier period of my career, when Rob-
ert was a little boy, I saw how deficient
I was in education, and I made up my
mind that he shoidd not labor under
the same defect, but that I would put
him to a good school, and give him a
liberal training. I was, however, a poor
man ; and how do you think I manag-
ed ? I betook myself to mending my
neighbors' clocks and watches at night,
after my daily labor was done, and thus
I procured the means of educating my
son."

But liis career was now about to take
a turn. He had. marked the details of
the machine under his guidance, and
he only wanted an opportunity to turn
his practical kno^\ledge to account.
That opportunity soon presented itself.
The lessees of the Killingworth Colliery
had re-erected an engine, made by Smea-
ton, for the fturpose of pumping the
water from the shaft. From some cause
or other the engine failed. Nobody
could make it work, and George Ste-
phenson, like many others in the neigh-
borhood, had examined it. One Sat-
ui-day afternoon he went over to the
High Pit to examine the eno-ine more

CD O

carefully than he had yet done. He
had been turning the subject over in
his mind ; and after a long examina-
tion, he seemed to satisfy himself as to
the cause of the failure. Kit Heppel,
who was a sinker at the pit, said to him :
" Weel, George, what do you mak' o'
her ? Do you think you could do
anything to improve her ?" " Man,"
said George in reply, "I could alter
her and make her draw ; in a week's
time from this I could send you to the
bottom." Forthwith Hej^pel rejjorted
this conversation to Ealj^h Dods, the
head viewer ; and Dods, beiug now
quite in despau-, and hopeless of suc-
ceeding with the engine, determined to
give George's skill a trial. The next
day Stephenson entered on his labors.
The engine was taken entirely to pieces.
The repairs occupied about four days,
and by the I'ulluwiug Wednesday the
engine was carefully put together again
and set to work. It was kept pump-
ing all Thursday, and by the Fri-
day afternoon the pit was cleared of
water, and the workmen were "sent

to the bottom," as Stephenson had
promised.

George Stephenson received ten
pounds as a present, and was appoint-
ed engine-man to the Killingworth en-
gine at good wages. His skill as an
engine doctor became noised abroad,
and he was called on to cure all the
old, wheezy and ineffective pumping
machines in the district. He soon beat
the " regular " engineers, though they
treated him as a quack. In 1812, the
colliery engine-wTight at Killingworth
having been accidentally killed, George
Stephenson was appointed to succeed
him at a salary of one hundred pounds
a year, and the use of a horse — and now
he was on the high road to fortune.

The idea of applying steam power
to the propulsion of wheel carriages
had occupied the attention of many
inventors from the time of Watt.
The earlier notions all resolved them-
selves into its application to cariiages
on ordinary roads. Trevethick appears
to have been the first to put together
the two ideas of the steam horse and
the iron way. In 1804, he constructed
an engine to pass along a tram-way at
]Merth)T Tydvil, but although it suc-
ceeded in dragging after it several
wagons containing ten tons of iron, at
the rate of five miles an horn-, this
engine proved a ftxilure, and was speed-
ily abandoned in consequence chiefly
of the imaginary notion, which Treve-
thick adopted, that a smooth-wheeled
engine would not "grip" or "l)ite,"
upon a smooth rail. Trevethick sub-
sequently made two other engines on
the same principle for Mr. BLickett,
the owner of the Wylam Colliery, on
which George Stephenson was born.

43C

GEORGE STEPHEIS'SON'.

The first of these was never used at
all, and the second, having been pnt
upon the road with infinite la1)or,
would not move an int-li, but flew to
pieces when the machinery was set in
motion. This was in 1812. In 1813,
Mr. Blackett, continuing his experi-
ments, built an engine of his own,
wliich "crept along at a snail's pace,
sometimes taking six hours to travel
the five miles down to the loading
place. It was also very apt to get off
the rail and then it stuck. On these
occasions the horses had to be sent out
to drao; on the wagons as before."
Whilst Mr. Blackett was thus experi-
menting, to the amusement of his
friends, who pronounced that his ma-
chines would "never answer," George
Stephenson was directing his attention
to the best means of effecting some
economy in the haulage of coal from
the Killingworth Collieries to the river
side. The high price of corn rendered
the maintenance of horses very expen-
sive, and with a view to save the keep
of as many as possible, he laid down
inclined planes, where the nature of
the ground permitted, and let down
his loaded coal wagons by a rope, of
which the other end was attached to a
train of empty wagons on a parallel
incline. The rope ran upon wheels
fastened to the tram-road.

But this plan did not satisfy him.
He recurred to the idea of a locomo-
tive, and determined to go over to
Wylam and see Mr. Blackett's " Black
Billy." After mastering its arrange-
ments, he declared " his full conviction
that he could make a better engine —
one that would draw steadier and work
more cheaply and effectively." He

proceeded to bring the subject un
der the notice of the Killingworth
lessees, and Lord RavensAVorth, the
principal partner, having formed a
very favorable opinion of him, author-
ized him to construct a locomotive, and
promised to advance the money for the
purpose. In defiance of the theoretical
difficulty which had possessed the
mind of Trevethick, he made all its
wheels smooth, and it was the first en
gine which was so constructed. It was
placed on the Killingworth railroad,
on the 25th of July, 1814, and its
powers were tried the same day. " On
an ascending gradient of 1 in 450, it
succeeded in di'awing after it eight
loaded carriages, of thirty tons weight,
at about four miles an hour ; and foi
some time after it continued regularly
at work."

When this engine was put upon the
rail, Mr. Stephenson was almost the
only person who had implicit faitli in
the contrivance. Mr. Blackett's engines
at Wylam were believed to be working
at a loss ; the machines tried elsewhere
had proved failures, and had been
abandoned; and even the colliery
owners, who were supposed to be the
only persons who could possibly profit
by them, were not generally favorable
to locomotive traction, and were not
given to encourage experiments. "Ste-
phenson alone remained in the field,
after all the improvers and inventors
of the locomotive had abandoned it in
despair. He continued to entertain
the most confident expectations as to
its eventual success. He even went so
far as to say that it would yet super
sede every other tractive power."

His whole thoughts were now em

GEOKGE STEPHEiSrSOlSr.

437

ployed on the perfecting of this ma-
chine, and of the road on which it was
to work, for he was in the habit of re-
garding them as one, speaking of the
rail and the wheel as " man and ^vife."
He began by improving the joints of
the rails, then by devising a new chair
for them to rest on. He next turned
his attention to the wheels of the loco-
motive, making them lighter, as well
as more durable. He afterwards in-
vented a " steam spring," which re-
mained some time in use, until super-
seded by a better article. Subse-
quenly he studied the question of re-
sistance, which included the whole
subject of gradients, and on which he
arrived at the conclusion, from which
he never afterwards deviated, that the
po\ver of the locomotive was best
adapted to level roads.

Several years passed away before
George Stephenson obtained another
opportunity. During that time his
locomotive engine was in daily us3 on
the Killingworth railway, without ex-
citing much attention. But in 1819,
the owners of the Hetton Colliery, in
Durham, determined to have their
Avagon-way constructed for locomotive
engines. They invited George Ste-
phenijon to act as their engineer; and
on the 18th of November, 1822, he
opened a line of railway of about eight
miles long, from the Ilettou Colliery
to its shipi^ing-place upon the Wear,
on which five locomotives of his own
construction were worked, capable of
traveling at the rate of four miles an
hour, and of dracfixinsr a train of seven-
teen coal- wagons weighing about sixty-
four tons.

In the year 1821, Air. Pease of Dar-

lington, and other gentlemen of the
vicinity, obtained an act of parlia
ment, enabling them " to make a rail-
way, or tram-road, fi-om Stockton t'
Witton Park Colliery (by Darling
ton)." The object was " to facilitate
the conveyance of coal, iron, lime, corn
and other commodities ; " and the pro-
moters pm'posed to work the railway
" with men and horses, or other-^^dse."
It was in the winter of 1821, that
George Stephenson, ha^'ing heard of
this project, went over to Darlington,
with a letter from Mr. Lambert, the
manager at Killingworth, and intro-
duced himself to Mr. Pease. The plans
of the road were undetermined. Ste-
phenson strongly persuaded him to
adopt a railway in preference to a
tram-road, and a locomotive engine in
preference to horse power. Mi". Pease
communicated these ideas to the di-
rectors, who asked Stephenson to sur-
vey the country for them, which he did
in company with his son. The first
rail of the line was laid on the 23d of
May, 1822. Shortly after this date,
]VIr. Pease paid a visit to Killingworth,
in company with " his fi-iend," Thomas
Eichardson (the then head of the fiim
of Richardson, Overend, Gurney &
Co., in Lombard Street), for the pur-
pose of examining the locomotive.

Stephenson soon had it brought up,
made the gentlemen mount it, and
showed them its paces. Harnessing it
to a train of loaded wagons, he ran it
along the railroad, and so thoroughly
satisfied his visitors of its powers and
capabilities, that from that day Edward
Pease was a declared suj)porter of the
locomotive engine. In preparing, in
1823, the amended Stockton and Dar-

438

GEORGE STEPHENSON.

lington Act, at Mr. Stephenson's urgent
re(][uest Mr. Pease bad a clause insert-
ed, taking power to work the railway-
by means of locomotive engines, and
to employ them for the haulage of
passengers as well as of merchandise ;
and Mr. Pease gave a further and still
stronger proof of his con\action as to
the practical value of the locomotive,
by entering into a partnership with
Mr, Stephenson, in the following year,
for the establishment of a locomotive
foundry and manufactory in the town
of Newcastle — the northern centre of
the English railroad system. The
second Stockton and Darlington Act
was obtained in the session of 1823,
not, however, without opposition. Mr.
Stephenson was regularly appointed
the company's engineer, at a salary of
three hundred pounds per annum, and
he foi'tlnvith removed with his family
from Killingworth to Darlington.

The Stockton and Darlins-ton rail-
way was opened for traffic on the 27th
of September, 1825, and was the eai'-
liest public highway of the kind. Mr.
Stephenson himself drove the first en-
gine. The train consisted of six wagons
loaded with coals and flour ; after these
came a passenger-coach, occupied by the
directors and their friends ; then twen-
ty-one wagons, fitted up for other pas-
sengers, and lastly, six wagon-loads of
coals, making in all thirty-eight vehi-
cles. The train went at a steady pace
of from four to six miles an hour, and
its arrival in Stockton excited deep in-
terest and admiration.

From the very outset, this railway
was most successful. The traffic on
which the company had estimated their
profit was greatly exceeded. Instead

of sending ten thousand tons of coal a
year to Stockton, as they had calcu-
lated, theii" shipments in a few year?
were above five hundred thousand tons,
and have since far surpassed that
amount. At first, passengers were not
thought of, but they wanted to be
taken, and, by George Stephenson's
advice, passenger-carriages were placed
upon the line. One striking result of
this railway was the creation of the
town of Middlesborough-on-Tees.

When the railway was opened in
1825, the site of this future metropolis
of Cleveland was occupied by a solitary
farm-house and its out-buildings. All
round was pasture-land or mud-banks ;
scarcely another house was within sight.
But when the coal export trade, foster-
ed by the halfpenny maximum rate im
posed by the Legislature, seemed likely
to attain a gigantic growth, and it was
found that the accommodation furnish-
ed at Stockton was insufficient, Mr.
Edward Pease, joined by a few of his
Quaker friends, bought about five or
six hundred acres of land, five miles
lower down the river— the site of the
modern Middlesborough — for the pur-
pose of forming a new seaport for the
shipment of coals brought to the Tees
by the railway. The line was accord-
ingly shortly extended thither, docks
were excavated, a town sprang up,
churches, chapels, and schools were
built, with a custom-house, mechanics'
institute, banks, ship-building yards,
and iron factories ; and in a few years
the port of Middlesborough became
one of the most important on the
north-east coast of England. In the
year 1845, fifty thousand five hundred
and forty eight tons of coals w^ere ship-

GEOEGE STEPHENSO]^.

439

ped in the nine-acre dock, "by means of
the ten coal-di-ops abutting thereupon.
In about ten years, a busy population
of about six thousand persons (since
swelled into fifteen thousand) occupied
the site of the original farm-house.
More recently, the discovery (by Mr.
John Phillips) of vast stores of iron-
stone in the Cleveland Hills, close ad-
Joining Middlesborough, has tended
still more rapidly to augment the pop-
ulation and increase the commercial
importance of the place. Iron furnaces
are now blazing along the Vale of
Cleveland, and new smelting-works are
rising up in all directions, fed by the
railway which brings to them their
supplies of fuel from the Durham coal-
fields.

A line of railway, to be worked by
horses, had been projected fi-om Liver-
pool to Manchester, in 1821 ; the op-
position, however, was so powerful,
that the idea was laid aside; in 1823,
it was again proj)osed, to be again
dropped; in 1824, it was once more
revived, and the promoters determined
to send a deputation to Killiugworth to
see George Stephenson's engine. Being
amply satisfied with what they saw,
they offered him the post of engineer
to lay out their line. In the face of
extraordinary difliculties, he proceeded
to make a survey of the country. The
bill for the railway went into commit-
tee of the House of Commons on the
21st of March, 1825. It was vehe-
mently opposed by the canal compa-
nies, the land-owners, and almost every
one interested.

" When I went to Liverpool," says
Stephenson, " to plan a line from thence
to Manchester, I jjledged myself to the

directors to attain a speed of ten miles
an hour. I said I had no doubt the
locomotive might be made to go much
faster, but that we had better l^e mo-
derate at the beginning. The direc-
tors said I was quite right ; for that
if, when they went to parliament, I
talked of going at a greater rate than
ten miles an hour, I should put a cross
upon the concern. It was not an easy
task for me to keep the engine down
to ten miles an hour, but it must be
done, and I did my best. I had to
place myself in that most unpleasant
of all positions — the witness-box of a
parliamentary committee. I was not
long in it before I began to wish for a
hole to creep out at ! I could not find
words to satisfy either the committee
or myself. I was subjected to the.
cross-examination of ei^rht or ten bar.
risters, purposely, as far as possible, to
bewilder me. Some member of the
committee asked if I was a foreigner,
and another hinted that I was mad.
But I put up with every rebuff, and
went on with my plans, determined
not to be put down."

The great difliculty in making a rail-
way from Liverpool to Manchester was
the passage across Chat-Moss — a bog
a])out four miles broad and more than
thirty -feet deep. IMr. (afterward Baron)
Alderson described it to the committee
as " an immense mass of pulp, and noth-
ing else. It actually rises in height,"
he said, "from rain, swelling like a
sjionge, and sinks again in dry weather.
If a boring instrument is put into it,
it sinks immediately by its own weight.
Who but Mr. Stephenson," asked Mr.
Alderson, "who but Mr. Stephenson
A\ ould have thought of cai'rying a rail

GEORGE STEPHENSON.

way across Chat-Moss ? " " It was," he
said, " io-uorance inconceivable : it was
perfect madness. The man had ap-
plied himself to a subject of which
he had no knowledge, and to which
he had uo science to apply!" Pro-
fessed engineers were called who con-
firmed these opinions. No one was
found to support Mr. Stephenson, and
ultimately, although the committee de-
clared the preamble to be proved by a
majority of only one (thirty-seven to
thirty-six), they refused the company
compulsory power to take land to make
the railway ; and thus the bill was
virtually lost.

But -the necessity of a new line of
communication between Liverpool and
Manchester had been established, and
the Liverpool merchants were deter-
mined to obtain it. They went to par-
liament in the next session for another
bill, which appears to have been of a
less ambitious character, and to have
been framed upon the precedent of
the Stockton and Darlington. In the
evidence before the House they avoid-
ed the case of Chat-Moss, and proposed
to work their railway by the applica-
tion of horse-power. The act was
granted, and Mr. Stephenson at once
made arrangements to commence the
works. He began with the " impossi-
ble " — to do that which the most dis-
tinguished engineers of the day had
declared that no man in his senses
would undertake to do, namely, to
make a road across the Chat-Moss.

The draining of the Moss was com-
menced in June, 1826. It was indeed
a most formidable undertaking; and
it has been well observed that to caiTy
a railway along, under, or over such a

material, could never have been con
templated by any ordinary mind. Mr.
Stephenson proceeded to form the line
in the following manner: — He had
deep di-ains cut about five yards apart,
and when the moss between those
drains had become perfectly dry, it
was used to form the embankment
where necessary; and so well did it
succeed, that only about four times the
quantity was required that would have
been necessary on hard ground. Where
the road was to be on a level, drains
were cut on each side of the intended
line, by which, intersected by occa-
sional cross drains, the upper part of
the moss became diy and tolerably
fii'm ; and on this hurdles were placed,
either in double or single layers, as
the case required, four feet broad and
nine feet long, covered with heath.
The ballast was then placed on these
floating hurdles ; longitudinal bear-
ings, as well as cross sleepers, were
used to suppoi-t the rails where neces-
sary, and the whole was thoroughly
drained. In the cutting the work had
to be accomplished by drainage alone.
The only advantage in favor of these
operations was, that the sui'face of the
moss was somewhat higher than the
siirrounding country, which circum-
stance partially assisted the drainage
In proceeding with these operations,
however, difficulties fi'om time to time
presented themselves, which were over-
come with singular sagacity by the en-
gineer. Thus, when the longitudinal
drains were first cut along either side
of the intended railway, the oozy fliiid
of the bog poured in, threatening in
many places to fill it uj) entirely, and
bring it back to the original level. Mr

GEOKGE STEPHENSON.

441

Stephenson then hit upon the follow-
ing expedient. He sent up to Liver-
pool and Manchester and bought up all
the old tallow casks that could be
found; and, digging out the trench
anew, he had the casks inserted along
the bottom, their ends thrust into each
other, thus keeping up the continuity
of the drain. The pressure of the bog,
however, on both sides of the casks, as
well as from beneath, soon forced them
out of position, and the line of casks
lay unequally along the surface. They
were then weighted with clay for the
purpose of keeping them down. This
expedient j^roved successful, and the
drainage proceeded. Then the moss
between the two lines of drains was
spread over with hurdles, sand and
earth, for the purpose of forming the
road. But it was soon apparent that
this weight was squeezing down the
moss and making it rise up on either
side of the line, so that the railway lay
as it were in a valley, and formed one
huge drain across the bog. To correct
this defect, the moss was weighted with
hurdles and earth to the extent of about
thirty feet outside of the line on either
side, by which means the adjacent bog
was forced down, and the line of rail-
way in the centre was again raised to
its projier position. By these expedi-
ents, the necessity for devising which
was constantly occurring, and as con-
stantly met with remarkable success,
the work went forward, and the rails
were laid down.

The formation of the heavy embank-
ment, above referred to, on the edge of
the moss, presented considerable diffi
culties. The weight of the earth pressed
it down through the fluid, and thou-
5(i

sands of cubic yards were engulfed be-
fore the road made any approach to the
required level. For weeks the stuff
was poured in, and little or no progress
seemed to have been made. The di-
rectors of the railway became alarmed,
and they feared that the evil prognos-
tications of the eminent civil engineers
were now about to be realized. Mr.
Stephenson was asked for his opinion,
and his invariable answer was, " We
must persevere." And so he went on ;
but still the insatiable bog gaped for
more material, which was emptied in
truck-load after track-load without any
apparent effect. Then a special meet-
ing of the board was summoned, and
it was held upon the spot, to determine
whether the work should be proceeded
with or ahandotied ! Mr. Stephenson
himself afterwards desciibed the trans-
action at a public dinner given at Bir-
mingham, on the 23d of December,
1837, on the occasion of a piece of
j)late being presented to his son, the
engineer of the London and Birming-
ham railway. He related the anecdote,
he said, for the j)urpose of impressing
upon the minds of those who heard
him the necessity of perseverance.

"After working for weeks and
weeks," said he, " in filling in materials
to form the road, there did not yet ap-
pear to be the least sign of our being
able to raise the solid embankment one
single inch ; in short, we went on fill-
ing in without the slightest apparent
effect. Even my assistants began to
feel uneasy, and to doubt of the suc-
cess of the scheme. The directors, too,
spoke of it as a hopeless task, and at
length they became seriously alarmed,
so much so, indeed, that a board meet-

442

GEOEGE STEPHENSGlSr.

ins was held on Cliat-Moss to decide
whether I should proceed any further.
Tliey had previously taken the opin-
ions of other engineers, who reported
unfavorably. There was no help for
it, however, but to go on. An im-
mense outlay had been incurred, and
great loss would have been occasioned
had the scheme been then abandoned
and the line taken by another route.
So the directors were compelled to al-
low me to go on with my plans, in the
ultimate success of which I myself
never for one moment doubted. De-
termined, therefore, to persevere as be-
fore, I ordered the works to be carried
on vigorously ; and, to the surprise of
every one connected with the under-
taking, in six months from the day on
which the board had held its special
meeting on the Moss, a locomotive en-
gine and carriage passed over the very
spot with a party of the directors'
friends on their way to dine at Man-
chester."

The idea which bore him up in the
face of so many adverse opinions, in
assuming that a safe road could be
formed across the floating bog, was
this : that a ship floated in water, and
that the moss was certainly more capa-
ble of supporting such a weight than
water was; and he knew that if he
could once get the material to float he
would succeed. That his idea was cor-
rect is proved by the fact that Chat-
Moss now forms the very best part of
the line of railway between Liverpool
and Manchester. Nor was the cost of
construction of this part of the line ex-
cessive. The formation of the road
across Chat-Moss amounted to about
twenty-eight thousand pounds, Mr.

Giles's estimate having been two hun
dred and seventy thousand pounds !

The directors of the Liverpool anc
Manchester line remained long unde
cided as to the mode in which it should
be worked. They were inundated with
projects, but no one, except George
Stephenson, ever pressed upon them
the locomotive engine. With unwea-
ried earnestness he continued to repre-
sent his favorite machine as superior
to every other power, till at length
the directors determined to send two
j)rofessional engineers of high standing
— Mr. Walker, of Limehouse, and Mr.
Eastrick, of Stourbridge — to visit Dar-
lington, and report upon the working
of that machine. Although admitting
with apparent candor that imjirove-
ments were to be anticipated in the
locomotive engine, the reporting engi-
neers clearly had no faith in its power,
nor belief in its eventual success ; and
the united conclusion of the two was
that, " considering the question in every
point of view — taking two lines of road
as now formino;, and havius: reference
to economy, disj)atch, safety and con-
venience — our opinion is that, if it be
resolved to make the Liverpool and
Manchester railway complete at once,
so as to accommodate the traffic, or a
quantity approaching to it, the station-
ary reciprocating system is the hesty
And in order to carry the system re-
commended by them into effect, they
proposed to divide the railroad be-
tween Liverpool and Manchester into
nineteen stages of about a mile and a
half each, with twenty-one engines
fixed at the different points to work
the trains forward. Here was the re-
sult of all George Stephenson's labors !

The two best practical engineers of tlie
day concurred in reporting against the
employment of his locomotive ! Not
a single professional man of eminence
could be found to coincide Avith him
in his preference for locomotive over
fixed engine power. Still he did not
despair. With the profession against
him, and public opinion against him —
for the most frightful stories were
abroad respecting the dangers, the un-
sightliness and the nuisance which the
locomotive would create — Mr. Stephen-
son held to his pm-pose. He pledged
himself that, if time were given him,
he would construct an engine that
would satisfy theii- requirements, and
prove itself capable of working heavy
loads along the railway with speed,
regularity and safety. The directors
determined to offer a prize of five hun-
dred pounds for a locomotive engine that
would work under certain prescribed
conditions. On the day appointed for
the trial, four engines came upon the
ground, and Mr. Stephenson's "Rock-
et " carried off the prize.

With the success of the " Rocket "
the railway system may be said to have
been established. On the 1st of Jan-
uary, 1830, the winning engine, with a
carriage full of directors, passed over
the whole of Chat-Moss and the greater
part of the road between Liverpool
and Manchester — a double triumph to
George Stephenson — the triumph both
of his road and of his locomotive. On
the 15th of September, 1830, the line
was opened ; and, as in the case of the
Stockton and Darlington railway, the
commercial results were decisive : four
hundred passengers a-day were calcu-
lated on, but one thousand two hun-

dred were carried on the average, at
the very commencement, and the num-
ber soon rose to half a million yearly.
The land near the line increased gi-eat-
ly in value, and even Chat-Moss itself
became studded with valuable farms.

After the Liverpool and Manchester
line was made, the crop of railways
soon became plentiful as blackberries.
Among the first with which the name
of George Stephenson was associated
were the lines fi'om Canterbury to
Whitstable, and from Leicester to
Swannington. The great work of the
London and Birmingham, now called
the London and North-western, was
constructed by his distinguished son,
although in his remarkable address, on
his election as president of the Insti-
tution of Civil Engineers, he tells us,
with appropriate modesty, that "all
he knows and all he has accomjjlished
is primarily due to the parent whose
memory he cherishes and reveres."
Having, in conjunction with this wor-
thy inheritor of his great name, suc-
cessfully inaugurated our most impor-
tant railway systems, George Stephen-
son retired from the anxieties of pub-
lic life. Had he been a man of more
ambitious pretensions, he would prob-
ably have remained longer in the field ;
but, having lived to see his projects car-
ried into efl'ect to an extent far l>e)'ond
any anticipations he could possibly
have formed at the outset, he wisely
resolved to enjoy the sweets of do-
mestic repose for the remainder of his
days, and withdrew himself to the en-
joyment of rural pursuits. There were,
however, few great Avorks on which he
was not consulted ; and he may be re-
garded as, emphatically, the engineer,

4-tt

GEORGE STEPHENSON.

to whose intelligonce and perseverance
is due the introdiu'tion of railways
into England, and who set the first
example in that country of works
which others have successfully carried
into execution throughout the world.

From his earliest period, George Ste-
phenson, inheriting the feelings of his
father, had cherished an ardent love for
natural history. The latter days of his
life were spent on an estate in Derby-
shire, adjacent to the Midland railway,
where, engaged in horticulture and in
farming, he lived amongst his rabbits,
dogs and birds. He died of an inter-
mittent fever, contracted amid the
noxious atmosphere of one of his forc-
ing-houses, on the 12th of August,
1848, at the not very advanced age of
sixty-seven, leaving behind him the
highest character for simplicity, kind-
ness of heart, and absolute fi-eedom
from all sordidness of disposition. His
remains were followed to the grave by
a large body of his work-people, by
whom he was greatly admired and be-
loved. They remembered him as a
kind master, who was ever ready act-
ively to 2:)romote all measures for their
moral, physical and mental improve-
ment. The body was interred in Trin-
ity Church, Chesterfield, where a sim-
ple taldet marks the great engineer's
last resting-place.

A statue, by Gibson, which the
Liverpool and Manchester and Grand
Junction companies had commissioned,
was on its way to England when Ste-
phenson's death occurred. It was
placed in St. George's Hall, Liverpool.
A full length statue by Bailey was
also erected a few years later in the
vestibule of the Loudon and North-

western station, in Euston Square. A
subscription for the purpose was set
on foot by the Society of Mechanical
Engineers, of which he had been the
founder and president. A few adver-
tisements were inserted in the papers
inviting subscriptions, when the vo-
luntary offerings shortly received in-

cluded an

average

of two shillin2;s

each from three thousand, one hundred
and fifty working men, who embraced
this ojjportunity of doing honor to their
distinguished fellow workman.

The portrait of George Stephenson
exhibits a shrewd, kind, honest, manly
face. His fair, clear countenance was
ruddy, and seemingly glowed with
health. The forehead was large and
high, projecting over the eyes; and
there was that massive breadth across
the lower part, Avhich is usually ob-
served in men of eminent constructive
skill. The mouth was firmly marked ;
and shrewdness and humor lurked there
as well as in the keen grey eye. His
frame was compact, well-knit and rather
spare. His hair became grey at an
early age, and towards the close of his
life it was of a pure silky whiteness.
He dressed neatly in black, Avearing a
white neckcloth ; and his face, his per-
son, and his deportment at once ar-
rested attention, and marked the gen-
tleman.

" The whole secret of Mr. Stephen-
son's success in life," says his biogra-
pher, Mr. Stiles, in his concluding chap-
ter, summing up his character, " was his
careful improvement of time, which is
the rock out of which fortunes are carv-
ed and great characters formed. He
believed in genius to the extent tliat
Bufi^on did when he said that ' patience

GEOEGE STEPHENSON.

genius ;

or, as some other thinker
puf it, when he defined genius to be
the power of making efforts. But he
never would have it that he was a ge-
nius, or that he had done anything
which other men, equally laborious
and persevering as himself, could not
have accomplished. He repeatedly
said to the young men about him:
' Do as I have done — persevere ! ' He
perfected the locomotive by always
working at it and ahvays thinking
about it. . . Whether working as
a brakeman or an engineer, his mind
was always full of the work in hand.
He gave himself thoroughly up to it.
Like the painter, he might say that he
had become great ' by neglecting noth-
ing.' Whatever he was engaged upon,
he was as careful of the details as if
each were itself the whole. He did
all thoroughly and honestly.
He was ready to turn his hand to any-
thing — shoes and clocks, railways and
locomotives. He contrived his safety-
lamp with the object of saving pit-
men's lives, and perilled his own life
in testing it. Many men knew far
more than he; but none was more
ready forthwith to apply what he did
know to practical purposes. . . In
his deportment, he was simi^le, mod-
est and unassuming, but always man-
ly. He was frank and social in spirit.
When a humlde workman, he had care-
fully preserved his sense of self-respect.
His companions looked up to him, and
his exam])le was worth even more to
many of them than books or schools.
His devoted love of knowledge made
his poverty respectable, and adorned
his humlili' calling. When he rose to
a more elevated station and associated

with men of the highest position and
influence in Britain, he took his place
amongst them with perfect self-posses-
sion.

"About the beginning of 1847, Mr.
Stephenson was requested to state
what were his ' ornamental initials,' in
order that they might be added to his
name in the title of a work proposed
to be dedicated to him. His reply was
characteristic: 'I have to state,' said
he, 'that I have no flourishes to my
name, either before or after; and I
think it will be as well if you merely
say " George Stephenson." It is true,
that I am a Belgian knight, but I do
not wish to have any use made of it.
I have had the offer of knighthood of
my own country made to me several
times, but would not have it. I have
been invited to become a Fellow of
the Royal Society, and also of the Civil
Engineers' Society, but olijected to the
empty additions to my name. I am a
member of the Geological Society ; and
I have consented to become president
of, I believe, a highly respectable Me-
chanics' Institution at Birmingham.'
To quote his own modest words, in
conclusion, as expressed at a meeting of
engineers in Birmingham, towards the
close of his career: 'I may say, with-
out being egotistical, that I have mixed
with a greater variety of society than
perhaps any man living. I have dined
in mines among miners, and I have
dined with kings and (pieens and with
all grades of the nobility, ami have
seen enough to inspire me with the
hope that my exertions have not
been without their beneficial results
— that my labors have not been in

vain

> 51

SARAH SIDDONS.

THE central figure of the Kemtle
family on the stage is, after all,
Mrs. Siddons, John Philip Kemble,
indeed, sustained the Shakespearean
drama with a power and propriety
ranking him as a worthy successor to
the honors of the great Garrick; but
he left behind him others who already,
at the time of his death, shared with
him the admiration of the public.
With all his admitted weaknesses, he
was, undoubtedly, yet an actor of the
heroic pattern, with something colossal
in his reputation. But his illustrious
sister was all this and more. As there
was no one on the British stacje before
her with whom she can be fully com-
pared ; so no one has come after her to
divide her honors with posterity. She
stands singly and alone where the ge-
nius of Reynolds placed her, a grand
impersonation of the tragic muse.

In the biography of John Kemble,
we have traced the early history of the
family. Sarah Siddons, the eldest child
of Roger and Sarah Kemble, was born
at Brecon, in South Wales, July 5th,
1755, at a public-house in the town
which long bore and probably still
bears the sign, " The Shoulder of Mut-
ton." Her father was at the time the

(446)

manager of an itinerant theatrical
company, and had taken Brecon in the
course of his wanderings, — a sensible
person, as he is described, of a fine ap-
pearance, with the manners of a gen-
tleman, and views of life beyond his
humble profession. The mother was
noted for her beauty and a certain im-
pressive stateliness. "Her voice," we
are told by the poet Campbell, who
saw her in her old age, " had much of
the emphasis of her daughter's ; and
her portrait, which long graced Mrs.
Siddons's drawing-room, bore an intel-
lectual exjjression of the strongest
power: she gave .you the idea of a
Roman matron." These traits of the
parents, inherited by the children, were
the germs of their great dramatic ex-
cellence. The life of the players to
which they were introduced in their
childhood rapidly develojied them. It
was a life, of course, of shifts and ex-
pedients, that of these strolling play-
ers : none better, perhaps, adapted to
develop the faculties of mind and body,
and bring a young being at the soon-
est into contact with the joys and sor-
I'ows, the aspirations and the littleness-
es of humanity. Hogarth has given us
a wonderful picture behind the scenes

/px

^^-^

SARAH SIDDOIsrS.

447

of its humorous, fantastical realities, of
its grotesque assumptions and absurd
contradictions, and the poet Crabbe,
in trutliful and sympathetic verse, has
depicted the motley fortunes of the
tribe.

Children of Thespis, welcome 1 knights and

queens !
Counts ! barons ! beauties ! when before your

scenes,
And miglity monarchs thund'ring from your

throne ;
Then step behind, and all your glory's gone :
Of crown and palace, throne and guards bereft,
The pomp is vanish'd, and the care is left.

That John Kemble and his sister
emerged from the coarseness habitual
to this gregarious existence, untainted
and unblemished, is proof at once of
the parental solicitude and of the na-
tive virtue of their characters. We
get a glimpse of their young life, with
some of its vulgar associations, in the
memoirs of the dramatist Holcroft, the
shoemaker's son, who escaped from
poverty and obscurity through this
poor player's portal on his way to lite-
rary fame. A vagrant seeking bread,
he joined Roger Kemble's strolling
company, and we are told how, when,
on a benefit night for one of the family,
Miss Kemble, then a little girl, was
brought forward in some part as a Ju-
venile prodigy, she was disconcerted
by the noisy opposition of the gallery
and was about retiring, when her moth-
er led her forward to the fi'ont of the
stage and caused her to repeat the fable
of the Boys and the Frogs, which quite
chans^ed in her favor the humor of the
house. A resident of Warwick,Walter
Whiter, the commentator ou Shake-
speare, when she had grown to be
known the world over, recalled one of

the sights of his boyhood in the town,
the spectacle of the daylight procession
of old Roger Kemble's company adver-
tising and giving a foretaste of the
evening's entertainment, — a little girl,
the future Mrs. Siddons, marching
along in white and spangles, her train
held by a handsome boy in black vel-
vet, John Philip Kemble, of the All
hail hereafter !

This little girl, at ten, had made the
acquaintance of Milton's Paradise Lost,
and, inadequate as any Just apprecia-
tion of that work must then have been,
it was characteristic of her undeveloped
powers that she admired it at all ; she,
who was to give utterance to the Mil-
tonic energy in Shakespeare. There is
the record in an old play-bill of a per-
formance by " Mr. Kemble's Company
of Comedians," at Worcester, on the
12th of February, 1767, of Havard's
tragedy, " Charles I.," in which, " Master
J. Kemble " and " Miss Kemble " are
set down for James, Duke of York,
and "the young Princess Elizabeth,"
the children of the sufferins: kins'. On
another occasion. Miss Keml )le appears
as Ariel in the " Tempest," and on anoth-
er, as Rosetta in " Love in a Village."

Her education, meanwhile, was not
neglected ; she was taught vocal and
instrumental music, and her father
would have had her instructed in elo-
cution by William Coml)e, a person
Avho afterwards attained a peculiar dis
tinction as the author of the "Letters"
ascribed to Lord Lyttleton and " The
Adventures of Doctor Syntax," and
other kindred ])ublications. He was
then a young man, had Ijcon educated
at Eton and Oxford, run through a for-
tune in fashionable dissipation, enlist-

ed as a common soldier and was quar-
tered at Wolverbamiiton, where his
talents and attainments were discover-
ed, and where he made the acquaint-
ance of Eoger Kemhle, who gave him
a benefit with which he secured his dis-
charge. He then set up for a teacher
of elocution, and Kemble engaged him
as a tutor for his daughter, but her
mother, thinking him too much of a
scapegrace for such an intimacy, put
an end to the arrangement. Miss Kem-
ble was much courted for her beauty,
and it was not long before her affec-
tions were engaged by Mr. Siddons, a
versatile actor of her father's com-
pany, who could play Hamlet or Har-
lequin, as it might be. The affair
seemed to be getting along pretty
smoothly, with the reluctant permis-
sion of the parents, till a well-to-do
squire of the neighborhood interposed
as a lover, enamored by the fair one's
singing an opera song, " Robin, Sweet
Robin." This created new exjjecta-
tious in the family, and Siddons, to
precijiitate matters, projiosed an eloj^e-
ment, which the lady declined. Pie
was then dismissed from the company
with a farewell benefit, of which he
took an unhandsome advantage by
singing at the close of the entertain-
ment, a song of his own composition,
addressed to the good peojjle of Brecon,
narrating the whole course of his love
affair, and how it was thwarted by the
money of the squire. In this shabby
performance, Colin, as he designated
himself, had the ajjplause of a crowded
house, but when he left the stage, he
Avas met by the indignant mother, who
soimdly l)oxed his ears for his imper-
tinence. The lady herself must have

been very much in love with him, or
very good-natured to forgive this ex-
traordinary proceeding. She did so,
however, and it was agreed between
them that a marriage should take place
when her parents should consent to it.
In the meantime, the daughter was re-
moved from the scene by an engage-
ment as lady's maid to Mrs. Great-
head, at Guy's Cliff, Warwickshire.
This introduced her, though in a sul)-
ordiuate capacity, to good societj', while
her talents were appreciated and en-
couraged by the admiration she re-
ceived in her dramatic readings. Mr.
Siddons visited her in this retirement ;
he was at length accepted by the pa-
rents, and in November, 1773, the
lovers were married at Trinity Church,
Coventry. Husband and wife now ap-
peared together on the stage in the pro-
vincial circuit. Acting one night at
Cheltenham, in " Venice Preserved,"
Mrs. Siddons' performance of Belvi-
dera was witnessed Ijy a party of some
distinction, Lord Bruce, shortly after
Earl of Aylesbury, and his accomplish-
ed lady, with her daughter by her first
husband, the honorable Miss Boyle, a
lady of great beauty, taste and sensi-
bility, the author of seX^eral poems ad
mired in their day. The young act-
ress, timid and sensitive, fearing the
indifference or contempt of her fashion-
able audience, and interpreting some
noises in the theatre as signs of dis-
pleasure, was quite dispirited after the
play, and was, of 'course, proportion-
ably delighted on the morrow, upon
learning that she had made the most
favorable impression. Miss Boyle call-
ed upon her, assured her of her po^vers,
gave her confidence, assisted her in the

SAEAH SIDDONS.

449

preparation of her wardrobe for the
stage, and became her frieud for life.
To the fair youthful actress, conscious
yet distrustful of her powers, craving
sympathy, the advent of this kindred
titled beauty must have appeared as
that of a very angel of light. The
Aylesbury family communicated their
impressions of the new charming per-
sonage they had discovered in the pro-
vinces to Garrick, who was then en-
tering upon his closing season, and he
sent down one of the most eminent
members of his company, King, the
original " Lord Ogleby," to witness her
performance. He saw her at Chelten-
ham, in the " Fair Penitent," admired,
and reported accordingly. The result
was an invitation to Drury Lane, with
a salary of five pounds a week. Her ap-
pearance in the green-room, among the
privileged actresses of the theatre,
would afford a fine subject for a paiu-
ter in depicting the wayward and im-
perious beauties, the Yates, Abiugton
and Younge, the bustling Garrick lav-
ishing his attentions in their presence
upon the new expectancy of the stage.
Though but recently recovered from
the illness attending the birth of her
second child, her beauty was remark-
able enough to induce the manager to
assign her the distinguished character
of the goddess Venus in a revival of
his celebrated Shakespeare " Jubilee "
procession^ in which the entire strength
of the company was called out. This
apj^ears to have excited the jealousy
of the other ladies, who crowded before
her to obscure her glory in the last
scene, which Garrick, with his quick,
T)rilliaiit eyes perceived, and restored
her to the full l)laze of popuhxr adiuira-
57

tion. Had not the manager interposed,
wrote Mrs. Sid dons, subsequently, of
this event, and "brought us forward
with him with his own hands, my little
Cupid and myself, whose appointed sit-
uations were in the very front of the
stage, might have as well been in the
island of Paphos at that moment." The
Cupid, by the way, turned out to be no
less a person in after life than the fa-
mous actor, dramatist and song writer,
Thomas Dibdin. He remembered how
on this interesting occasion Venus
brought the requisite smile to his
countenance by the pleasant inquiry
what sugar-plums he liked best, prom-
ising a good supply after the scenes,
and how she kept her word.

Mrs. Siddons first dramatic perform-
ance at Drury Lane was on the 29th
of December, 1775, in the character of
Portia, in the "Merchant of Venice,"
King acting Shylock. She was an-
nounced on the bills simply as "a
young lady, being her first appear-
ance." The reports of the jjerformauce
in the pai:)ers of the day vary as to its
merit ; but there is a general impres-
sion conveyed of a certain degree of
failure, arising from timidity and nerv-
ousness. Expectation in fact had been
highly raised, comparisons provoked,
and there was much disappointment.
The friendly interpretation, however,
of Parson Bate, an anomalous clerical
dramatist of the day who hung about
the theatre, opened a prospect of future
eminence. Noticing her fine figure,
expressive features, graceful and easy
action, her " whole deportment that of
a gentlewoman," he detected in her a
faculty of " enforcing the beauties of
her author l)y an emphatic lliough easy

450

SARAH SIDDONS.

ai-t, almost peculiar to herself." Her
acting upon the wliole seems to have
lacked force; though there was no
great opportunity for her in Portia.
A second character, Epiccene, in Col-
man's adaptation of Ben Jonson's " Si-
lent Woman," was hardly more to her
advantage; nor could she gain much
reputation from Julia, iu Parson Bate's
comic opera, " The Blackamoor Wash-
ed White ; " or the subordinate parts
in which she was cast in Mrs. Cowley's
" Runaway," and a farce by Vaughan,
a man about town who figm^es as
Dapper in " The Rosciad," and is said
to have suggested the portrait of
Dansjle in •' The Critic." It was some-
thing more to the purpose that she
was cast as Mrs. Strictlaud in "The
Suspicious Husband," when Garrick
played Ranger, and that he chose her
for Lady Anne when he revived the
performance of " Richard HI.," after an
interval of several years. On this lat-
ter occasion she was somewhat discon-
certed by the energy of Garrick. He
had given her a particular dii-ection
when addressing him on the stage to
turn her back to the audience, that his
countenance might be in full view of
the house. Upon her neglecting this,
Garrick cast upon her a withering look
of rebuke which she never forgot or
forgave. The season shortly after
closed, and during the recess, Garrick
having now retired from the stage, she
was informed that the new managers
had no occasion for her services. Thus
closed her first London enirao-ement.
It was a grievous disappointment, but
probably a real advantage to her act-
ing. She was yet quite young, at the
age of twenty, and needed fui'ther con-

fidence and strengthening of her pow-
ers. Judging by the admii'ation she
immediately after excited in the pro-
vinces, it would seem she either had
not a proper opportunity to exhibit
her talents in London, or had not been
adequately appreciated. It is to the
credit of ]\Ii-s. Abington that she re-
cognized her merits and warned the
managers of their mistake in parting
with her. The imj)ression, however,
which she had made in London
was not a commanding one, and
had she remained, she would, under
many disadvantages have found the
progress upward slow and difficult.
When she re-appeared, after a brief
interval, it was to strike with a
fresh impulse and triumph once and
forever.

In the meantime, she was gaining
new laui'els in the provinces in gen-
teel comedy, and in such passionate
performances as Euphrasia in the
" Grecian Daughter," and Alicia in
"Jane Shore," parts which oflPered
good situations, but, compared with
the teeming language of Shakespeare,
were skeleton words to be supplement-
ed and embodied in the emotions of
her own generous nature. Shakespeare
sustains himself on the stage ; the poor-
est acting cannot altogether drag him
down ; but Rowe and Southerne re-
quii'e "the foi'eign aid of ornament."
The secret of Mi's. Siddons' great suc-
cess in parts now throw^n aside as ut-
terly barren, is to be attributed not so
much to the different literary tastes of
her day, but simply to her own power-
ful sympathies and energies. When
we have another Mrs. Siddons, the Ca-
iistas, Euphi-asias and Alicias may

SAEAH SIDDONS.

451

again be tlie wonder and delight of the
stage.

After leaving London in the sum-
mer of 1776, Mrs. Siddons appeared at
Birmingham, acting with Henderson,
the successor to Garrick, till he was
succeeded by John Philip Kemble.
Henderson saw and felt her powers,
declaring " she never had an equal and
never would have a superior," a pro-
phecy often recalled at the height of
her fame and still warranted in the ex-
perience of posterity. Early in the fol-
lowing year she played at Manchester,
and among other characters was much
admired in " Hamlet." Nor are we to
suppose that this was a mere eccen-
tricity, the freak of a handsome woman
in male attire seeking a momentaiy ap-
plause. Boaden, who did not witness
the performance, fancies its effect in
comparing it with that of her brother,
John Kemble. " The conception would
be generally bolder and warmer, not
so elaborate in speech, nor so syste-
matically graceful in action."

From Manchester, Mrs. Siddons pass-
ed the same season to York, where Tate
Wilkinson, the celebrated manager,
now held sway. He played with her in
the Grecian Daughter, and has record-
ed in his " Memoirs," his recollections
of her appearance and acting at this
time. Though siifferiug from ill-health,
she created the most powerful impres-
sion : — " All lifted up their eyes with
astonishment that such a voice, such a
judgment and such acting, should have
been neglected by a London audience,
and by the first actor in the world."
John Palmer was then the manager at
Bath, the most important of the pro-
vincial theatres, and by the advice of

Henderson engaged Mrs. Siddons in
his company. Here, supported by the
cultivated society of the place, at that
period the centre of witty and fashion-
able life out of London, she soon found
congenial support. Her affections were
enlisted by warm-hearted fi'iends, and
her efforts on the stage encouraged l)y
the learned and refined. In this society
there was an accomplished clergyman.
Dr. Thomas Sedgewick Whalley, a gen-
tleman of taste and fortune, and of
some literary celebrity as the author
of a long narrative poem, " Edwy and
Edilda." He occupied one of the finest
houses on the Crescent, was intimate
with Madame Piozzi, corresponded
with that voluminous letter-writer.
Miss Seward, and was in fact a fine
specimen of a dilettante gentleman of
the old school, with somethinsf femi-
nine in his disposition, generous even
to prodigality, tempering a love of the
world in its gentler enjoyments with
the respectability of his profession.
Mrs. Siddons found in him and the
ladies of his family warm fi'iends ; she
corresponded with them, when they
were separated, without reserve, and
some of the most delightful revelations
of her character are to be found in her
letters preserved in the Whalley cor-
respondence. In one of the earliest of
these, addressed to Dr. Whalley from
Bristol, where Mrs. Siddons frequently
acted in connection with her engage-
ment at Bath, travelling rapidly from
one place to the other, we have a reve-
lation of her consciousness of those
natural powers and impulses wliich
gave its peculiar effect to her acting,
and distinouished it from that of most
other tragic heroines. Mrs. Siddona

452

SAEAH SIDDONS.

was always a severe student ; it was
impossible for her to take tilings easily ;
and never was slie Larder at work, per-
fecting herself in her art, than during
the two or three years in which she
was acting at Bath. Her salary was
three pounds a week, and for this she
had to practice a ready obedience to
the necessity or caprice of the stage,
acting subordinate parts in comedy till
she had by patient occasional efforts
created a demand for her better tragic
performances. " My industry and per-
severance," she long afterwards wrote
of this period, "were indefatigable.
When I recollect all this labor of mind
and body, I wonder that I had strength
and courage to supjjort it, interrupted
as I was by the cares of a mother, and
by the childish sports of my little ones,
who were often most unwillingly hush-
ed to silence for interrupting their mo-
ther's studies." At length, when the
inevitable time came when she was to
bo called again to London, it was with
this plea of maternity that she recon-
ciled herself and her friends to her de-
partui'e from the friendly circle at Bath.
On her farewell performance she deliv-
ered a poetical address of her own com-
position, in which, among other things,
she disclosed the three reasons which
she had mysteriously declared as gov-
erning her separation from her friends.
After enumeratins; the favors she had
received at Bath, her three children,
Henry, Sarah and Maria were brought
upon the stage:

These are the moles that bear me from your

side,
Where I was rooted — where I could have died.
Stand forth, ye elves, and plead your mother's

cause :
Ye Uttle magnets, whose soft influence draws

Me from a point where every gentle breeze
Wafted my bark to happiness and ease —
Sends me adventurous on a larger main.
In hopes that you may profit by my gain.

London was now before her with
fears and anticipations heightened to
the extreme of sensibility by her pre-
vious disappointment in the metropo-
lis. She approached the new trial of
her powers which was to decide her
fate as an actress with much anxiety.
The time appointed for her re-appear-
ance at Drury Lane was the 10th of
October, 1782, and the play chosen for
her performance, by the advice of the
elder Sheridan, was Southern's tragedy
of "Isabella, or the Fatal Marriage." For
a whole fortnight before the day, she
suffered, as she herself tells us, " from
nervous agitation more than can be
imagined." The fate of her family and
of herself, she felt hung upon the issue,
and what if she should be compelled
to return to the provinces disgraced
after a second failure in the metropo-
lis ? At the first rehearsal she feared
to throw out her voice till she uncon-
sciously gained force and was applaud-
ed by King, the manager. Before the
time came she was dismayed by a nerv-
ous hoarseness " which made her per-
fectly wretched. Happily, this cleared
away with days of fine sunshine, and
at last her father came to re-assure her
and accompany her to the theatre. Her
husband was too agitated to be pres-
ent. The part of Isabella was well
adapted to display her peculiar pow-
ers. It is in reality the whole of the
piece : the heroine is in the eye of the
audience from the first moment to the
last ; the remaining actors simply con-
tribute the situations. The story ia

SAEAH SIDDOXS.

453

very simple. Biron, contrary to the
wishes of his father, a haughty, world-
ly-minded nobleman, marries Isabella,
and after the birth of a son en2:a2:es in
foreign wars and is reported to be
slain in battle. The wife makes her
appearance with her child in the open-
ing scene in great distress, appealing
in vain for pity to her father-in-law,
and is about to be arrested for debt
when her suitor Villeroy, whose at-
tentions, immersed as she was in grief
for the loss of her husband, she had
resolutely thrust aside, pays her obli-
gations, and with the motive for pro-
tection to her child urged upon her,
she reluctantly consents to the mar-
riage. This is hardly concluded l>efore
Biron returns, is recognized by her
with old affection and there is nothino-
left to her distracted life Imt death.
This is tlie outline Avhich Mrs. Siddons
had to fill up with passion and emo-
tion. Compared with the fulness of
the Shakespearean drama, it is but a
mere sketch; but it is a sketch skil-
fully drawn by an able author, with a
tinge of the Greek melancholy, which
is the noldest melancholy on the stage,
and in one of its most imjDortant scenes,
that following the recognition, it has
something of the Greek manner of exe-
cution. From the beirinnino', the au-
dieuce was captivated by the perform-
ance, from the first touches of maternal
tenderness — it was her own child
Henry who was with her on the stao-e
— the dignity of a noble sorrow, the
energy of a lofty nature called forth
l)y persecution and distress, throuo-h
scenes of perplexity and dismay, to
the final terroi's of insanity and death,
closing -with that hysterical laugh of ,

despair at the moment in which she
stabs herself, celebrated by Madame
De Stael in one of the chapters of
Corinne, and never to be forgotten by
those who heard it. It was a great
triumph ; such mingled grace and
power; so natural an expression of
emotion, touching the soul to the quick,
were new to the stage, and the spon-
taneous suiTender of the audience in
tears and ecstacy, was followed on the
morrow by the cooler admii-ation of
the critics. The performance of that
night marks an era in the history of
the British stage. The established
fame of the Kembles dates from it,
A woman accomplished the work. It
prepared the way for John Philip
Kemble and the revival of the di-ama
in its noblest forms.

So great was the appreciation of Mrs.
Siddons in Isabella, that it was repeat-
ed in the course of the month eiffht
times. It was then succeeded by Eu-
phrasia in Arthur Murphy's " Grecian
Daughter," which gave her an ample
opportunity for heroic action in vari-
ous effective stage points. This was
followed by Jane Shore in Eowe's tra-
gedy, Calista in the "Fair Penitent,"
Belvidera in Otway's "Venice Pre-
served " and Zara in Con£:reve's
"Mourning Bride;" characters in
which she traversed tlie whole round
of the passions, of pitiful suffering,
anguish in distress, love, remorse in in-
famy, pride and indignation, and mad-
ness. In all these plays, witli their
various merits, she had to sustain the
character by her own transcendent ex-
ertions. Her acting was not so much
what she found in these sevei'al parts,
as what she brought to them in lier

454

SARAH SIDDONS.

generously gifted nature, her grandeur
of mien, her soul-subduing pathos, the
strength, freedom and spontaneity of
her emotions.

In private life, if we may call that
private life which embraced the vast
circle of London literary, political,
artistical and fashionable society, JVIrs.
Siddons received the most flattering
and at times annoying attentions.
A scene of this kind is famous in the
social annals of the metropolis. Miss
Monckton, daughter of Viscount Gal-
way, married a few years after to the
Earl of Cork, was then in the prime
of her maiden vigor, the princess of
lion hunters in the metropolis, a char-
acter in which she long maintained her
reputation, siuwiving till 1840, and at-
taining the advanced age of ninety-
four. Her soirees had been honored
by the company of Dr. Johnson ; Mrs.
Thrale was among her visitors ; Lord
Erskine, Monk Lewis, and a host of
others; in fact, pretty much all the
celebrities of her lona; reis^n to the
days of the Rev. Sydney Smith. So
distinguished a person, as Mrs. Siddons
suddenly became, was not likely long
to escape her attentions. She secured
her for what the actress thouorht a
quiet visit on a Sunday evening, for
she avoided large parties, and the host-
ess had solemnly promised her there
should be no crowd, only half a dozen
fi'iends. Mrs. Siddons went early,
dressed plainly, taking her young son
with her, and was enjoying the society
of a few lady acquaintances, when, as
she was about taking leave, there was
a sudden iiTuption of blue stockings
and notabilities, who came throngino-
in and fell upon her with the most ex-

traordinary avidity. " I was therefore
obliged," she wi'ites in her memoranda,
" in a state of indescribable mortifica-
tion, to sit quietly down till I know
not what hour in the morning ; but for
hours before my departure, the room
I sat in was so painfully crowded, that
the people absolutely stood on the
chairs, round the walls, that they
might look over their neighbor's heads
to stare at me ; and if it had not been
for the benevolent politeness of Mr.
Erskine, who had been acquainted
with my arrangement, I know not
what weakness I might have been sur-
prised into, especially being torment-
ed, as I was, by the ridiculous inter-
rogations of some learned ladies, who
were called blues, the meaning of
which title I did not at that time ap-
preciate, much less did I comprehend
the meaning of the greater part of their
learned talk. These profound ladies,
however, furnished much amusement
to the town for many weeks after, nay,
I believe I might say, for the whole
winter." This reception was afterwards
served up in a highly humorous paj^er
by Cumberland, in his " Observer," in
which the hostess figures as Vanessa,
and reviews her motley assembly with
great sj)ii"it. " You was adorable last
night in Belvidera," says a pert young
person with a high toupee to the act-
ress ; " I sat in Lady Blubber's box, and
I can assure you she, and her daughters
too, wept most bitterly — but then that
charming mad scene, by my soul it was
a chef (Tceuvre ; pray, madam, give me
leave to ask you, was you really in
your senses ? " Miss Fanny Burney,
whose "Evelina" had brought her
plenty of this sort of admiration, was

SARAH SIDDONS.

455

one of the company on this memorable
occasion at Miss Monckton's, and re-
cords the event in her diary, and how
her father and Sir Joshua Reynohls ac-
comjianied her. " We found Mrs. Sid-
dons the actress there. She is a wo-
man of excellent character, and there-
fore I am very glad she is thus patron-
ized, since Mrs. Abington, and so many
frail fail" ones, have been thus noticed
by the great. She behaved with great
propriety, very calm, modest, quiet and
unallected. She has a very fine coun-
tenance, and her eyes look both intel-
ligent and soft. She has, however, a
steadiness in her manner and deport-
ment by no means engaging. Mrs.
Thrale, who was there said, 'Why,
this is a leaden goddess we are all
worshiping ! however, we shall soon
gild it.' " The gilding came in a very
substantial improvement upon the pit-
tance she had received in the hard
service of the provincial theatres. For,
her eighty nights' performances, an ex-
traordinary number, during the season,
brought her about fifteen hundred
pounds. One of her benefits, increased
by presents, as was the custom of the
time, produced nearly half this sum.
The lawyers were so pleased with her
that they sent her a purse of a hundred
guineas, from so many subscribers
among them. These personal atten-
tions were crowned by the compli-
ments Mrs. Siddons received at the
hands of the royal family. George III.
in his better days had a happy dispo-
sition to be easily amused, and was
fond of theatrical entertainments. On
several occasions he distinguished the
Kembles by calling for special per-
formances at the theatre, and there

were frequent " readings " by Mrs. Sid-
dons at Buckintrham House and Wind-
sor Castle. Like most honors in the
world, they were at some int'onveni-
ence to the recipient. In her attire on
the stage, as we have seen, she culti-
vated simj^licity; the passions speak-
ing for her in such parts as Jane Shore,
and not the dress. When she came to
appear before the queen in these private
receptions, she found that it was indis-
pensalde etiquette to wear an anoma-
lous sacque with a hoop, trelde rufiies
and lappets, a costume in which she
says, " I felt not at all at my ease." As
the reading went on, she was several
times urged to take some refreshment in
the next room, which, though ready to
drop with the exertion, and the fatigue
of standing, she was unwilling to ac-
cejit ; fearing to " run the risk of fall-
ing down by walking l)ackwards out
of the room, a ceremony not to Ije dis-
pensed with, the flooring, too, being
rubbed bright. I afterwards learnt,"
she adds, " from one of the ladies who
was present at the time, that her majesty
had expressed herself surprised to find
me so collected in so new a position, and
that I had conducted myself as il' I
had been used to a court. At any rate,
I had fi-equently personated queens."

The acquaintance of Mrs. Siddons
with Dr. Johnson, which afforded her
in after life one of the most pleasing
reminiscences of her career, was formed
in the autumn of 1783. It was about
a year before his decease, when, op-
pressed with the infirmities of failing
health, he was confined to his lodgings
in Bolt Court. At liis particular re-
quest, conveyed by her frimd, ^Iv.
Windham, she visited him there and

456

SAEAH SIDDONS.

took tea with him. Ou Ler entering,
he made her a very handsome corajjli-
ment. There was some delay in his
servant Frank providing her -wdth a
chair. " Madam," said he, " you, who
so often occasion a want of seats to
other people, will the more easily ex-
cuse the want of one yourself."* The
doctor then entertained her with his
reminiscences of the old British stage,
of Mrs. Porter, Mrs. Clive and ]\Ii-s.
Pritchard, with a fine eulogium upon
his friend Garrick, whom he said he
admired more in comedy than tragedy,
and whose social talents at the head of
a table were more to be envied than
even his performances on the stage.
He talked of his favorite female char-
acter in Shakespeare, Queen Katharine,
which Mrs. Siddons promised to act for
him, offering him an easy chair at the
stage door, where he might hear and
see to advantage, for, as he said, he was
too deaf and too blind to sit at a dis-
tance, and he had little inclination to
expose himself to the public gaze in a
stage-box. The good doctor, however,
never witnessed the ijerformance. He
died before Mrs. Siddons was brou^'ht
forward in the play and it became one
of her enduring triumphs, Johnson
was greatly charmed with her " mo-
desty and propriety " in this interview,
of which he wrote to ]Mrs. Thrale,
"Neither praise nor money, the two
powerful corrupters of mankind, seem
to have depraved her. I shall be glad
to see her again." She paid him a few
morning visits afterwards, when she
was received with studied attention
and politeness.

* Jolm Philip Kemble's Memoranda in Bos-
well's Lil'e of Johnson. Ed. 1835, viii. 237.

Not inferior to this affection of John-
son, was the regard entertained for her
by Sir Joshua Reynolds. We have
met him in that dilettante crowd at
Miss Mouckton's, among her trouble-
some worshipers. He became a fre-
quent attendant uj)on her perform-
ances in those days which she loved
to recall when she was surrounded l)y
the intellectual nobility of England.
"He approved," she wi-ites, "very
much of my costumes, and of my hair
without powder, which at that time
was used in great jjrofusion, with a
reddish-brown tint, and a great quan-
tity of pomatum, which, well kneaded
together, modelled the t^iir ladies' tres-
ses into large curls like denii-caunon.
My locks were generally braided into
a small compass, so as to ascertain the
size and shape of my head, which, to
a i^ainter's eye, was of course an agree-
able departure from the mode. My
short waist, too, was to him a pleasing
contrast to the long stiff stays and
hoop petticoats, which were then the
fashion, even on the stage, and it ob-
tained his unqualified approbation.
He always sat in the orchestra ; and
in that 2:)lace were to Ije seen, O glori-
ous constellation ! Burke, Gibbon, She-
ridan,Windham ; and, though last, not
least, the illustrious Fox, of whom it was
frequently said, that iron tears were
drawn down Pluto's gloomy cheeks.
And these great men would often visit
my dressing-room, after the play, to
make their bows, and honor me ^s\^X\
their applauses. I must repeat, O glo-
rious days! Neither did his royal
highness the Prince of Wales withhold
this testimony of his approbation."

This was much, but happily the ge-

SARAH SEDDOISrS.

457

nius of Reynolds transferred tlie glow-
ing impression of the moment in its
most exalted form to his canvas, and
has left us in his great painting of Mrs.
Siddons as the Tragic Muse, au imper-
ishable record of her triumphs. Bor-
rowing a conception of his favorite
Michael Angelo from the attendants
upon one of his prophets in the Vati-
can, he painted the actress sitting in a
chair of state supported by two figures
of human fate, of pity and terror, hold-
ing the dagger and the howl. Her
figure in an attitude of elevated atten-
tion, of dramatic inspiration, is sug-
gestive at once of repose and action,
the right hand reclining, the left with
the jiointing fore-finger raised, suggest-
ive of the emotion passing within, while
a tiara and necklace and gorgeous folds
of drapery enhance the grandeur of
the position. The attitude .was as-
sumed by Mrs. Siddons in the studio
at the first sitting, and it ajipeared to
the painter so happy an inspiration
that he adopted it on the instant. The
picture has been generally held as one
of the noblest of the painter's works,
in the language of Mi*. Tom Taylor,
the latest of his biographers, " the
finest example of truly idealized por-
traiture, in which we have at once an
epitome of the sitter's distinction, call-
ing or achievement, and the loftiest
expression of which the real form and
features are capable." Burke followed
its progress in the artist's studio with
the greatest interest, and Barry pro-
nounced it " both for the ideal and the
execution the finest picture of the kind
perhaps in the world, sometliing, indeed,
more than a portrait, serving to give
an excellent idea of what an enthusi-
58

astic mind is apt to conceive of those
pictures of confined history, for which
Apelles was so celebrated by the an-
cient writers." The artist himself was
so pleased with it that, contrary to his
usual custom, he placed his own name
upon it, wi'itten on the skirt of the aa
pie drapery, gallantly remarking to the
lady, " I could not lose the honor this
opportunity offered to me for my name
going down to posterity on the hem
of your garment.* There was one
friendly admirer of ]\Ii-s. Siddons, how-
ever, who did not apjjreciate Sir Josh-
ua's management of this apotheosis of
her genius. Miss Seward, writing to
the poet Hayley, remarks, " The defects
and incongruities of the situation and
drapeiy amaze me — a heavy theatrical
chair of state on the clouds, gold-lace
and pearls, plaited hair, and the im-
perial tiara upon an allegorical figure,
which sorrow and high-souled resolve
must be supposed to have incapaci-
tated for the studied labors of the toi-
lette." But what woman, however
well disposed, was ever satisfied with
the dress of another? The subject,
too, demanded the pomp and luxiuy
of art for its aggrandizement.

In the same year, 1784, in which
this picture was exhibited, Gainsbo-
rough painted a portrait of Mrs. Sid-
dons at the height of her youthful
beauty, also a clief-d^oeuvre of art.
In this, too, Mrs. Siddons is seated,
wcarinc; a black hat and feathers, and
a blue and buff striped silk dress. "A
more exquisitely graceful, refined and
harmonious picture," says Mi's. Fanny

* We give the anecdote as it was told by Mrs.
Siddons to Northeote, who relates it in hiti Life
of liujuolds, i. 24C.

458

SAEAH SIDDONS.

Kemble, " I liave never seen ; the deli-
cacy and sweetness, combined witli the
warmth and richness of the coloring,
make it a very peculiar picture." We
have the testimony also of Mrs. Jamie-
son to its fidelity. She saw Mi-s. Sid-
dons two years before her death seated
near the picture, and, looking from one
to the other, she says, " it was like her
still at the age of seventy." * An en-
graving after this painting accompanies
this sketch. The rising genius of Law-
rence, in his youth, had already been
displayed upon a sketch of Mrs. Sid-
dons at Bath, in hat and feathers, which
is said to have suggestedGainsborough's
picture, and which was the precursor of
the numerous fine drawings and paint-
ings of the Kemble family which the
pencil of the President of the Royal
Academy gave to the world. Mrs.
Siddons was also, at this early period
of her career, in the fulness of her
beauty, painted by Hamilton in the
character of Zara. There is a fine en-
graving by Caroline Watson, after a
painting by Charles Shirreff, taken in
1785, of Mrs. Siddons and Mr. Kemble
in the characters of Tancred and Sigis-
munda, with which Mrs. Siddons was
much pleased at the time, in one of her
letters to Dr. Whalley pronouncing it
'' charming." Two or three years before,
Cosway, a delightful painter of women,
produced an exquisite miniature of
her. Stothard, who considered her one
of the two most beautiful women he
had ever known, the other being Mrs.
Fitzherbert, somewhat later, made her
the subject of several of his graceful
theatrical drawinofs.

Turning from these tri])utes to the

* Fulcher's Life of Gainsborough, 130.

risinc: fame of the actress, to the record
of her career upon the stage, we find
her at the close of her first season in
London, in the summer of 1783, cross-
ing the channel to perform an engage-
ment in Dublin. She was accompanied
by Mr. Siddons and Brereton the actor,
whose young widow subsequently
became Mrs. John Kemble. The inci-
dents of her journey and of her first
arrival in the Irish capital are related
by her with much spirit in a letter to
her friend. Dr. Whalley. " We arrived
in Dublin," she writes, "the 16th of
June, half -past twelve at night. There
is not a tavern or a house of any kind
in this capital city of a rising kingdom,
as they call themselves, that will take
a woman in ; and do you know I Avas
obliged, after being shut up in the
custom-house oflicer's room, to have
the things examined, which room was
more like a dungeon than anything
else, — after staying here above an hour
and a half, I tell you I was obliged,
sick and weary as I was, to wander
about the streets on foot, for the coaches
and chairs were all gone off the stands,
till almost two o'clock in the morning,
raining too, as if heaven and earth
were coming together. A pretty be-
ginning ! thought I ; but these people
are a thousand years behind us in
every respect. At length, Mr. Brere-
ton, whose father had provided a bed
for him on his arrival, ventured to say
he would insist on havins; a bed for
us at the house where he was to sleep.
Well, we got to this place, and the
lady of the house vouchsafed, after
many times telling us that she never
took in ladies, to say we should sleep
there that night. I never was so weary

SARAH SIDDONS.

459

and so disgusted in my life." Nor was
she much ])etter pleased mth the Irish
people on this first hasty acquaintance ;
she thought them ostentatious and in-
sincere ; " in their ideas of fineiy very
like the French, but not so eleaulj^, and
tenacious of their country to a degree
of foll)^ that is very laughal )le." This,
however, is the expression of a familiar
letter. She was well received on the
stage, where her brother, John Kemble,
making his way upward from the pro-
vinces, was well established in po^iular
favor. Her short engagement brought
her a thousand pounds.

Her second season in London, com-
mencing in October, like the first,
opened with Isabella, the king and
queen, with several members of the
royal family honoring the occasion by
their presence. She acted her former
characters with the addition of two
Shakespearean performances, Isabella
in " Measure for Measure," and Lady
Constance in "King John." In the
former, she was the embodiment in her
lofty bearing of the noblest principle,
and in the latter of heroic action com-
bined -with the tenderest emotions.
The play was brought upon the stage
by request of the king, who wished to
see the brother and sister acting to-
gether ; for Kemble, led by the fame
of the Siddous, was now performing
with much eclat at Drury Lane. King
John became one of his accepted char-
acters, as Constance was peculiarly
suited to the genius of Mrs. Siddons.
As evidence of the realism with which
she entered into the part, throwing her
whole life for the time into it, a trait
of her acting which made it the really
great thing it was, we may cite a por-

tion of her remarks on the perform-
ance. " Whenev^er," she writes, " I was
called upon to personate the character
of Constance, I never, from the begin-
ning of the play to the end of my part
in it, once suffered my dressing-room
door to be closed, in order that my at-
tention might be constantly fixed on
those distressing events, which, Ijy this
means, I could plainly hear going on
upon the stage, the terrible effects of
which progress were to be represented
by me. Moreover, I never omitted to
place myself, with Arthur in my hand,
to hear the march, when, upon the
reconciliation of England and France,
they enter the gates of Angiers to rat-
ify the contract of marriage between
the Daujjhin and the Lady Blanche ;
because the sickening sounds of that
march would usually cause the bitter
tears of rage, disappointment, betrayed
confidence, baffled ambition, and, above
all, the agonizing feelings of maternal
affection, to gush into my eyes. In
short, the spii-it of the whole drama
took possession of my mind and frame,
by my attention being incessantly riv-
eted to the passing scenes." The entire
analysis of the character of Constance
in reference to its demands upon the
actress, from which this passage is
taken, shows the nicest discrimination
and most thorough appreciation of the
di-ama of Shakespeare. " I cannot con-
ceive," she says, " in the whole range
of dramatic character, a greater dilfi-
culty than that of representing this
grand creature. . . Her gorgeous
affliction, if such an expression is al-
lowable, is of so sublime and so intense
a character, that the personation of its
srrandeur, with the utterance of its

460

SARAH SIDDONS.

rapid and astonisliiug eloquence, almost
overwlielras the mind that meditates
its realization, and utterly exhausts the
frame which endeavors to express its
agitations."

At the end of her second season in
London, Mrs. Siddons, in May, 1784,
played an engagement of twelve nights
in Edinburgh, in which the heads of
some of the gravest folk of that grave
metropolis were fairly turned by her
exhibitions of pathos and distress in
Belvidera, Mrs. Beverly, Isabella and
the like soul-harassing parts. Dr.
Blair, Hume, Beattie, Mackenzie, the
author of " The Man of Feeling," were
among the appreciators of her genius,
with Home, who attended the theatre
to witness her performance in his tra-
gedy, " Douglas." The story is told of a
venerable and highly respectable gen-
tleman of the old town and old school,
who was drawn to the theatre for the
gratification of his daughter to see " Ve-
nice Preserved." He sat with perfect
composure through the first act and
into the second, when he asked his
daughter, "Which was the woman
Siddons ? " As there was but one fe-
male in the play, she had no difiiculty
in answering the question. Nothing
more occurred till the catastrophe,
when he was moved to the inquiry,
" Is this a comedy or a tragedy ? "
" Why, bless you, father, a tragedy."
" So I thought, for I am beginning to
feel a commotion," Even so with the
audiences at the bearinniuo;. The actress
was quite disheartened at the cold re-
ception of her most thrilling passages,
till after one desperate eiiort she paused
for a reply. It came at last, when t'.e
silence was broken by a single voice

exclaiming, " That's no bad ! " a home-
ly native tribute, which was the signal
for unbounded applause. The oppres-
sion of the heat was so great in the
crowded and ill-ventilated theatre, that
an illness Avhich spread through the
toAvn was humorously attributed to
this cause, and was called the Siddons
fever. In fact, the audiences were now
so moved that the passion for fainting
at her performances ran into a fashion-
able mania. There was a humorous
surofeon of much distinction then in
Edinburgh, familiarly called Sandy
Wood, who had a shrewd wit in prob-
ing the follies of his patients and the
town. He was withal, a great ad-
mirer of the acting of Mrs. Siddons.
One night, when he was at the theatre,
he was called from his snug post of
obsei'vation in the pit to attend upon
the hysterics of one of the fashionable
ladies who were falling around him.
On his way through the thronged
house, a friend said to him, alluding
to Mrs. Siddons, " This is glorious act-
ing, Sandy," to which Wood, looking
round at the fainting and screaming la-
dies in the boxes, answered, " Yes, and a
d — d deal o't too." The rage for seeing
her was so great, that one day there wert
more than twenty-five hundred appli-
cations for about six hundred places.
Campbell tells us how a poor servant-
girl, with a basket of greens on her
arm, one day stopped near her in the
High Street, and hearing her speak,
said, " Ah ! weel do I ken that sweet

voice, that

made me greet sae sair the

streen." The engagement produced
her, by share of the house, a benefit
and subscriptions, more than a thou-
sand pounds. The summer of the next

SAEAH SIDDONS.

461

year she repeated lier visit to Edin-
burtrli with like success. There is an
interesting memorial of her rej^resent-
ation of Lady Randolph in " Douglas,"
in one of the etchings of Kay, the bar-
ber caricaturist, who has left us such a
wonderful exhibition of the humors
of the old toAvn. The rejn-esentation
was witnessed by the author himself.
After her first engao^ement at Edin-
b)urgh, Mrs. Siddons proceeded on a
second visit to Dublin, where she was,
as before, greatly admired upon the
stage, and in private life received dis-
tinguished attentions fi'om the first
families, particularly from her early
Cheltenham friend, the Honorable Miss
Boyle, who had now become Lady
O'Neill, and was living in 2;reat mao:-
nificence at Shane's Castle, where there
ajipears to have been a constant round
of feasting and festivity. " The luxury
of this establishment," she writes, " al-
most insi^ired the recollections of an
Arabian Niarht's entertainment." Her
Isabella in the " Fatal Marriage," with
which she opened, was as great a suc-
cess as it had been in London. She
encountered, however, some difficulties
in the conceit of the manager, Daly,
who appears to have been mortified
at the indifferent impression his per-
sonal claims made upon her. His van-
ity was wounded in his being com-
pelled by the actress to stand aside on
the stage when she was acting Falcon-
iDridge in " King John," that Lady Con-
stance might secure one of the best ef-
fects in the play. While jirofiting by
the proceeds of the very successful en-
gagement, he was wounding the per-
former who was filling his pockets, by
encouraging the newspaj)ers in per-

sonal attacks upon her character. Her
life was always so pnre that there was
no room for scandal on the score of
morality ; but she was charged with
avarice in regard to other actors, and
with especial indiflFerence to the claims
of the superannuated Digges, an old
favorite in Dublin, for w^hom she was
expected to give a benefit-night. There
Avas some difilculty in making the ar-
rangement for this, and after it came off,
it was said that she exacted fifty pounds
out of the proceeds for her services.
The complaint was altogether false,
for she had taken nothing, but it filled
the newspapers and, aggravated by va-
rious petty misunderstandings and
much downright injustice, went before
her to Loudon.

On her re-appearance in the metrop-
olis at Drury Lan*^, in the autumn of
1784, in the " Gamester," with John
Kemble, she was received with a tem-
pest of hootings and hissings, which
utterly prevented her being heard.
Being led fi'om the stage by her broth-
er, she fainted in his arms. " After I
was tolerably restored to myself," she
says in her memoranda, "I was in-
duced, by the persuasions of my hus-
band, my brother and Mi". Sheridan, to
present myself again before that audi-
ence by whom I had been so savagely
treated, and before whom, but in con-
sideration of my children, I \\ould
have never appeared again." The play
was then suffered to proceed witliout
further interruption, all this brutality
being sini])ly an exhibition of idle and
unprovoked hostility. It was one of
the incidents of the okl British stage —
and the American tlieatre has had dis-
graceful examples of the same license

462

SARAH SIDDONS.

also — that the performers, however
worthy, were at the mercy of any small
party or clique who might choose to
insult them. During the remainder of
the season, Mrs. Siddons was received
with the utmost enthusiasm, adding to
her characters, Zara in Hill's tragedy
after Voltaire, Matilda in Cumber-
land's " Carmelite," and in February,
1785, appearing in Lady Macbeth. She
had acted the part frequently in her
early days in the provinces, and doubt-
less not without the impression of her
peculiar powers ; but it was now to as-
sume new proportions on a grander
scene, and become the one permanent,
lasting representation of her genius.
When we think now of Mrs. Siddons
on the stage, it is in the character of
Lady Macbeth that she first presents
herself. In grandeur, in pathos, in all
that inspires the imagination or touch-
es the feelings, it has never been sur-
passed. Happily, we have from her
own hand an elaborate analysis of the
character, entering fully into its finer
poetical and philosophical elements —
a rare thing to proceed from an actress
or any actor, for the profession is won-
derfully tied down to the business tra-
ditions and matter-of-fact notions of
the stage. It was the merit of Mrs.
Siddons that she lifted her conceptions
into the world of ideas, and in her
grand Shakespearean parts shed a su-
pernatural light upon the actual. She
regarded Lady Macbeth as a lofty im-
personation of ambition in its highest
and most sublimated form, allied in
its keenness and subtlety to the pure
spirit of evil in the ghostly creatures
whose breath is the very atmosphere
of the tragedy. Everything shrinks

and disappears in the presence of this
concentration of soul and intellect.
Pity for the time is suppressed till the
fatal act is accomplished. Then comes
remorse, and the soul of the spectator,
as it has been excited by teiTor, is to
be moved in its lowest depths by pity.
To relieve this picture of incarnated
evil, she fancied Lady Macbeth ex-
ceedingly beautiful, thus casting an
additional spell over the feeble mind
of her husband, and the beauty, in her
view, — and this was an original con
ception with her, — was of a very deli
cate feminine quality. Here, too, her
own loveliness and sensibility were re^
fleeted. Lady Macbeth was no mascu
line virago in her hands.

Such was Mrs. Siddons' conception
of the character of Lady Macbeth, pow-
erful alike in its strength and weak-
ness. With what spirit she entered
into it on the stage, the testimony of
her contemporaries bears abundant wit-
ness. How she approached it may be
gathered from the imjjression made
ujion her by her first study of the j^art
in early life for some provincial theatre.
" It was my custom," she says, " to study
my character at night, when all the do-
mestic cares and business of the day
were over. On the night preceding
that in which I was to ajipear in this
part for the first time, I shut myself
up, as usual, when all the family were
retired, and commenced my study of
Lady Macbeth. As the character is
very short, I thought I should soon
accomplish it. Being then only twenty
years of age, I believed, as many others
do believe, that little more was neces-
sary than to get the words into my
head ; for the necessity of discrimina-

SAKAH SIDDONS.

4C3

tion and the development of character,
at that time of my life, had scarcely-
entered into my imagination. But, to
proceed. I went on with tolerable
composure, in the silence of the night,
a night I never can forget, till I came
to the assassination scene, when the
horrors of the scene rose to a degree
that made it impossible for me to get
further. I snatched up my candle and
hm-ried out of the room in a paroxysm
of terror. My dress was of silk, and
the rustling of it, as I ascended the
stairs to go to bed, seemed to my panic-
struck fancy like the movement of a
spectre pursuing me. At last I reached
my chamber, Avhere I found my hus-
band fast asleep. I clapt my candle-
stick down upon the table, without
the power of putting the candle out ;
and I threw myself on mj bed, with-
out daring to stay even to take off my
clothes." Sir Joshua Reynolds took a
particular interest in her performance
of the character. He was present at
his seat in the orchestra, privileged
to sit there on account of his deaf-
ness, at the first representation in
London, and devised the dress worn
by the actress in the sleej)-walking
scene.*

Mrs. Siddons' Lady Macbeth was
shoi'tly followed by her appearance in
Desderaona, which she acted with great
feelins^ and tenderness. " You have no
idea," slie writes to Dr. Whalley, " how
the innocence and pLayful simplicity
of the character have laid hold on the
hearts of people. I am very nuich
flattered by tliis, as nol)ody has ever
done anything with it before." This

* Boaden's Life of Kemble, i. ch. 10. Leslie

& Taylor's lloyiiolds, i. 3S1.

was succeeded by the still gentler part
of Rosalind in " As You Like It." Miss
Seward, ever a diligent attendant iipon
her performances in her Ansits to Lon-
don, wi'ites to Dr. Whalley, in her some-
what affected way, " It was not given
me to taste the luxury of Siddonian
sorrow, but I saw the glorious creature
in Rosalind. In spite of the disadvan-
tage of a very vilely chosen dress, I en-
tirely agree with you, against the cla-
mor of the multitude, that her smiles
are as fascinating as her frowns are
magnificent, as her tears are irresisti-
ble." Miss Burney, who Avitnessed her
acting in this part at a later occasion,
says, " She looked beautifully, but too
large for that shepherd's dress; and
her gayety sits not naturally upon her
— it seems more like disixuised sravitv.
I must own my admiration for her is
confined to her tragic powers; and
there it is raised so high that I feel
mortified, in a degree, to see her so
much fainter attempts and success in
comedy." Yet, even after her reputa-
tion was paramount and fully estab-
lished in her great tragic i:)arts, she
was often called upon to apj^ear in
comedy, in such parts as Mrs. Love-
more in the " Way to Keej) Him,"
Lady Restless in " All in the Wrong,"
Mrs. Oakley in "The Jealous Wife,"
and what not. Where the characters
of genteel comedy touched upon the
pathetic or bordered upon tragedy as
in Lady Townley, she was of course in
her element. Her letters show that
she had a ready sense of humor and no
contemptible faculty of giving it ex-
pression in writing; but her best op-
portunities were unquestionably in tra-
gedy.

The revival of " Heniy VIII.," after
an absence from the stage of half a
centurj', by John Kemble at Drury
Lane in 1788, afforded Mrs. Siddons
the oppoi-tnnity which Dr. Johnson
had so eatjerly desired of making her
appearance in Queen Katharme, which
thenceforth became one of lier leading
impersonations. It fairly ranks with
Lady Macbeth in her line of Shake-
spearean characters. It was grand and
elevated throughout in all its quick
transitions of emotion from withering
scorn and rel)uke to sorrow and suf-
fering. Every gradation of passion
was marked with an artist's touch and
those imjiulses of natural feeling which
suoofested an almost absolute ideutifi-
cation with the royal victim. One of
her most striking attitudes is preserved
in the famous Kemble picture by Har-
low, of the trial scene, as it was repre-
sented at a later period at Covent Gar-
den. The picture was a study from
the life, the artist, by the advice of
Sir Thomas Lawrence, taking his posi-
tion in the front row of the pit for
several nights of the performance, that
he might study the expression of the
countenance in action. John Kemble
aj^pears in this as Cardinal Wolsey;
Charles Kemble is seated as secretary
at the council-table.

It is surprising, as in the case of
Garrick, how much of her time was
wasted upon inferior original plays.
There seemed to be in her day a kind
of recognized necessity that everybody
who put pen to paj^er should produce
a tragedy for the stage ; and Mrs. Sid-
dons, as a favorite in society as well as
with the public, was marked out for its
performance. There were at various sea-

sons, among others. Prince Hoare, vsdth
his forgotten, "Julia, or Such Things
Were," which even Mrs. Siddons could
kee]) hardly a week upon the stage ; Vi-
tellia in Jephson's " Conspii'acy," acted
to an empty house on the second night ;
Poet Laureate Pye's dismal "Ade-
laide ; " Miss Burney's unfortunate
"Ed^vy and Elgiva," which expired
on its first performance amidst roars
of laughter; even good Dr. Whalley
must brine: his friend to recite his
hopeless verse in " The Castle of Mont-
val," the plot of which was unfortu-
nately anticipated by the " Castle
Spectre," — so that went out after a
few nights as a twice-told tale, though
Miss Seward wrote to cono-ratulate the
author on its success, having heard
from numbers of her acquaintance that
it was " charming." In one instance,
at least, as may be read in the " Whal-
ley Correspondence," with admiration
of her keen appreciation of the rigor-
ous requirements of the drama, Mrs. Sid-
dons made a determined stand, — in
reference to the production ot a play
by a younger member of the Greathead
family, among whom she had, as will
be remembered, been domesticated at
the outset of her career as a lady's-
maid, and from whom she had since
received various hosj^italities and at-
tentions. In another instance, also
her good judgment befriended her.
She was cast to appear in Ireland's pre-
tended Shakespeare tragedy "Vorti-
gern," and was actually engaged in
studying a part ; but, at her j)articular
request, she was excused and escaped
the mortification suffered by her broth-
ers who appeared in the play. When
Master Betty held possession of tho

SARAH SIDDONS.

465

town, she quietly stood aside and let
that foolish mania run its day, con-
tenting herself with the remark to an
English nobleman who praised his act-
ing, "My lord, he is a very clever,
pretty boy, but nothing more."

The remaining career on the stage
of Mrs. Siddons was varied by the vi-
cissitudes common to the profession,
the fortunes of Drury Lane manage-
ment under the direction of Sheridan,
and the annoyances attending the open-
ing of the new Covent Garden Theatre
during the disgraceful O. P. riots. In
private life she was more than ever an
object of attention and interest, passing
her summer holidays at the country
seats of her distinguished friends,
when she was not called by new en-
gagements to Edinburgh or Dublin.
At times she suffered from ill-health,
and family losses preyed upon her.
She suffered much from the loss of a
daughter, and a few j^ears later, in
1808, her husband died at Bath. She
had acquired an independent property
by her exertions on the stage, and,
tliough still holding her old supremacy
in her familiar round of characters, be-
gan to think seriously of retirement. At
the close of the season in 1812, on the
29th of June, she took a farewell leave
of the stage at Covent Garden in Lady
Macbeth. This, however, was not her
last appearance on the stage. The fol-
lowing season she gave readings from
Milton and Shakespeare in puldic in
London, which were much admired.
She also read by special invitation be-
fore the royal family at Frogmore, and
private parties of the university folk
at Oxford and Cambridge. She per-

formed in 1813, three times; for the
Covent Garden Theatrical Fund, at
Charles Kemble's benefit, and at Drury
Lane for the fund of the theatre. In
1814, when France was again open to
British travellers, she visited Paris.
The following year, she was called to
mourn the loss of her son Henry, who
died at the age of forty, while man-
ager of the Edinburgh theatre. This
event brought her to the stage again.
She acted ten nights at Edinlnirgh the
same year for the benefit of the family.
In 1816, she acted for a few nights in
London, at the command of the Prin-
cess Charlotte. Her last performance
was in June, 1819, in Lady Kandolph,
for the benefit of Charles Kemble. In
1821, she travelled to Switzerland to
visit her brother, John Philip Kem-
ble, who had retired broken in health
to end his days at Lausanne. Her
later years were passed in quiet retire-
ment. In 1829, she witnessed the suc-
cessful first apjiearance of her niece,
Fanny Kemble, and was affected by it
to tears. That nia-ht at Covent Gar-
den must have brouc^ht before her the
whole of her own theatrical career.
She did not long survive. She had
been for several yeai'S subject to at-
tacks of erysipelas. At the last the
malady increased in force ; a fever set
in, and on the 8th of June, IS.'U, at
the age of seventy-six, she expired at
her residence in London. Her remains
were interred in the church burial-
ground at Paddington. A statue of
her, by Chautrey, the gift of the emi-
nent tragedian, Macready, stands by
the side of her brother's monument in
Westminster Abbey.

ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT.

FREDERIC HENRY ALEXAN-
DER VON HUMBOLDT was

born at Berlin, tlie capital of Prussia,
on the 14tli of September, 1769. His
father, the baron Alexander George von
Humboldt, a man of property and in-
fluence in the country, having been in
the service of Frederic the Great in tlie
Seven Years' War, and subseqiiently at
the court of that monarch, married the
widow of Baron von Holwede, a lady
of French descent, her family of Colomb
having emigrated from Burgundy to
take up their residence in Germany, in
consequence of the revocation of the
Edict of Nantes. The Baron Alexander
von Humboldt had consequently Hu-
guenot blood in his veins. He was the
second of two sons, his elder brother
William, the celebrated philologist,
having been born in Potsdam, before his
father's removal to Berlin, in 1767. The
youth of the two boys was passed at the
old castle of Tegel, a romantic residence
occupied by their parents, situated in
the vicinity of Berlin in a beautiful
neighborhood of varied natural scenery,
a former royal hunting establishment
of Frederic the Great. Here the early
education of the brothers was entirely
conducted by tutors, of whom there is

(466)

always a good supply in Germany,
men of learning and character, with
those peculiar qualities which fit them
to influence the youthful mind. Major
von Humboldt, the father, found sucli
a one in Campe, a field chaplain of a
regiment at Potsdam, whom he took
into his house as the instructor of his
sons. The choice was well made, for
Campe developed faculties which raised
him to a high rank in the critical lite-
rature of Germany ; and not only ex-
ercised a powerful influence over his
pupils in their childhood, but became
in their maturer years theii' friend and
intimate during his life. He was a
man impressed with the new ideas of
the time encouraged by the writings
of Rousseau on the subject of educa-
tion, making it not a matter of slavish
routine, but a living principle of use-
ful, active inquiry. " He had plainly
seen," whites Humboldt's biographer,
Klencke, " that the mode of education
and tuition till then adopted in fami-
lies and institutions, only tended to
develop the memory, not the mind of
the student ; he opposed from the first
the mechanical training of youth, and
endeavored to develop the susceptibil-
ity of the youthful mind and spirit by

y^<^u^o/JZ-r

ALEXANDEH VOX HUMBOLDT.

467

a perception of the world, of foreign
nations, men and manners. Could not
then, this man, who edited Eobinson
Crusoe, and enriched the juvenile li-
brary with imaginative delineations of
bold voyages, could he not, as Hum-
boldt's first teacher, have influenced
the imagination and the reason of his
pupils, and laid the foundation in Al-
exander for his love for exploratory
voyages in distant regions ? "

This teacher was, however, but a
year in the old castle when he was
called away for more public employ-
ment in the work of education. As
Alexander v/as but seven years old
when he left, his influence must have
been limited; but it was something
even then to avoid depressing condi-
tions, and be put upon the right road to
learning. Campe .was soon succeeded
by another tutor, a young man named
Christian Kuuth, so poor that he had
to discontinue his academical studies
for lack of means, yet possessed of an
extraordinary knowledge of German,
Latin and French literatui'e, acquisi-
tions which, to the credit of the coun-
try, gave him a good position in the
best German society, where Major von
Humboldt became acquainted with
him. Kuuth had a genius and disposi-
tion for universality of knowledge, and
endeavored, we are told, to make every-
tliini: within his reach at Berlin avail-
able and useful for the development
of his pupils, while he avoided any-
thing like shallow pretensions to learn-
ing. From the wide field before them
his scholars were thus enabled to se-
lect from the mass of human knowledge
what was best adapted to tlieir jk^w-
ei's and dispositions. Consequently,

while William pursued with avidity
the more subjective studies of philoso-
phy and especially of language, Alex-
ander followed his inclination in the
pursuit of the natural sciences. The
death of their father, in 1779, left the
boys, under the direction of their
mother, more particularly to the care
of this instructor, who soon had an im-
portant assistant in a now constant
visitor to the household, the family
physician. Dr. Heim, who, being expe-
rienced in botany, taught that science
to the brothers according to the new
principles of Linnjeus. It is said that
in these lessons he was much more im-
pressed with the capacity of William
than of Alexander, who, indeed, at one
time was considered by mother and
tutor, " not at all fitted for study."

When Alexander was about four-
teen, the brothers, the better to pursue
their education, took up their residence
at Berlin. At this time and later, Al-
exander was delicate in health, which
has been attributed to his earnest ef-
forts to keep pace with his hardier and
more advanced brother in his intel-
lectual acquirements. Other teachers
were now employed in assistance of
Kunth, eminent instructors in Greek,
philosophy, law and political economy,
who carried the pupils through jjrivate
courses of lectures. Their social ad-
vantages in Berlin, from the standing
of the family, doubtless also greatly
aided their mental development. Some
years earlier than tlie j)eriod of which
we are now speaking, in the lifetime
of their father, Goethe had visited the
castle of Tegel and seen the two boy«,
the associates in his studies of after
life. Being now fully prepared for an

408

ALEX AN DEE VON HUMBOLDT.

academical career, the brothers, in 1786,
entered together the University of
Frankfurt-ou-the-Oder, where, while
■William devoted himself to the study
of law, Alexander chose that of politi-
cal economy as more accordant with
his tastes. They were still under the
guardianship of the faithful Kunth,
who resided with them in the house of
Professor Loffler, who had given them
lessons in Greek at Berlin. Apart
from their special separate studies, the
youths pursued together those of phi-
losophy, philology and natural history,
in which Alexander was becoming a
proficient. Removing after two years
to the University of Gottingen, he was
still further encouraged in his favorite
studies by the lectures of three of its
most distinguished professors, Blumen-
bach in natiiral science, Heyne in archae-
ology, and Eichorn in history. " Archae-
ology and history were the domains of
learning," says Klencke, " on which the
two brothers worked in common ; the
classical antiquity, with its philologic
and artistic studies, attracted both ; his-
tory, in its philosophic view, interested
William, and served Alexander to col-
lect the materials for cosmography and
ethnology. While William made him-
self more intimate with classic litera-
ture and the writings of -the philoso-
pher Kant, Alexander gave himself up
to the instruction and personal influ-
ences of Blumenbach, but both broth-
ers found a common point of union in
the congenial intercourse with Pro-
fessor Heyne, who soon esteemed the
young men highly, and exercised a
great influence on their future stu-
dies."

Another influence, of a somewhat

different nature, destined to mould the
life of Alexander, was exerted in the
acquaintance of the brothers at this
time with George Forster, the son-in-
law of Heyne, who had accompanied
the celebrated navigator. Captain Cook,
round the world in the capacity of
naturalist. Forster was a man of en-
thusiasm, not only in his peculiar pro-
vince of study, but in his views of life
and society, travelling having develop-
ed a cosmopolitan feeling and indomit-
able love of freedom which were readily
imbibed by his willing listener, Alex-
ander von Humboldt. After the com-
pletion of his course at the university
in 1789, he kept up a constant corres-
pondence with Forster on scientific
topics, and in the following year we
find him making a journey with that
naturalist as a copipanion through
Holland and England. As a result of
this journey, Avhile Forster prepared
his work, "The Views of the Lower
Rhine," Humboldt published his first
work as a naturalist, entitled " Mine-
ralogical Considerations on Certain
Basaltic Formations on the Rhine,"
which was issued at Brunswick in
1790. The brothers were now both
looking forward to ofiicial employment
under government. William was al-
ready on the track as councilor of le-
gation and assessor to the Court of
Berlin, and Alexander, having had his
attention turned in that direction on
his journey with Forster, was now
qualifying himself for employment in
the mining opei-ations of the country.
For this purpose he went for a short
time to a commercial academy at Ham-
burgh to familiarize himself with ac-
counts, and also occupied himself with

ALEXANDEE VON HUMBOLDT.

469

mineralogy and botany. After tills,
m tlie sp/ing of 1791, lie entered the
mining academy at Freiberg as a stu-
dent, where he devoted a year to its
sj^ecial sciences. In 1792, he was ap-
pointed assessor to the mining and
smelting department of Berlin, and was
the same year removed to Bayreuth as
superintendent of mines in the newly
acquired Franconian districts — a situ-
ation under the Prussian government.
Here he remained two years, employ-
ing himself with various experiments
on the physical and chemical laws of
metallurgy and supporting the Nep-
tunian theories of Werner, his professor
at the Freiberg academy. He contrib-
uted treatises on these subjects to sev-
eral German and French scientific peri-
odicals, and in 1793, published a sepa-
rate botanical work, the result of his
personal observations, entitled " Speci-
men of the Flora of Freiberg, exhibit-
ing the Cryptogamic and especially
the SubteiTanean Plants of the district,
to which are added Aphorisms on the
Chemical Physiology of Plants." The
following year he accompanied the
provincial minister. Von Hardeuburgh,
to the Rhine, and presently availed
himself of other opportunities of travel
growing out of his calling, journeying
through the Alp districts and Silesia,
and visiting the province of Prussia
and Poland. These were but prepa-
rations for his futui'e extended travels.
In 1 795, he resigned his office of master
of the mines and went to Vienna, where
he employed himself in botany and
other natural sciences, planned a jour-
ney into Switzerland and visited North-
ern Italy, his inteiition at this time of
exploring the volcanic regions about

Naples being checked l)y the '^vai' in
progress. The death of his mother now
recalled him to his brother, with Avhom
he passed some months at Jena in the
beginning of 1797, following up the
newly-developed study of galvanism,
associating with Goethe and Schiller,
and meditating and planning a journey
to the West Indies. The result of his
experiments in galvanism was this year
given to the public in a treatise enti-
tled "Investigations on the Muscles
and Nerve-Fibres, vnth Conjectures on
the Chemical Process of Life in the
Animal and Vegetable World."

The passion for travel, strengthened
by his studies, was now finnly implant-
ed in his nature. It was almost born
with him. "From my earliest youth,
he writes, "I felt an ardent desire
to travel into distant regions, seldom
visited by Euroj^eans. This desire is
characteristic of a period of our exist-
ence when life appears an unlimited
horizon, and when we find an ii-resist-
ible attraction in the impetuous agi-
tations of the mind, and the image of
positive danger." His brother, sharing
with him these feelings, journeys were
projected by them in Italy and else-
where, which were thwarted by the
military operations of the time. In
the spring of 1798, they were together
in Paris, where Alexander was forming
an engagement for an extended tour
in Egypt, with the design of ascending
the Nile to Assouan, and afterwards
travellinsr throusrh Svria and Palestine.
This, too, had to be al)andoned in con
sequence of the political aspects of the
period ; but the new world seemed to
hold out an uninterrupted prospect.
An exploration for discovery in tlie

470

ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT.

Southern hemisphere was at that time
projected hj the French government,
and apparently on the point of being
realized. The plan was to visit the
Spanish possessions of South America,
from the mouth of the river Plata to
Quito and the isthmus of Panama. The
voyage was to extend to the archi-
pelago of the Pacific and return by the
Cape of Good Hope. Humboldt ob-
tained permission to join in this sur-
vey, which was to have the services of
the naturalists, Michaux and Bon-
pland. But here again the war inter-
fered. The funds to be diverted to
this purpose were needed by Napoleon
for new military operations, and the
voyage of exploration was abandoned.
Disaj)pointed in this, but determined
at all hazards to carry out the plans
of his life, he formed an engagement
with Bonpland to visit an unexplored
portion of the Mediterranean coast of
Africa, and thence extend the jour-
ney to EgyjDt. They were, by an ar-
ransement with a Swedish consul, to
embark at Marseilles on a national
vessel of that government, appointed
to carry presents to the Dey of Algiers ;
but delays interposed ; the barbarous
hostilities of the authorities at Tunis
were reported as alarming, and a visit
to Spain was meanwhile undertaken in
place of the projected voyage, still with
a view to wider plans of travel. The
hospitable reception which the travel-
lers experienced at Madrid might well
have induced them to prolong their
stay in that country ; but they had
other objects before them. Possessed
of sufficient wealth for the purpose,
Humboldt resolved on his own ac-
count to ^isit the interior of South

America. His plans were presented
to the court, and every facility was
granted him towards carrying out hia
intentions. At length he was to start
on his grand voyage ; but it was im-
peded to the last, — for, on his arrival
at Corunna, the port of embarkation, he
found it blockaded by English cruis-
ers, cutting off the communication be-
tween Spain and her colonies. Watch-
ing, however, an opportunity, the cor-
vette "Pizarro," which was to carry them
to Havana and Mexico, was enalded to
set sail on the 4th of June, 1799, an
important date in the life of our travel-
lers, for it was the commencement of
the realization of his long cherished
schemes. The details of the voyage, as
related by himself, are of the highest
interest, not more for their constant ex-
hibition of sea phenomena new to the
travellers, but for the simple and earn-
est spirit which gives life to the narra-
tive. Without obtrusion of himself,
the generous personality of the writer
is ever present to the reader through-
out his books. His powers of observa-
tion, of the finest order, are always
actively displayed, and an informing
mind is constantly at work in giving
to the minutest facts and circumstances
the interest of method, order and gen-
ralization.

The personal narrative of Humboldt
is carried on with the highest gusto,
every paragraph supplying some clear-
ly defined pictiu-e of nature enlivened
by comparison, or the reflections of the
traveller who has probably never been
surpassed in this field of literature.
Thoroughly furnished by his previous
studies with the means of observation,
his perceptive faculties are alive to

ALEXANDEE YON HUMBOLDT.

471

every incideut in the landscape, the
grand or the minute ; while a sympa-
thy with the men of every clime in
their moral and political relations,
gives that impress to their regions of
abode, which can be derived only from
a human interest. His observations
of the island of Teneriffe, with his ac-
count of an ascent of its celebrated
Peak, are instinct witli the best spirit
of philosophic research, as the sensitive
traveller walks hand in hand with
nature. It is by tliis union of the par-
ticular with the general, that Hum-
boldt secured at the beginning, and
spite of the increase of knowledge on
various subjects which he treated, has
since maintained, his interest as a trav-
eller. Taking this single object alone,
the Peak of Teneriffe, the reader may
form no inadequate idea of the range
of his attainments, and the acuteness
of his perceptions, as he pursues with
him the geological and other inquiries
relating to vegetation and other phe-
nomena brought into view, with the
speculations arising from them on a
survey of the region. But this feeling
of admiration will be much enhanced
with the continuance of the journey,
in the examination of the wonders of
a country where a thousand additional
objects are added to the prosj^ect.

The voyage from the Canary Islands
to the northern coast of South America
was rapidly made by the " Pizarro."
Twenty days brought the voyagers on
their path of beauty through the gen-
tle equatorial region to their destined
kaven of Cumana. On the way, our
travellers, delighted with the mildness
of the climate, were carefully obscn'vant
of winds and currents, the weeds float-

ing on the sea, the flying-fish sporting
in the air, and the stars of another sky
above them. Humboldt, indeed, with
an ardent love of astronomical studies,
never neglects the heavenly ajjpear-
ances in his landscape. On the 4th of
July, he particularly records that he
saw for the first time, the great con-
stellation of the Southern Cross, the
appearance and associations with
which he describes with effect.

When Humboldt and his friend Bon-
pland reached Cumana on the 16th of
July, 1799, they had before them, in
South America, literally a new world
for scientific observation and discovery,
the fertility of which, in its natural
phenomena, has, as the century wears
to its termination, not yet been exhaust-
ed by the careful student. It was
then a virgin soil. As the arts which
Humboldt brought, with their appa-
ratus and processes, were, during his
whole jourueyings, a constant wonder
to the inhabitants ; so he also found in-
exhaustible opportunities for discovery
in their employment. The day on
which he lauded among these marvels
of nature, was to him a memorable
one. Henceforth, for five years the
travellers were constantly employed in
explorations of the western continent,
travelling its great water courses, plains
and mountain regions. Commenciuir
mth a laborious survey of the country
watered by the Orinoco and its tribu-
tary streams, in which they were seven-
ty-five days exposed to the burning sun
of the equator in a small boat, they
passed fi"om Venezuela towards the
close of the year to the island of Cuba,
where several months were spent in
the study of its soil, climate, mode of

i72

ALEXANDEE VOX nUMBOLDT.

government and society, and its pecu-
liar institution of slavery. Returning
to the South American continent in
March, they sailed up the Magdalena
river, in New Granada, as far as Honda,
in the interior, whence they proceeded
on mules to the capital, Santa Fe de
Bogota. After they had completed
their observations of this locality and
its ffrand natural features of mountain
scenery, they crossed the Andes to Po-
payan on the Pacific, and thence ex-
tended their journey to Quito, where
they an-ived early in January, 1802.
Lima, in Peru, was then visited, the va-
rious journeyings in these regions in-
volving the crossinsf of the chain of
the Andes five times, under circum-
stances of various hardship and ad-
venture. From Callao, at the begin-
ning of 1803, they sailed in a Spanish
frigate, by way of Guayaquil, for Aca-
pulco, on the Mexican coast, where they
landed in March. About a year was
given to experiments and observations
in the various districts of Mexico, par-
ticularly in relation to its mineral re-
sources, including a residence at the
cajiital, when the travellers sailed fi'om
Vera Cruz for the United States, ar-
riving at Philadelphia in April, 1804.
At Washington, Humboldt made the
acquaintance of Jefferson, and during
his two months' stay in the country,
was diligently employed in the study
of its political and social conditions.
In the month of August, he landed in
Europe at Bordeaux.

He had now to methodize and ar-
range the vast accumulation of obser-
vations on well-nigh every department
of scientific investigation which he had
made in the New World, including ge-

ography, geology, climatology, meteor-
ology, botany, zoology, as well as his
deductions and speculations relating to
the inhabitants of the coiintry he had
visited in archaeology, ethnology and
their existing forms of civilization.
This work was mainly performed at
Paris, where Humboldt was engaged
in its prosecution, more or less, for the
next twenty years, encouraged and as-
sisted at the beginning by the most
eminent and scientific men of France,
as Cuvier, Gay-Lussac, Arago and
others. The following is an enumera-
tion of his successive publications,
growing out of his travels, given in
the " English Cyclopaedia." Under the
general title of " Travels of Humboldt
and Bonpland in the Interior of Amer-
ica in the years 1799-1804," a succes-
sion of six or seven works of large di-
mensions, with illustrative plates and
atlases, was issued between 1807 and
1817, each work being devoted to ob-
servations in a particular department ;
and even then, leaving the total mass
of results unexhausted. The first part
of the general work published in 1807,
was by Humboldt himself, and was
on the geography and distribution of
plants in the equinoctial regions ; the
second, by Humboldt and Bonpland
jointly, was on the zoology and com-
parative anatomy of the expedition ;
the third, by Humboldt, was a politi-
cal essay on the Kingdom of New
Spain, in two quarto volumes ; the
fourth, edited by Oltmanns, contained
a digest of observations in astronomy
and magnetism ; and the fifth, forming
a huge work by itself, was specially
botanical, and was entitled " Equinoc-
tial Plants gathered from Mexico, in

ALEXAIs^DEK VON HUMBOLDT.

473

the island of Cuba, in the provinces
of Caraccas, Cumana and Barcelona;
from the Andes of New Granada-
Quito and Peru, and on the borders
of the Rio Negro, Orinoco and the
Amazon rivers." All these instal-
ments of the main work appeared
originally in Paris; where also ap-
peai'ed, in six volumes folio (1815-
1818), a separate work in Latin by
C. S. Kuntli, " On the new Genera and
Orders of Plants collected in their Ex-
ploration of the New "World, by Aime
Bonpland and Alexander von Hum-
boldt, and by them described and
partly sketched." Works also ap-
peared in Germany and England, giv-
ing, in a more popular form, the results
of the great American Exploration ; the
most notable of which in England
were " Researches concei'ning the In-
habitants of America, with descriptions
and views of Scenes in the Cordil-
leras," and " Personal Narrative of
Travels in the Equinoctial Regions of
the New Continent during the years
1799-1804, by Alexander Von Hum-
boldt and Aime Bonj^land," both
translated and edited by Helen Maria
Williams. It was not till about the
year 1817 (if we except an "Inquiry
concerning Electrical Fishes," jiub-
lished in Erfurt in 1806), that Hum-
boklt had leisure for works not imme-
diately growing out of his American
travels. In that year he published a
general essay entitled "Prolegomena
concerning the geographical distribu-
tion of Plants according to the tem-
j)erature of the atmosphere and the
height of mountains."

The style in which Humboldt's Am-
erican works were issued, and the luxu-
60

ry of the printing and illustrations, may
be estimated from the account of their
cost, given by Klencke. In 1844, in
which this gigantic work was still in-
complete, the cost of a copy of the
folio edition was twenty-seven hun-
dred dollars. This is twice the cost
of the celebrated French national
work, " Description de I'Egypte,'
toward the preparation of which the
government of that country advanced
about one-eighth of a million of j)ouuds
sterling. A simple calculation will
show how great must have been the
expense of the whole work; but it
will become more evident when we
state that the printing, paper and cop.
per-plates alone, have cost more than
226,000 dollars.

In addition to the books thus enu-
merated, which were for the most part
in the French language, Humboldt was
the author of another work written in
his native German, drawn from his
American experiences " in the presence
of the noblest objects of nature, on
the ocean, in the forests of the Orinoco,
in the savannahs of Venezuela, and in
the solitudes of the Peruvian and
Mexican mountains." It is imjwr-
tant also as the germ out of which
many years after, sj^rang his compre-
hensive " Cosmos. " This was his
" Views of Nature ; or, Contemj)la-
tions on the Sublime PhenomtMia of
Creation ; with Scientific Illustrat ions,"
as the title is given in the translation
published in English, in bSoO, by
Messrs. Otte and Bohn. The t)riginal
work was written, or at least com-
menced, in Berlin, in 1807, when he
passed a year or so in that city, taken
out of his long Pai'isian residence ;

474

ALEXANDEE YON HUMBOLDT.

and was puWished in 1808 when he
had returned to the French capital.

Alexander von Humboldt, on his
return from America to Europe, found
his brother, who had earned a high re-
putation by his critical abilities, occu-
pying the post of resident Minister at
the court of Rome. Thither Alexan-
der proceeded in the Spring of 1805,
and passed some time with William,
whom he found surrounded by the
best society in the capital, Madame De
Stael, A. W. Schlegel, Sismondi, and
others. In the summer he proceeded,
with his friends Von Buch and Gay
Lussac, who had come to Italy for the
purpose, to visit Mount Vesuvius, which
was then in a state of eruption. Re-
turning to Germany, he left William
at Rome as ambassador, where the lat-
ter received the " Views of Nature,"
which was dedicated to him. After
this, William was employed at Berlin
in the home ministry, and subsequent-
ly in various diplomatic situations
abroad, at Vienna, where he was visited
by Alexander, and elsewhere. In 1818
he was Prussian Ambassador in Lon-
don, where he was again visited by
Alexander. When the latter left
France to reside for a time in Berlin,
in 1818, the brothers were together in
that city ; but Paris, with its scientific
oi^portunities, and the necessities of his
great publication, again withdrew Alex-
ander to that city, and it was not till
1827 that, at the express desire of the
King of Prussia, he established him-
self in Berlin. Henceforth it was his
home, and, with the exception of his
journey to Central Asia, he was never
long away from it.

This scientific expedition, for which

he was long preparing, had been great
ly favored by the King of Prussia, and
was finally entered uj)on at the express
request of the Emperor of Russia,
through whose countries it was to pass.
After some delays it was commenced
in the Spring of 1829. The Emperor
undertook the expense of the whole ;
and to give dignity to the position of
Humboldt, the King of Prussia, before
his departure, conferred upon him the
official position of acting privy coun-
cillor, with the title of " Excellency."
He was accompanied to Russia by two
naturalists, his associates at Berlin,
Rose and Ehrenberg, v/ho went with
him as scientific partners in the ex-
pedition. In the distribution of their
several labors, the observations on mag
netism, the results of geographical as-
tronomy, and the general preparation
of the geognostic and physical plan of
North-western Asia, were undertakefi
by Humboldt ; the chemical analysis
of mineralogy and the keeping of the
travelling diary fell to Rose ; and the
botanical and zoological departments
were assigned to Ehrenberg. Leaving
Petersburg towards the end of May
the party proceeded to Moscow, and
thence to the Wolga, visiting Kasan
and inspecting the ancient Tartar ruins
of BuVar. Resting for several weeks
at Jekatharinenburg, on the Asiatic
side of the Ural, important observa-
tions were made of the formation of
that mountain chain with its exten-
sive mineral resources. The journey
was thence continued to Tobolsk, and
easterly to Tomsk Barnaul, and the
range of the Altai and the border of
China. Returning thence, the expedi-
tion was extended to the Caspian Sea,

ALEXAJn)EE VOIS HUMBOLDT.

475

whicli was reached in the middle of
October. New and valuable researches
and experiments were here made, after
which the travelers, traversing the ter-
ritory of the Don Cossacks, returned
by way of Moscow to St. Peters-
burgh, which they reached in the mid-
dle of November, and, at the close of the
year, Humboldt was again at his home
in Berlin, having in the course of eight
months and a half, performed a journey
of twenty-five hundred miles. As, in
the case of his American explorations,
it was some time before the results of
these new observations could be given
to the world. Humboldt's portion,
entitled, " Fraojments of Asiatic Geol-
ogy and Climatology," appeared in
Paris, in two volumes, in 1S31. This
was afterwards supplemented by his
work on " Central Asia," its mountains
and climates, published in 1843. These
works are purely of a scientific charac-
ter.

Of Humboldt's subsequent works,
the chief, in addition to many contri-
butions to scientific Journals, are his
" Critical Examination of the History
of the Geography of the New World,
and of the Progress of Astrology in the
Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries,"
published in Paris from 1836 to 1839,
and, the crowning labor of his long
life, his " Cosmos : a Sketch of a Phys-
ical Description of the Universe," the
first volume of which appeared in 1845^
and the fifth and last was finished on
his eighty-ninth birth-day, in 1858.
The work generally comprises a sketch
of all that is at present known of
the physical phenomena of the uni-

verse ; a distinct portion of it treats of
the incitements to the study of nature,
afforded in descriptive poetry, land-
scape painting, and the cultivation of
plants, while another is given to the
consideration of the difi*erent epochs in
the progress of discovery and of the
corresponding stages of advance in hu-
man civilization. Separate volumes
are also given to astronomy and the
phenomena of earthquakes, etc., in their
varied relations.

In his later years, Humboldt was
closely attached to the Court at Ber-
lin, and was frequently employed in
matters of State and Diplomacy. But
he allowed himself few indulgences
on the score of age or station, and
never abandoned his love and pursuit of
science. The details of his systematic
intellectual employment in his later
years are something marvellous.

At length, on the 6th of May, 1859,
the long career was brought to an end.
Alexander Von Humboldt expired on
that day, in his ninetieth year, ripe in
the fullness of his fame, and in the af-
fections of the civilized world. Never
has a man of science been more greatly
honored at his death. His labors had
taken the world in their embrace, and
wherever a star shone, or a tide rolled,
the report of his attainments had been
carried. The great nations of Europe
vied with one another in paying respect
to his memory; and the New World^
which he had explored, and which had
risen in his lifetime, so greatly in the
advantages of the civilization which he
had cherished, was not wanting in these
i honors.

\VALTER SCOTT.

WALTER SCOTT was born at
Edinburgh on the loth of Au-
gust, 1771.* "My birth," says he, " was
neither distinguished nor sordid. Ac-
cording to the prejudices of my country,
it was esteemed gentle, as I was connect-
ed, though remotely, with ancient fam-
ilies, both by my father's and mother's
side." His paternal great-grandfather
was a cadet of the border family of
Harden. His grandfather became a
farmer in Roxburghshire, and married
a lady who was a relative of his own ;
and his father, "Walter Scott, was a
writer to the signet in the Scottish
capital. The poet's mother, Anne
Rutherford, who was likewise of hon-
orable descent, was the daughter of
one of the medical professors in the
University of Edinburgh. Delicacy
of constitution, accompanied by a
lameness which proved permanent, ex-
hibited itself before he completed his
second year, and caused soon after his
removal to the country. There, at his
grandfather's farm-house of Sandy-
knowe, situated beneath the crags of a
rained baronial tower, and overlook-
ing a tract of many miles studded with

* This narrative is abridged from the " Ency-
elopisdia Britanixica."

spots famous in border-history, the poet
passed his childhood till about his
eighth year, with scarcely any inter-
ruption but that of a year spent at
Bath. Of this early period there
are related several interesting anec-
dotes of his sympathy with the grand-
eur and beauty of nature. The tenaci-
ty of his infantine recollections gave
promise of what was afterwards so re-
markable a facility in his mind ; and
the ballads and legends, which were
recited to him amidst the scenes in
which their events were laid, co-op-
erated in after-days with family and
national pride to decide the bent of
the border-minstrel's fancy.

His health being partially confirm
ed, he was recalled home; and fi*om
the end of 1779 until 1783, his educa
tion was conducted in the High School
of Edinburgh, with the assistance of a
tutor resident in his father's house. In
the years immediately preceding thia
change, he had shown decided activity
of intellect, and strong symptoms of its
diversion towards literary pursuits ;
but now, introduced with imperfect
preparation into a large and thorough-
ly trained class, and thrown, for the
first time in his life among a crowd of

(476)

/^^z^nJ^S-z^c

oeyt^

WALTEE SCOTT.

4Yr

lioisterous boys, his childisli zeal for
learning seems to Lave been quenched
by ambition of another kind. His
memory, it is true, was still remarka-
ble, and procured for him fi'om his
master the title of historian of the
class ; while he produced some school-
verses, both translated and original,
which were at least creditable for a
boy of twelve. Even his intellectual
powers, however, were less active in
the proper business of the school than
in enticing his companions from their
tasks by merry jests and little stories ;
and his place as a scholar scarcely ever
rose above mediocity. But his rejju-
tatiou stood high in the play-ground,
where, possessed of unconquerable
courage, and painfully eager to defeat
the scorn which his physical defects
excited, he is described as performing
hazardous feats of agility, and as gain-
ing pugilistic trophies over comrades
who, that they might have no unfair
advantage over the lame boy, fought,
like him, lashed face to face on a plank.
At home, his tutor, a zealous Presby-
terian, initiated him, chiefly by means
of conversation, in the facts of Scottish
history, political as well as ecclesiasti-
cal, though without being able to
shake those opinions which the boy
had already taken up as an inheri-
tance descending fi'om his Jacobite an-
cestors ; and he pursued, with eager-
ness, a wide course of miscellaneous
reading. "I left the High School,"
says he, "with a great quantity of
general information, ill arranged, in-
deed, and collected without sys-
tem, yet deeply impressed upon my
mind, readily assorted by my pow-
er of connexion and memory, and

gilded, if I may be permitted to say
so, by a vivid and active imagina-
tion."

His perusal of histories, voyages, and
travels, fairy tales, romances, and Eng-
lish poetry, was continued with in-
creasing avidity during a long visit
which, in his twelfth year, he paid to
his father's sister at the villao-e of Kel-
so, where, Ipng beneath a noble plane-
tree in an antique garden, and behold-
ing around him one of the most beau-
tiful landscapes in Scotland, the young
student read for the first time, with en-
tranced enthusiasm, " Percy's Keliques
of Ancient Poetry." This work, be-
sides the delight which was imparted
by the poems it contained, influenced
his mind by giving new dignity, in his
eyes, to his favorite Scottish ballads,
which he had already begun to collect
fi'om recitation, and to copy in little
volumes. " To this period, also," he
tells us, " I can trace distinctly the awak-
ing of that delightful feeling for the
beauties of natural objects, which has
never since deserted me. The roman-
tic feelings which I have described as
predominating in my mind, naturally
rested upon and associated themselves
with the grand features of the land-
scape around me; and the historical
incidents or traditional legen Is con-
nected with many of them gave to
my admiration a sort of intense im-
pression of reverence, which at times
made my heart feel too big for its bos-
om. From this time the love of natur-
al beauty, more especially when com-
bined with ancient ruins, or remains
of our fathers' piety or splendor, be.
came with me an insatiable passion,
which, if circumstances had permitted,

478

WALTEE SCOTT.

I would willingly have gratified by
traveling over half the globe."

In November, 1783, Scott became a
student in the University of Edin-
burgh, in which, however, he seems to
have attended no classes but those of
Greek, Latin, and logic, dui-iug one
session, with those of ethics and uni-
versal history at a later period, while
preparing for the bar. About this
time, he also acquired French, Italian,
and Spanish, all of which he after-
wards read with sufficient ease; and
the German language was learned a
few years later. It was some time be-
tween his twelfth and his sixteenth
year that his stores of romantic and
poetical reading received a vast in-
crease, dui'ing a severe illness which
lono; confined him to bed ; and one of
his schoolfellows has given an interest
ing account of excursions in the neigh-
borhood of the city, during this period^
when the two youths read poems and
romances of hnight-errantry, and exer-
cised their invention in composing and
relatino' to each other interminable tales
modeled on their favorite books. The
vocation of the romance-writer and po-
et of chivalry was thus already fixed.
His health likewise became permanent-
ly robust. The sickly boy grew up into
a must nlar and handsome youth ; and
the lameness in one leg, which was the
sole remnant of his early complaints,
was through life no obstacle to his
habits of active bodily exertion, or to
his love for out-of-door sports and
exercise.

The next step in his life did not
seem directed towards the goal to
which all his favorite studies pointed.
His father, a formal, though high-spir-

ited and high-princi2:)led man, whose
manners are accurately described in his
son's novel of " Redgauntlet," designed
him for the legal j)rofession ; and, u)
though he always looked wishfully
forward to his son's embracing the
highest department of it, considered it
advisable, according to a practice not
uncommon in Scotland, that he should
be prepared for the bar by an educa-
tion as an attorney. Accordingly, in
May, 1786, Scott, then nearly fifteen
years old, was articled for five years as
an apprentice to his father, in whose
chambers he thenceforth continued, for
the greater part of every day, to dis-
charge the humble duties of a clerk,
untU, about the year 1790, he had,
with his father's approbation, finally
resolved on coming to the bar. Of the
amount of the young poet's profession-
al industry during those years of servi-
tude we possess conflicting representa-
tions; but many circumstances in his
habits, many peculiarities in the knowl-
edge he exhibits incidentally in his
works, and perhaps even much of his
resolute literary industry, may 1 )e safe-
ly referred to the period of his appren-
ticeship, and show satisfactorily that at
all events he was not systematically
neo;lia;ent of his duties- Historical and
imaginative reading, however, contin-
ued to be prosecuted with undiminish-
ed ardour ; summer excursions into the
Highlands introduced him to the scenes,
and to more than one of the characters,
which afterwards figured in his most
successful works; while in the law-
classes of the university, as well as in
the juvenile debating societies, he
formed, or renewed fi"om his school-
days, acquaintance with several who

WALTER SCOTT.

479

became in manliood his cterislied
friends and his literary advisers. In
1791, the Speculative Society made
him acquainted with Mr. Jeffrey. His
attempts in poetry had now become
more ambitious; for, it is said, about
the completion of his fifteenth year, he
had composed a poem in four books on
the Conquest of Granada, which, how-
ever, he almost immediately burned,
and no trace of it has been preserved.
During some years after this time, we
hear of no other literary composition
than essays for the debating societies.

In July, 1792, being almost twenty-
one years of age, he was called to the
bar. Immediately after his first cir-
cuit, he commenced that series of
"raids," as he playfully called them, or
excursions into the secluded border dis-
tricts, which in a few years enabled
him to amass the materials for his first
considerable work. His walks on the
boards of the Parliament House, the
Westminster Hall of Scotland, if they
gained him for a time few professional
fees, speedily procured him renown
among his fellow-lawyers as a story-
teller of high excellence ; his father's
connections and his own friendships
opened for him a ready admission into
the best society of the city, in which
his cheerful temper and his rich store
of anecdotes made him universally pop-
ular ; and his German studies produc-
ed in 1796, his earliest poetical efforts
that were published, namely, the trans-
lations of Burger's ballads, "Lenora
and the Wild Huntsman." The same
year witnessed the disappointment of
a long and fondly-cherished hope, by
the marriage of a young lady, whose
image, notwithstanding, clung to his

memory through life, and inspired some
of the tenderest strains of his poetry.

In the summer of 1797, however, on
a visit to the watering-place of Gilsland,
in Cumberland, he became acquainted
with Charlotte Margaret Carpenter, a
young lady of French birth and par-
entage, whose mother, the widow of a
royalist of Lyons, had escaped to Eng-
land, and there died, leaving her chil-
dren to the guardianship of their fath-
er's friend, the Marquis of Do^vnshire-
A mutual attachment ensued ; and, af-
ter the removal of prudential doubts,
which had arisen among the connec-
tions on both sides, Scott and Miss
Carpenter were married at Carlisle, in
December of the same year.

The German ballads, which, though
they met with very little sale, had been
justly praised by a few competent crit-
ics, served as the translator's introduc-
to the then celebrated Matthew Greg-
ory Lewis, who enlisted him as a con-
tributor to his poetical "Tales of Won-
der ;" and one cannot now but smile to
hear of the elation with which the
author of Waverley at that time coi.-
templated the patronizing kindness ex-
tended to him by the author of " The
Monk." Early in 1788 was published
Scott's translation of Goethe's " Goetz
von Berlichingen,"- which, through Lew-
is's assistance, was sold to a Loudon
bookseller for twenty-five guineas; but
though favoraldy criticised, it was re-
ceived by the pul)lic as coldly as the
preceding volume. In the summer of
1799, the poet wrote those ballads
which he has himself called his first
serious attempts in verse ; the " Glen-
fiulas," the " Eve of St. John," and tlie
" Grey Brother."

4S0

WALTEE SCOTT.

After Scott's marriage, several of his
summers were spent in a pretty cot-
tage at Lasswade, near Edinburgh,
Avhere he formed, besides other ac-
quaintances, those of the noble houses
of Melville and Buccleuch. The influ-
ence of these powerful fidends, willingly
exerted for one whose society was agree-
able, whose birth connected him, though
very remotely, with the latter of those
titled families, and who in politics was
decidedly and actively devoted to
the ruling party, procured for him, in
the end of the year, 1799, his ajipoiut-
raent as sheriff-depute of Selkirkshire,
an office which imposed very little du-
ty, while it gave him a permanent sal-
ary of £300 per annum. His father's
death had recently bestowed on him a
small patrimony ; his wife had an in-
come which was considerable enous^h
to aid him greatly; his practice as a
lawyer yielded, though not much, yet
more than barristers of his standing
can usually boast of ; and, altogether,
his situation in life, if not eminent, was
at least strikingly favorable when com-
pared with that which has fallen to the
lot of most literary men. Scott, how-
ever, now twenty-eight years of age,
had done notliing to iound a reputa-
tion for him as a man of letters ; and
there appeared as yet to be but little
probability that he should attach him-
self to literature as a profession, or
consider it as any thing more than a
relaxation for those leisure hours which
were left unoccupied by business and
the enjoyments of polite society.

In 1800 and 1801, those hours were
employed in the preparation of the
Border Minstrelsy, the fruit of his
childish recollections, and of his youth-

ful rambles and studies. The first two
volumes ajjpeared in the beginning of
the next year, and the edition, consist
ing of eight hundred copies, was sold
off before its close. This work, how-
ever, the earliest of his which can be
said to have given him any general
fame, yielded him about eighty pounds
of clear profit ; being very far less than
he must have expended in the investi-
gations out of which it sprang. In
1803, it was completed by the pulJi-
cation of the third volume. " One of
the critics of that day," remarks Mr.
Lockhart, " said that the book contain-
ed ' the elements of a hundred histori-
cal romances;' and this critic was a
prophetic one. No person who has
not gone through its volumes for the
express purpose of comparing their
contents with his great original works,
can have formed a conception of the
endless variety of incidents and im-
ages, now expanded and emblazoned
by his mature art, of which the first
hints may be found either in the text of
those primitive ballads, or in the notes
which the happy rambles of his youth
had gathered together for their illus-
tration."

But before the publication of the
" Border Minstrelsy," the poet had be-
gun to attempt a higher flight. " In
the third volume," says he, writing to
his friend George Ellis, in 1804, " I in-
tend to publish a long poem of ray
own. It will be a kind of a romance
of border chivalry, in a light-horseman
sort of stanza." This border romance
was the " Lay of the Last Minstrel,"
which, however, soon extended in plan
and dimensions, and, originating as a
ballad on a goblin story, became at

WALTEE SCOTT.

481

length a long and varied poem. The
first draught of it, in its present shape,
was written in the autumn of 1802, and
the whole history of its progress has
been delightfully told by the author
himself, and is well illustrated by his
]>iographer.

In 1803, during a visit to London,
Scott, already familiarly acquainted
with Ellis, Heber, and other literary
men, and now possessing high reputa-
tion himself in virtue of the " Minstrel-
sy," was introduced to several of the
first men of the time ; and, thenceforth,
bland as he was in manner, and kind
in heart, indefatigable and successful
in his study of human character, and
always willing to receive with cordial-
ity the strangers whom his waxing
fame brought about him, it is not sur-
prising to find, that not to know per-
sonally Walter Scott, argued one's self
unknown. The toleration and kind-
liness of his character are illustrated
by the fact, that, firm as his own polit-
ical opinions were, and violently as ex-
citement sometimes led him to express
them, not only did he always continue
on friendly terms with the chief men,
of the opposite party in Edinburgh,
but several of them were his intimate
friends and associates ; and he even
was for some years an occasional con-
tributor to the Edinburgh Review.

In 1804, was published his edition
of the ancient poem of Sir " Tristram,"
so valuable for its learned dissertations,
and for that admirable imitation of the
antique which appears as a continuation
of the early minstrel's work.

During that year and the preceding,
the Lay was fi'eely communicated to all
the author's friends, Wordsworth and
61

Jefl:rey among the rest ; and, after un-
dergoing various changes, and receiv-
ing enthusiastic approval in several
quarters from which commendation
was wont to issue but sjiaringly, it
was at length published, in the first
week of 1805. The poet, now thirty-
three years of age, took his place at
once as a classic in English literature.
Its circulation immediately became im-
mense, and has since exceeded that of
any other English poem.

But exactly at this culminating point
of the poet's life, we must turn aside
from the narrative of his literary tri-
umphs, to notice a step of another kind,
which proved the most important he
ever took. In one of those interestinc
communications of 1830, which throw
so much light on his personal history,
he has told us, that from the moment
when it became certain that literature
was to form the principal employment
of his days, he determined that it should
at least not constitute a necessary source
of his income. Few literary men, per-
haps, have not nourished a wish of this
sort ; but very few indeed have jios-
sessed, like Scott, the means of con-
verting the desire into an eftectual res-
olution. In 1805, as his biographer
tells us, he was, " independent!}- of
practice at the bar and of literary
profits, in possession of a fixed reve-
nue of nearly, if not quite, £1,000 a
year." To most men of letters this in-
come would have appeared afllueiice ;
but Scott has frankly avowed that he
did not think it such. The fame of
a great poet, now within his reach,
if not already grasped, seemed to Iiim
a little thing, compared with tlie dig-
nity of a well-descended and wealthy

482

WAXTER SCOTT.

Scottish land-holder; and, while neither
he nor his friends could yet have for-
seen the immensity of those resources
which his genius was afterwards to
place at his disposal for the attain-
ment of his favorite wish, two plans
occurred and were executed, which
promised to conduct him far at least
towards the goal.

The first of these was the obtaining
of one of the principal clerkships in
the Scottish Court of Session, offices
of high respectability, executed at
a moderate cost of time and trouble,
and remunerated at that time by an
income of about £800 a year, which
was afterwards increased to .£1,300.
This object was attained early in 1800,
throuo-h his ministerial influence, aid-
ed by the consideration paid to his tal-
ents ; although, owing to a private ar-
rangement with his predecessor, he did
not receive any part of the emoluments
till six years later.

The second plan was of a different
sort, being in fact a commercial specm-
lation. James Ballantyne, a school-
fellow of Scott, a man possessing a
good education, and considerable liter-
ary talent of a practical kind, having
become the editor and printer of a
newspaper in Kelso, had been em-
ployed to print the " Minstrelsy," and
acquired a great reputation by the el-
egance with which that work was pro-
duced. Soon afterwards, in pursuance
of Scott's advice, he removed to Edin-
burgh, where, under the patronage of
the 2)oet and his friends, and assisted
by his own character and skill, his
printing business accumulated to an
extent which his capital, even with pe-
cuniary aid from Scott, proved inade-

quate to sustain. An application foi
a new loan was met by a refusal, ac-
companied, however, by a proposal,
that Scott should make a large ad-
vance, on condition of being admitted
as a partner in the firm, to the amount
of a thu-d share. Accordingly, in May
1805, Walter Scott became regularly
a partner of the printing-house of James
Ballantyne and Company, though the
fact remained for the public, and for
all his friends but one, a profound se-
cret. "The forming of this commer-
cial connexion was," says his son-in-
law, " one of the most imporiant steps
in Scott's life. He continued bound
by it during twenty years, and its in-
fluence on his literary exertions and
his worldly fortunes was productive
of much good and not a little evil.
Its effects were in truth so mixed and
lialanced during the vicissitudes of a
long and vigorous career, that, at this
moment, I doubt whether it ought, on
the whole, to be considered with more
of satisfaction or of regret."

From this time we are to view Scott
as incessantly engaged in that memor-
able course of literary industry, whose
toils advancing years^ served only to
auo-ment, and from which neither the
duties of his two professional offices ot
clerk of session and sheriff, nor the in-
creasing claims made on him by socie-
ty, were ever able to divert him. He
now stood deservedly high in the fa-
vor of the booksellers, not merely as
a poet and man of genius, but as one
possessed of an extraordinary mass of
information, and of such habits as
qualified him eminently for turning
his knowledge to account. He was
therefore soon embarked in undertak

WALTEE SCOTT.

4S3

ings, not indeed altogetlier inglorious,
but involving an amount of drudgery
to wliich, perhaps, no man of equal
orisrinal g-enius lias ever condescended.
The earliest of these was his edition of
"Dryden," which, entered upon in 1805,
was comjjleted and published in 1808.

But the list of works in which his
poetical genius shone forth continued
rapidly to increase amidst his multi-
plicity of other avocations. From the
summer of 1804 till that of 1812, the
spring and autumnal vacations of the
court were spent by him and his fami-
ly at Ashestiel, a small mansion ro-
mantically overhanging the Tweed
some miles above Melrose, and rented
from one of the poet's kinsmen. In
this beautiful retreat, at intervals dur-
ing twelve months, was chiefly com-
posed the magnificent poem of " Mar-
mion," which was published in the
begining of 1808. At the same place,
likewise, in 1805, were composed the
opening chapters of a novel which, on
the disapproval of one of the author's
critical friends, was thro'wn aside and
not resumed for years.

Scott's commercial eucjaofements must
now again be adverted to. In the year
1808 he took part, perhaps as a sugges-
ter, certainly as a zealous promoter, of
a scheme which terminated in the es-
tablishment of the "Quarterly Re\'iew "
in London, as a political and literary
counterpoise to the "Edinburgh Re-
view," the advocate of Whig opinions.
But the ■ poet had other than political
grounds for embarking in this opposi-
tion. He had seriously quaiTclled
with the firm of Constable and Com-
pany, the ])ul)lishers of the " Edinburgli
Review," and of several of his own eai"-

lier works ; and his wish to check the
enterprising head of that house in his
attempts to obtain a monopoly of Scot-
tish literature, is openly avowed, in
Scott's correspondence at the time, as
one of his principal motives for fram-
ing another scheme. His plan, as far
as it was explained, either to the pub-
lic or to his own friends, amounted
only to' this : That a new publishing
house should be set up in Edinburgh,
under the management of John Ballan-
tyne, a younger brother of James ; and
that this firm, with the acknowledged
patronage of Scott and his friends,
should engage in a series of extensive
literary undertakings, including, with
others, the annual publication of a His-
torical and Literary Register, conducted
on Tory principles. But unfortunate-
ly both for Scott's peace of mind, and
ultimately also for his worldly for-
tunes, there was here, as in his pre-
viously-formed connection with the
same family, an undivulged secret.
The profits of the printing-house had
been large ; Scott's ten-itorial ambition
had been growing faster than his pros-
pect of being able to feed it ; and these
causes, inextricably mixed up with
pique towards Constable, and kindli-
ness for his Kelso proteges, led him
into an entanglement which at length
ruined both himself and his associates.
By the contract of the publishing-house
of John Ballantyne and Compan\-, ex-
ecuted in May 180S, Scott became a
secret partner to the extent of one
third. The unhappy issue of this af-
fair will force itself on our notice at a
later stasje.

In the meantime we see him prose
cuting for some time his cai-eer of po

484

WALTEE SCOTT.

etical success. The "Lady of tlie
Lake," published in 1810, was follow-
ed by the " Vision of Don Roderick "
in 1811 ; by "Rokeby" in 1812; and
by the " Bridal of Triermain," which
came out anonymously iu 1813. His
poems may be said to have closed in
1815 with the "Lord of the Isles" and
the " Field of Waterloo ;" since " Har-
old the Dauntless," in 1817, appeared
without the writer's name, and the
di.^matic poems of 1822 and 1830 are
quite unworthy of him. In the midst
of these poetical employments he made
his second and last appearance as an
editor and commentator of English
classics, by publishing in 1814 his edi-
tion of Swift.

But from 1815 till 1825, Scott's
name ceased almost entirely to be be-
fore the public as an avowed author ;
and for those who chose to believe that
he was not the writer of the Waverley
Novels, it must have been a question
not a little puzzling, if it ever occurred
to them, how this man, who wrote with
such ease, and seemed to take such
pleasure in writing, was now occupy-
ing his hours of leisure. A few arti-
cles iu the "Quarterly Review," such
works as " Paul's Letters," and anno-
tations in occasional editions of ancient
tracts, accounted but poorly for his
time during ten years.

About 1813 and 1814 his popularity
as a poet was sensibly on the decline,
partly from causes inherent in his later
poems themselves, and partly from ex-
traneous causes, among which a prom-
inent place belongs to the appearance
of Byron. No man was more quick-
sighted than Scott in perceiving the
ebb of popular favor ; and no man

better prepared to meet the reverse
with firmness. He put in serious exe-
cution a threat which he had playfully
uttered to one of his own family even
before the publication of the " Lady of
the Lake." " If I fail now," said he,
" I will write prose for life." And in
writing prose his genius discovered,
on its first attempt, a field in which it
earned triumphs even more splendid
than its early ones in the domain of
poetry.

The chapters of fiction begun at
Ashestiel in 1805, which had already
been resumed and again thrown aside,
were once more taken up, and the
work was finished with miraculous
rapidity; the second and third vol-
umes having been written durina;
the afternoons of three summer
weeks in 1814. The novel appear-
ed in July of that year, under the
title of " Waverley," and its success
from the first was unequivocal and un-
paralleled. Although we cannot here
give a catalogue of Scott's works, yet
in truth such a list of the novels and
romances does in itself present the
most surprising proof, both of his pa-
tient industry, and of the singularly
equable command which he had at all
times over his mental resources. In
the midst of occupations which Avould
have taken away all leisure from other
men, the press poured forth volume af-
ter volume, in succession so rapid as to
deprive of some part of its absurdity one
of the absurd suppositions of 'the day,
namely, that more persons than one
were concerned in the novels. " Guy
Mannering," the second of the series,
in 1815, was followed in 1816 by the
" Antiquary " and the " First Series of

WALTEE SCOTT.

485

tlie Tales of My Landlord." "Rob
Roy" appeared in 1817; the "Second
Series of the Tales" in 1818, and in
1819 the "Third Series" and "Ivan-
hoe." Two romances a-year now seem-
ed to be expected as the due of the
public. The year 1820 gave them the
" Monastery " and the " Abbot ;" 1821,
"Keuilworth" and the "Pirate;" the
" Fortunes of Nio;el, comino^ out alone
in 1822, was followed in 1823 by no
fewer than three works of fiction,
"Peveril of the Peak," "Quentiu Dur-
ward," and " St. Ronan's Well ;" and
the comparatively scanty number of
novels in 1824 and 1825, which pro-
duced respectively only "Redgauntlet"
and the "Tales of the Crusaders," is
accounted for by the fact that the
author was engaged in preparing a
lai'ge historical work.

It is impossible even to touch on the
many interesting details which Scott's
personal history presents during these
brilliant years ; but it is indispensable
to say, that his di'eam of territorial ac-
quisition was realized with a splendor
which, a few years before, he himself
could not have hoped for. The fii'st
step was taken in 1811, by the pur-
chase of a small farm of a hundred
acres on the banks of the Tweed, which
received the name of Abbotsford ; and
in a few yeai'S grew, by new purchases,
into a large estate. The modest dwell-
ing first planned on this little manor,
with its two spare ])ed-rooms and its
plain appurtenances, expanded itself
in like manner with its master's wax-
ing means of expenditure, till it had
become that baronial castle which we
now reverentially visit as the minstrel's
home. The hospitality of the poet in-

creased with his seeming prosperity ;
his mornings were dedicated to compo-
sition, and his evenings to society ; and
from the date of his baronetcy in 1820
to the final catastro23he in 1826, no
mansion in Europe, of poet or of noble-
man, could boast such a succession
of guests illustrious for rank or talent,
as those who sat at Sir Walter Scott's
board, and departed proud of having
been so honored. His family mean-
while grew up around him ; his eldest
son and daughter married ; most of his
eai'ly friends continued to stand by his
side; and few that saw the poet in
1825, a hale and seemingly happy man
of fifty-four, could have guessed that
there remained for him only a few
more years (years of mortification and
of sorrow), before he should sink into
the grave, struck down by internal ca
lamity, not by the gentle hand of time.
And yet not only was this the issue,
but, even in the hour of his greatest
seeming prosperity, Scott had again and
again been secretly struggling against
some of the most alarming anxieties.
On details as to his unfortunate com-
mercial ensagements we cannot here
enter. It is enough to say, that the
printing company of which he was a
partner, which seems to have had con-
siderable liabilities eve before the es-
tablishment of the publishing-house,
was now inextricably entangled with
tlie concerns of the latter, many of
whose largest speculations had been
completely unsuccessful ; that, besides
this, both firms were involved to an
enormous extent with the houso' of
Constal)le; and that large sums, which
had been drawn by Sir Walter Scott as
copyright-money for the novels, had

486

WALTEE SCOTT.

been paid in bills wliicli -were still cur-
rent, and threatening to come back on
liiiu.

In the beginning of 1826, Constable's
house stopped payment ; and the fail,
ure of the firm of Ballantyne, for a very
large sum, followed instantly and of
course. Probably even the utter ruin
which this catastrophe brought upon
Scott, was not more painful to him than
the exposure which it necessarily involv-
ed, of those secret connections, the exist-
ence of which even his most confiden-
tial fi'iends could till now have at most
only suspected. But if he had been
imprudent, he was both courageous
and honorable ; and in no j^eriod of his
life does he appear to such advantage,
as when he stood, as now, beggared,
humbled, and covered with a load of
debt from which no human exertions
seemed able to relieve him. He came
forward without a day's delay, and re-
fused to be dealt with as an ordinary
bankrupt, or to avail himself of those
steps which would have set him free
from the claims of his creditors, on sur-
rendering his property to them. He in-
sisted that these claims should, so far
as regarded him, be still allowed to
subsist ; and he pledged himself that
the labour of his future life should
be unremittingly devoted to the dis-
charge of them. He did more than
fulfil his noble promise ; for the gigan-
tic toil to which, during years after
this, he submitted, was the immediate
cause that shortened his life. His self-
sacrifice, however, effected astonishing-
ly much towards the purpose which it
was designed to serve. Between Janu-
ary 1826 and January 1828, he had
realized for the creditors the surprising

sum of nearly £40,000 ; and soon after
his death the principal of the whole
Ballantyne debt was paid up by his
executors.

After spending at Abbotsford, in
1826, a solitary summer, very unlike
its former scenes of splendor, Scott, re-
turning to town for his winter duties,
and compelled to leave behind him his
dying wife (who survived but till the
spring), took up his residence in lodg-
ings, and there continued that sys-
tem of incessant and redoubled labor
which he had already maintained for
months, and maintained afterwards till
it killed him. Woodstock, published
in 1826, had been writt(m during the
crisis of his distresses; and the next
fruit of his toil was the " Life of Na-
poleon," which, commenced before the
catastrophe, appeared in 1827, and was
followed by the " First Series of Chron-
icles of the Cauongate ;" while to these
a2;ain succeeded, in the end of the same
year, the " First Series of the Tales of
a Grandfather. The year 1828 produc-
ed the Second Series of both of these
works ; 1829 gave " Anne of Gierstein,"
the first volume of a " History of Scot-
land " for " Lardner's Cyclojjgedia," and
the "Third Series of the Tales of a
Grandfather," The same year also
witnessed the commencement of that
annotated publication of the collected
novels, which, together with the simi-
lar edition of poetical works, was so
powerful an instrument in effecting
Scott's purpose of pecuniary disentan-
glement. In 1830 came two Dramas,
the " Letters on Demonology," the
" Fourth Series of the Tales of a Grand-
father," and the second volume of the
" History of Scotland." If we arc dis-

WALTER SCOTT.

487

appointed when we compare most of
tliese works with the productions of
younger and haj^pier days, our criti-
cism will be disanned by a recollec-
tion of the honorable end which the
later works promoted; and as to the
last productions of the mighty master,
the volumes of 1831. containino: " Count
Robert " and " Castle Dangerous," no
one who is acquainted with the melan-
choly circumstances under which these
were composed and published, will be
capable of any feeling but that of com-
passionate respect.

The dejection which it was impossi-
ble for Scott not to feel in commeneina;
his self-imposed task, was materially
lightened, and his health invigorated,
by an excursion to London and Paris
in the course of 1826, for the purpose
of collecting materials for the "Life of
Nai:)oleon." In 1829, alarming symp-
toms appeared, and were followed by
a paralytic attack in February 1830,
after which the tokens of the disease
were always more or less perceptible
to his family ; but the severity of his
tasks continued unremitted, although in
that year he retired from his clerkship,
and took up his permanent residence
at Abbotsfoid, The mind was now
but too evidently shaken, as well as
the body; and the diary which he
kept contains, about and after this

time, melancholy

misgivinfjs

of his

o\^^l upon this subject. In April 1831,
he had the most severe shock of his
disease that had yet attacked him ; and
having been at length persuaded to
abandon literary exertion, he left Ab-
botsford in September of that year, on
his way to the Continent, no country of
which he had ever yet visited, excejat
some parts of France and Flanders.
This new toui" was undertaken mth the
faint hope that abstinence from mental
labor might for a time avert the im-
pending blow. A ship of war, fur-
nished for the purpose by the Admir-
alty, conveyed Sir Walter, first to
Malta, and then to Naj^les; and the
accounts which we have, both of the
voyage and of his residence in Italy,
abound with circumstances of melan-
choly interest. After the beginning
of May 1832, his mind was completely
overthrown ; his nervous impatience
forced his companions to hurry him
homeward from Eome throucrh the
Tyi'ol to Frankfort ; in June they ar-
rived in London, whence Sir Walter
was conveyed by sea to Edinburgh,
and, having reached Abbotsford on
the 11th of July, he there continued
to exist, with a few intervals of con-
sciousness, till the afternoon of the 21st
of September, when he expired, having
just comj^leted the sixty-first year of
his aoje. On the 2r)th he was buried in
the beautiful ruins of Dryburgh Abbey.

DOROTHY PAYNE MADISON.

THE parents of Dorothy Payne
Madison, John and Mary Payne,
were natives of and residents in Vir-
ginia ; hut it happened that, while on
a visit to North Carolina, their eldest
daughter was born May 20th, 1772, and
was named Dorothy, after a near rela-
tive. Mr. Payne and his wife were strict
members of the Society of Friends, or
Quakers, and seem to have been
among the first in that sect who had
conscientious scruples as to their right
to have and keep slaves. When Doro-
thy was about fourteen, her parents
sold their plantation in Virginia, and,
having removed to Philadelphia, took
their slaves with them and set them all
free. Here the young girl received
the advantages of such education and
training as were within reach at that
stormy period of our history, and were
consistent with the rather narrow and
peculiar views of the denomination to
which she was attached. Dorothy was
certainly not indebted to wealth,
rank, or fashionable accomplishments
for the high estimate which was
entertained for her by a large cir-
cle of friends and admirers. She
was, however, remarkably beautiful,

(488)

and no less modest and gentle than
distinguished for personal attractive-
ness.

At the age of nineteen, she was mar-
ried to John Todd, a young lawyer of
Philadelphia, and a member of the So-
ciety of Friends. During the follow-
ing two years she lived in quiet retire-
ment, entirely aloof fi'om the world of
society and fashion. In 1793, however,
during the prevalence of the yellow
fever in Philadelphia, Mr. Todd was
carried off by the disease, leaving his
wife a widow with two little children.
After the first severity of grief had
passed away, the youthful and beauti-
ful vddow began to be drawn more
than ever before into what may be
called society. Her charming grace of
manner, her frankness, geniality, and
light-heartedness brought, not only nu-
merous friends, but quite a host of ad-
mirers to her side. Many of these tried
to win the heart and gain the hand
of the lovely Mrs. Todd, but with-
out success. The victory was re-
served for James Madison, then a
member of Congress from Virginia ;
and, though he was twenty years
her senior, yet he seems to have in-

12!.§^^^c/...^

DOROTHY PAY:NE MADISON.

189

spired her with the deepest and truest
affection.

A.S an interesting episode, we may
mention here, that Madison, ten years
before, fell in love with Miss Floyd,
daughter of General William Floyd, a
delegate from New York. Everything
seemed to promise bright and joyous
I'es Lilts. But, something occurred, his
biographer does not know, or at least
does not say what, and the whole mat-
ter fell to the ground. Jefferson wrote
him a letter of condolence, assuring
him, among other things (not very
profound), that " of all machines, ours
(the human), is the most complicated
and inexplicable."

Towards the close of 1794, the mar-
riage took place with more than the
usual festivities, and the biadal party
proceeded at once to Montpelier, in
Virginia, and took up their residence
with the father of Madison. The
overflowing hospitality of the Virginia
home of those days, furnished Mrs.
Madison with abundant employment,
and, having now the means where-
withal to do good, she did not forget
her widowed mother and orphan sisters;
but, with loving heart and gentle hand,
she ministered to them fi-eely of her
substance. Mrs. Madison also became
wanuly attached to her husband's mo-
ther, who sjieedily learned to love the
charming and genial daughter added
to her family by her son's marriage.
It was her delight to make others par-
ticipants of the great happiness she
herself enjoyed; and, with her hus-
band's full consent and co-operation,
she was enabled to rejoice in the
largest charity towards all Avho came
within her reach, as well as to gain the
G'2

sympathy, respect, and admii-ation of
every one who was privileged to know
her.

The Federal party having been over-
thrown, and Jefferson having come in-
to power, in consequence of the " Re-
publican revolution" of 1801, James
Madison was appointed Secretary of
State by the neAV President. This ne-
cessitated his removal to Washington,
and Mrs. Madison accordingly was
called upon to enter on a new sphere
of duty. At this date, the national
capital was almost a wilderness. Hard-
ly any buildings were yet erected. The
Capitol was but partially completed ;
and the President's house was in a
very doleful state indeed. Woods and
forests prevailed, and the houses of the
occupants of the place, or new city,
were few and fai' l)etween. New comers
of all sorts and from all parts of the
country came to Washington, either
from duty or necessity, or in search of
advantages expected to he found in
the Metropolis of the United States.

As was but natural, society, made up
of such various materials, formed a
rather motley throng ; and it was evi-
dent that each needed the aid and
sympathy of the other, to render life
tolerable and pleasant. In this respect,
Mrs. Madison was of peculiar value to
the social condition and progress of
affairs in the capital. Her genial
spirit, her attractive manner, her ready
tact, her sincerity, gentleness and good
taste all coml)ined, gave her an influence
unsurpassed in Washington ; and when,
in the absence of Jefferson's daughter,
she presided in the President's house,
she seems to have had the hapi)y faculty
of uniting all the varying elements

490

DOEOTHr PATjSTE MADISOK

around her ; so mucli so, that Jefferson
afterwards spoke in very laudatory
terms of the condition of things at the
capital, and said, " we were like one
family."

In her own house, Mrs. Madison ex-
ercised no less influence. Foreign
ministers, the diplomatic corps in gen-
eral, senators, representatives, and
others, met in the hospitable mansion
of the Secretary of State, and were
there entertained and charmed by the
graceful and aifable hostess. The un-
ruly demon of party spirit was in a
measure, and for the time, laid to rest ;
and this estimable lady rarely, if ever,
failed to make friends, and conciliate
whatever jealous or hostile feeling
found place in the hearts of those who
were politically or personally opposed
to the head of the department of state.

Madison continued in his position
durino; the whole of Jefferson's Presi-
dency, and, when the time came for
the election of a fourth President, he
was the prominent candidate of the
Republican or Democratic party. Of
course, he was not exempt fi'om that
abuse of an unbridled and licentious
press which even Washington was
subjected to ; and calumnies and false-
hoods were circulated largely, with
the intent of breaking down the able,
energetic, and incorruptible friend and
successor of Jefferson. All efforts of
this kind, however, failed ; and, though
it is not possible to point out exactly
how much the disarming of enemies,
and the acquiring of new friends were
due to Mrs. Madison, yet, we are sure,
there is little danger of overestimating
her influence in this particular; for
she continued to be the same sentle.

frank, and courteous hostess that she
always had been, and political ani-
mosity was quelled in her presence.
She made no invidious distinctions in
her courtesies; she treated opponents
with that mildness and winning
charity which are sure in the end to
gain the victory. Madison himself was
rather stiff and reserved in manners ;
and, we are declined to think, that he,
as well as many another man, owed
more of his success, politically and per-
sonally, to his wife, than writers of
biograj^hy and history are in the habit
of admitting and j^utting on record.

The new President entered upon his
duties in March, 1809, and IMi'S. Madi-
son took her rightful place at the head
of the executive mansion. Brilliant
festivities marked the opening of the
new administration, and the wife of
the President thenceforward was the
centre of a gay and lively circle, where
beauty and fashion found fitting room
for display. Most of the courtly eti-
quette and high ceremonial of " Lady
Washington's" days was now banished,
and the utmost freedom of manners
was allowed, consistent with propriety
and true politeness.

It was in Madison's second term
that a change came over the scene.
Our relations with Great Britain had
for some time been getting more and
more unsatisfactory ; and, though the
President would have much preferred
peace to war, yet, as that haughty na-
tion pursued its ungenerous, overbear-
ing, and insulting course to a point
beyond any possibility of endurance,
war was finally declared in 1812, and
a second time the sword was drawn
against England. The history of the

DOEOTHY PAYNE MADISON.

491

M^ar is not material to our present pur-
poses. All that we need notice here,
in connection with the President's
family, is that Vandal-like attack upon
Washington by the British, in 1814,
utterly purposeless as regarded any
effect upon the war. So unlocked for
was this attack, that widespread panic
and confusion prevailed in the capital
and its vicinity. Every one that could,
ran away, and carried with them all
that was possible; all except Mrs.
Madison. The President had gone to
hold a council of war, and numerous
friends came and begged his wife to
leave the city at once ; but she utterly
refused to do so, in his absence ; she
was resolved to wait his return and
have his company.

We give here an extract from a let-

ter of hers at this juncture, which will
enable the reader to form a more vivid
idea of the actual state of affairs than
we could possibly set forth by any
elaborate description :

" Tuesdmj, August 23d, 1814.
" Deab Sister : My husband left
me yesterday to join General Winder.
He enquired anxiously whether I had
courage or firmness to remain in the
President's house until his return on
the morrow, or succeeding day ; and on
my assurance that I had no fear, but
for him and the success of our army,
he left me, beseeching me to take care
of myself, and of the Cabinet papers,
public and private. I have since re-
ceived two despatches from him, writ-
ten with a pencil ; the last is alarming,
because he desires that I should be
ready, at a moment's warning, to enter
my carriage and leave the city ; that
the enemy seemed stronger than had

been reported, and that it might Lap-
pen that they would reach the city,

with intention to destroy it

I am accordingly ready ; I have pressed
as many cabinet papers into trunks as
to fill our can-iage ; our private proper-
ty must be sacrificed, as it is impossi-
ble to procure wagons for its transpor-
tation. I am determined not to go
myself until I see Mr. Madison safe,
and he can accompany me, as I hear of

miich hostility towards him

Disaffection stalks around us

My friends and acquaintances are all
sone, even Col. C, with his hundred
men, who were stationed as a guard m

this enclosure French John

(a faithful domestic), with his usual
activity and resolution, offers to spike
the cannon at the gate, and to lay a
train of powder which would blow up
the British, should they enter the
house. To the last proposition I pos-
itively object, without being able, how-
ever, to make him understand why all
advantages in war may not be taken.

" Wednesday morning, twelve d clock :
Since sunrise I have been turning my
spy -glass in every dii-ection, and watch-
ing with unwearied anxiety, hoping to
discern the approach of my dear hus-
band and his friends ; but, alas, I can
descry only groups of military wander-
ing in all directions, as if there was a
lack of arms, or of spirit to fight for
their own fire-sides !

" Tliree o'clock /—Will you believe it,
my sister? we have had a battle or
skirmish near Bladensburgh, and I am
still here within sound of the cannon !
Mr. ^Madison comes not ; may God pro
tect him ! Two messengers covered with
dust come to bid me fly ; but I wait

492

DOEOTnY PAYNE MADISON.

for him At this late hour,

a wagon has been procured; I have
had it filled with the plate and most
valuable portable articles belonging to
the house; whether it will reach its
destination, the Bank of Maryland, or
fall into the hands of British soldiery,
events must detennine.

" Our kind friend, Mr. Carroll, has
come to hasten my departure, and is in
a very bad humor with me because I
insist on waiting until the large picture
of General Washington is secured, and
it requires to be unscrewed fi'om the
wall. This process was found too te-
dious for these perilous moments; I
have ordered the frame to be broken,
and the canvass taken out. It is done,
and the precious portrait placed in the
hands of two gentlemen of New York
for safe keeping. And now, dear sis-
ter, I must leave this house, or the re-
treating army will make me a prisoner in
it, by filling up the road I am directed
to take. When I shall again write to
you, or where I shall be to-morrow, I
cannot tell."

Happily, this second war with Eng-
land was not of long duration, and
Mrs. Madison did the honors of her
house, on the receipt of the news of
peace, in 1815, with unusual brilliancy
and effectiveness. Washington Irving
is reported as characterizing her, at
this date, " as a fine, portly, buxom
dame, who has a smile and pleasant
word for every body." For the re-
mainder of Madison's presidential term,
he resided in a private house where,
however, was continued to be dispens-
ed the lil)eral hospitality which always
marked his establishment.

On retiring from office, in 1817, and

giving the reins of government into the
hands of his successor, James Monroe,
Madison left Washington, and sought
with delight his mountain home at
Montpelier. He was now well advanc-
ed in age, being about sixty-six years
old ; and, with occasional absences, he
spent the remainder of his life in the
quiet enjoyments of home and family.
Jefferson's residence at Monticello was
within a day's ride, and these venera-
ble men, who had both been so large-
ly concerned in the history and pro-
gress of affairs, used to meet, and dis-
course of the past and present, and give
utterance to vaticinations of the future.
A large and commodious mansion, built
rather for comfort than display, beau
tiful garden and grounds, picturesque
and striking scenery, and abundance
of means wherewith to follow the
Apostolic precept, " given to hospitali-
ty," these and the like rendered Mont-
pelier extremely attractive, and enabled
Mi's. Madison to play the part of the
benignant hostess to her heart's content.
In one of her letters, written to her
sister, in July, 1820, she says : " Yes-
terday we had ninety persons to dine
with us at our table, fixed on the lawn
under a large arbor. The dinner was
profuse and handsome, and the com-
pany very orderly. Many of your old
acquaintances were here, among them
the two Barbours. We had no ladies,
except mother Madison, Mrs. Macon,
and Nelly Willis. The day was cool,
and all pleasant. Half a dozen only
staid all night, and are now about to
depart. President Monroe's letter this
mornins; announces the French Minis-
ter; we expect him this evening, or
perhaps sooner, though he may not

DOEOTHY PAYISE MADISON.

493

come until to-morrow; but I am less
worried here with a hundred visitors
than with twenty-five in Washington,
this summer especially. I wish you
had just such a country house as this,
as I truly believe it is the happiest and
most independent life, and would he
best for your children."

During the latter years of his life
]\Ir. Madison was a confirmed invalid,
and suffered severely and continually
fi'om debility and disease. He needed
constant attendance and watchful
care and consideration. It was. in
this posture of affairs, that Mrs. Madi-
son displayed the depth and force of
those estimable qualities which belong-
ed to her. Having reached to a point
far beyond the allotted four -score
years, Madison died, June 28th, 1836,
in the eighth-sixth year of his age, and
left his sorrowing widow to pass the
I'emainder of her pilgrimage alone.
Her biographer speaks of her in terms
which may fitly be quoted. " Much as
Mrs. Madison graced her public station^
she was not less admirable in domestic
life. Neighborly and companionable
among her country friends, as if she
had never lived in a city ; delighting
in the society of the young, and never
Letter pleased than when promoting
every youthful pleasui'e by her partic-
ipation, she still proved herself the
affectionate and devoted wife during
the eighteen years of suffering health
of her excellent hushand. Without
neslectinfT the duties of a kind host-
ess, a faithful friend and relative, she
smoothed and enlivened, occiipied and
amused the languid hours of his long
confinement."

Mrs. Madison's own health broke
down for a season, subsequent to her
husband's death, and after a brief so-
Joiirn at the WHiite Suljihur Springs in
Virginia, she concluded to take up her
residence in Washington, which she did
in the autumn of 1837. Although by
no means a recluse, she took but moder-
ate share in society and its gaieties. She
was, however, the same genial-hearted,
amiable, excellent woman that she al-
ways had been, and was as ready as
ever to administer, to the extent gf her
means, to the wants and necessities of
all around her. Unhapily, financial
embarrassments compelled her to con-
sent to the sale of Montpelier, a trial
which she bore with sweet submission,
but felt none the less keenly.

The latter years of her life w^e
marked by great debility of her l)odily
powers, while her mental faculties were
spared to her in their full vigor. Mrs.
Ellet relates that she took great de-
light in hearino; the Bible read, and
that it was while listening to a portion
of St. John's Gospel that she sunk in-
to that peaceful slumber preceding
final dissolution. Her death took place
July 8th, 1849, in the seventy-eighth
year of her age. Her mortal remains
were deposited for a period in the
Congressional Cemetery at Washing-
ton; but in January, 1858, they were
removed to the family burial-ground
at Montpelier, and placed by the side
of her husband. A cliaste but appro-
priate monument has been erected to
her memory, and records, as far as the
cold marble can, her many vii-tues and
her rightful claim to be held in esteem
by succeeding generations.

HENRY, LORD BROUGHAM,

THE family of Lord Brougham on
the paternal side, is traceable, in
Eng-land, throusfh an ancient ances-
try ; the Broughams having been set-
tled in Westmoreland since the con-
quest. When towards the close of his
life, he sat down to write his autobio-
graphy, he affected to make light of
their pretensions, characterizing their
existence in general as " a state of re-
spectable mediocrity," and asserting
that, so far as he could discover, none
of these long line of predecessors " were
ever remarkable for anything," and that
even in the warlike adventures upon
which they had been forced in their
troublous times, — " Even in that career
of doubtful usefulness, they were ra-
ther prudent than daring," of which, in
a humorous way, he gives some in-
stances. But Brougham, the artificer
of his own fortunes, could afford to be
contemptuous of his ancestry. He,
however, prided himself upon his ma-
ternal descent, attributing much of his
prosperity to the Celtic blood which
his mother brought from the ancient
Highland clans of Struan and Kinloch-
Moidart. She was the only child of
the sister of the celebrated Scottish
historian, Robertson. Brougham's fa-

(494)

ther, who had been educated at Eton,
had travelled on the continent, and
after his return to the family seat in
Westmoreland, had become engaged
to his cousin Mary Whelpdale, the
heiress to a neighboring estate, from
whom he was suddenly separated by
her death, which occurred the very day
before that ajipointed for the wedding.
Subsequently visiting his father's very
intimate friend, Lord Buchan, at Edin-
burgh, he met at his house the niece
of Dr. Robertson, Eleanor Syme, the
daughter of the Rev. James Syme, one
of the city clergymen. On his mar-
riage to this lady, the couple for a time
resided at the dwelling of Lord Buchan
in St. Andrew's Square, and there, their
eldest son, Henry Brougham, was born
on the 19th of September, 1778.

From some " Notes about Henry ''
given in Lord Brougham's autobio-
graphy, written by his mother, we
learn that he was distinguished for his
mental activity even in his infancy.
"From a very tender age," this fond
parent writes, long after her son had
become celebrated, "he excelled all
his contemporaries. Nothing to him
was a labor^no task prescribed that
was not performed long before the

HENEY, LOED BROUG HAM .

495

time expected. His grandmother, a
very clever woman, was an enthusias-
tic admirer of all intellectual acquire-
ments, and used to compare him to the
Admirable Crichton, from his excelling
in everything he undertook. From
mere infancy he showed a marked at-
tention to everything he saw, and this
before he could speak ; afterwards, to
everything he heard j and he had a
memory the most retentive. He spoke
distinctly several words when he was
eight months and two weeks old ; and
this aptitude to learn continued pro-
gressive." To the mother of this lady,
his grandmother, says Lord Brougham,
Mriting in the fulness of his fame, " I
owe all my success in life. From my
earliest infancy till I left college, with
the exception of the time we passed
at Brougham with my tutor, Mr.
Mitchell, I was her companion. Re-
markable for beauty, but far more for
a masculine intellect and clear under-
standing, she instilled into me fi-om
my cradle the strongest desire for in-
formation, and the first principles of
that persevering energy in the pursuit
of every kind of knowledge, which
more than any natural talents I may
possess, has enabled me to stick to, and
to accomplish, how far successfully it
is not for me to say, every task I ever
undertook."

Having been taught by his father
to read, Heniy began his school edu-
cation, when very young, at a sort of
infant school in Edinburgh, attended
by girls as well as boys ; and when at
the age of seven he had outgrown this
establishment, he was sent to the fa-
mous Hio-h School of the city, wht-rc
he was at first taught by Luke Fraser.

Assisted daily in his studies by his
grandmother, he was, on one occasion,
by the aid of the accomplished lady,
enabled to vanquish this preceptor on
a disputed bit of Latinity for which
the day before he had been punished.
The master admitted the error, and in
justice should have had the flogging—
if that was the penalty — returned on
his own back. Young Harry, how-
ever, got immense credit with his
schoolfellows as "the boy that had
licked the master," and was content
with this purely intellectual triumph ;
for, in telling this story in his Me-
moirs, he adds in a sufiiciently humble
sjiirit : " I am bound to say Mr. Fraser
bore no malice; and, when I left him,
at the end of four years, to go into the
rector's class, we parted the best of
friends." Fraser was fortunate in his
pujiils, having the good luck to turn
out, from three successive classes, Wal-
ter Scott, Francis Jeffrey and Henry
Brouo'ham. The rector under whose
immediate direction the last came, was
the amiable Dr. Alexander Adam,
whose excellent Latin grammar is fa-
miliar to so many of the youths of
America. The first of the t\\'o re-
maining years of the school course
was impaired, so far at least as pub-
lic instruction went, to young Broug-
ham by his ill state of health, Avliich
kept him at home ; but the time was
not lost, as no time was ever lost to
this iudefatiojable writer. Dr. Adam
had one of the best gifts of a teacher,
the faculty of exciting both an ardent
love of the subjects he taught, and a
spirit of in([uiry into all that related
to them. " Stirred by his precepts
and example (continues BrougliMm,)

490

HEKRY, LOKD BEOtJGHAM.

I spent tlie months during winch I
was kejit Irom school by indisposition,
in reading and trying my hand at
composition. The progress I made
during this illness clearly proved to
me two things : first, the importance
of allowing boys sufficient time for
reading, instead of devoting the whole
day, as at school, to Latin and Greek
exercises; nest, the great benefit of
having a teacher who could dwell up-
on subjects connected with the lessons
he taught, but T)eyond those lessons,
thus exciting the desire of useful
knowledge in his pupils."

Dr. Adam, indeed, was a preceptor
whom his pupils delighted to honor.
Walter Scott, who had also passed un-
der his instructions from those of Luke
Fraser several years before, acknowl-
edges himself much indebted to the gen-
tle directions and insinuating scholar-
ship of the worthy rector. Under his
encourao-ement he distinguished him-
self in poetical versions from Horace
and Virgil. The doctor noticed par-
ticularly his extraordinary memory,
which he often appealed to for the de-
tails of battles and other events, call-
ing him the historian of the class. " It
was from him," says Scott, " that I first
learned the value of the knowledgfe I
had hitherto considered only as a bur-
densome task." Jeffrey " through life,"
as we are told by his biographer, " re-
collected him with the same judicious
gratitude." Brougham was fond of
expatiating on his merits; and in a
passage of his autobiography has nar-
rated with feeling the early struggles
of this scholar with poverty, and how
he overcame them by his zeal for study,
and inspired his pupils with his pas-

sionate love of knowledge in its most
liberal forms, as "with great natural
eloquence" he dwelt upon the lessons
of history, constantly referring to in-
dividuals, and enriching his discourse
by classical citations. He was, too, a
great deal of a moralist, inculcating a
love of independence; and in times
when toryism was largely the fashion,
was quite a liberal. His pupil, no
doubt, afterwards profited much by
his prolonged dissertations on the an-
cient orators, whose method and elo-
quence the rector was never weary of
discussing. Brougham must have been
a good student at the High School,
though he objected to Lord Cockburn
and others fancying that he at all dis-
tinguished himself there ; for he came
out with title of dux — head of his
class and the school.

"Having finished with the Hio-h
School," says he, " I passed the next
fourteen months, from August, 1791,
to October, 1792, at Brougham, (the
family seat in Westmoreland,) where
Mr. Mitchell was my first tutor — a
man of excellent temper as well as
sound learning, who intended to take
orders in the Scotch Churcli. By his
conversation on every subject it was
impossible not to profit ; and his moral
maxims were as enlightened as his
opinions on literary and scientific sub-
jects. The time was principally de-
voted to Greek and Latin ; and I was
further instructed in such duties by
my father, who retained his love of
and familiarity with the classics ; and,
encouraged by him, I tried my hsnd
at writing English essays, and even
tales of fiction." Of the latter, he gives,
in the autobiograjihy, with a rather con

HENRY, LOED BEOUGHAM.

497

temptuous toss of the pen, a tale en-
titled " Memnon, or Human Wisdom,"
as one that had " survived the waste-
paper hasket." Oddly enough, this
proves to be a translation from Vol-
taire, which, in the long lapse of time,
he had mistaken for his own compo-
sition. The error, undiscovered by his
edit; r, was left to be corrected by the
" Edinburgh Eeview," of which he had
been one of the founders seventy years
before.* The reviewer, however, ad-
mits it to be a spirited translation. In-
deed, he was at this early period, much
employed upon translations, which
were especially enjoined upon him by
his relative. Dr. Kobertson, who con-
sidered its exact requirements a better
discipline for the mind, in the selection
and choice of terms, than the freer
license of original composition follow-
ing the mood of the writer. In compli-
ance with his wishes, young Brough-
am translated the whole of the Latin
history of " Florus." In connection
with this, he tells us that the only
efforts which he had made in verse
were, " from the entire want of poetical
faculty, confined to translation, having
nothing to distinguish them but the
vigorous closeness, the whole poetical
merit clearly belonging to the origi-
nal."

When Brougham entered the Uni-
versity of Edinl)urgh, at the age of
fourteen, in the autumn of 1792, Dr.
Eobertson was ^till principal, and
Playfair, Dugald Stewart, and Black,
at the height of their reputation in the
several chairs of mathematics, philoso-

* The "Edinburgh Review, "April, 1872. Arti-
cle, " The Life aud Tiiiios of Ucnry, Lord Broug-
ham."

phy, and chemistry. To all of these
studies Brougham paid particular at-
tention, distinguishing himself par-
ticularly in the departments of mathe-
mathics and natural philosophy. He
soon, by the aptness of his apprehen-
sion, became a favorite with Playfair;
and, with characteristic ardor and con-
fidence, before he was seventeen, trans-
mitted to the Royal Society at London
a paper of his composition detailing
some experiments of his own on light
and colors. The article was well re-
ceived, and printed in the " Philosophi-
cal Transactions," with the omission of
a part, which the editors considered to
belong rather to the arts than the
sciences. "This," writes Brougham,
" was very unfortunate ; because, I
having observed the effects of a small
hole in the window-shutter of a dark-
ened room, when a view is formed on
white paper of the external objects, I
had suggested that if that view is
formed, not on paper, but on ivory
rubbed with nitrate of silver, the pic-
ture would become permanent; and I
suggested improvements in di'awing
founded upon this fact. Now this is
the origin of photography; and had
the note containing the suggestion in
1795 appeared, in all probability it
would have set others on the examina-
tion of the subject, and given us pho-
tography half a century earlier than
we had it."* Besides two optical pa-
pers, printed in 1796 and 1797, there
was one on Porisms, bj^ Brougham, in
serted in the " Philosopliical Transac-
tions" of 1798. Of the accomplished
Black's University Chemical Lectures,

* "The Life and Times of Lord Brougham.''
Am. ed., I., 59.

Brougham, in Lis " Autobiograpliy "
and "Lives of the Philosophers," speaks
in terms of unbounded admiration. His
grace and skill in experiments, and the
exactness and unerring facility with
Avhich he commented upon them, are
described by him as perfect, with every
merit in the highest degree attributed
to Faraday in our time.

Much as he was interested in these
scientific studies, the youthful Brough-
am's attention was by no means con-
fined to them. Already mai'ked out
for an advocate and public speaker, he
was a leading member of the debating
society composed of the University
students. Before entering the " Specu-
lative Society," famed for its training
of lawyers and statesmen. Brougham
had, with some of his friends, at the
close of 1792, established a debating
club of their own, to which they had
Q-iven the name of " The Juvenile Lit-
erary Society." Several persons of
English and local fame, as the Whig
politician Francis Horner, and An-
drew Thomson, the Scottish preacher,
belonged to it. The questions dis-
cussed were such as time out of mind
have engaged the attention of histori-
ans and essayists, as the character of
Mary Queen of Scotts, the act of Bru-
tus in slaying Caesar, and the moral

and

economical agitation of the rela-

tive injuries or inconveniences of the
Miser and the Proflio^ate. The busi-
ness of the house was attended to at
the meetings with extreme j)unctilio
and regularily, " so that the example
of these boys," as Brougham says,
"might be a lesson to their seniors
in other assemblies." The far-famed
" Speculative Society " with a hall and

library of its ovni in the college, then
established for more than a quarter of
a century, was of a higher grade.
Jeffrey, in his preparation for the bar,
owed much to it, and was a member
of it at the time when Brougham
joined it. Walter Scott also belonged
to it at this time, and was reading pa-
pers to be discussed by his associates,
according to the plan of the meetings,
on "The Origin of the Feudal Sys-
tem," " The Authenticity of the Poems
of Ossian," and on sundry questions of
public morality and political economy.
Scott was also Secretary of the Society.
Horner was a member; and, among
others of subsequent celebrity. Lord
Henry Petty, afterwards Marquis of
Lansdowne, and Cockburn, who be-
came an eminent Scottish judge ; and
who recalls, in his biography of Jeffrey,
the kindling debates of the Society-
" It has scarcely," he writes, " ever
fallen to my lot to hear three better
speeches than three I heard in that
place : one on national character, by
Jeffrey ; one on the immortality of the
soul, by Horner ; and one on the power
of Russia, by Brougham." Besides
his exertions in this field. Brougham
was an attentive observer of the elo-
quence of the Scotch bar, displayed
by Harry Erskine and Charles Hope.
It was a hearty, hapj)y, as well as
devoted, studious life. Brougham led
with his young associates at the Uni-
versity, in the vacations, making walk-
ing tours through different parts ol
the Highlands, " wild scrambling ex-
cursions, but abounding in mirth and
jollity," as he recalled them ; " for we
were young, active and overburdened
with high spii-its."

HEISTRY, LOED BKOUGHAM.

499

One of his northern excursions, in
the summer of 1799, assumed larger
proportions than those to which he
had been hitherto accustomed. Join-
ing a yachting expedition fitted out by
a Mr. Henry, a wealthy Ii'ish gentle-
man who had pursued his studies in
Scotland, accomjaanied by his friend
Charles Stuart, Brougham cruised
about the Western Islands to remote
St. Kilda, with the intention, on the
part of the company, of prosecuting
the voyage to Iceland. The season, at
the beginning of September, however,
proved too far advanced for this, and
Brougham, with his friend Stuart, sep-
arating from the rest, sailed for Copen-
hagen instead. The tour, continued for
three months, was extended through
Denmark and Scandinavia. Brough-
am's observations on this journey, in
the form of a journal kept at the
time, supplies one of the largest and
most interesting chapters of his Me-
moirs. He was, of course, a diligent
traveller, overlooking little of interest
on his way, but particularly attentive
to scientific and jDolitical matters, not
forgetting the social and economical
habits of the people among whom he
sojourned.

His University course having been
concluded, and the law chosen for his
profession, in June, 1800, he "passed
advocate" at Edinburgh, a technical
Scottish expression equivalent to the
English being " called to the bar."
His first efforts in the profession in
attending the Assizes in the counties
of Berwick, Roxburgh and Selkirk,
were not very productive, being con-
fined to the defence of prisoners who
were unable to pay for professional as-

sistance. He had at this time, as he
tells us, " an invincible repugnance "
to the calling, and was anxious to find
some means of escape for it in " diplo-
macy," meaning, we presume, employ-
ment under government. He went so
far as to seek the influence in this di-
rection of Sir Joseph Banks, then in
the height of his social ascendancy,
with whom he had corresponded on
scientific subjects. Nothing coming of
this, he continued to occupy himself
with the composition of an elaborate
treatise, on "The Colonial Policy of
the European Powers," the main ob
ject of which was to prove the advan-
tageous effects likely to result to the
colonies in the suppression of the
slave-trade, slavery being accepted as
a settled institution, capable of ameli-
oration when the foi'eign trafiic should
be discontinued. This work appeared
at Edinburgh, in two volumes, in 1803,
and attracted much attention as the
work of so young a man, as well as by
its indications of talent. " The most
careless eye," says one of the author's
critics, " will readily discern in it the
germ of those peculiarities of temper-
ament, thought and style, which after-
wards developed themselves into such
luxuriance. Vigor and facility of ex-
pression, bitter sarcasm, exaggerated
statements, and singular brilliancy of
illustrations run through volumes in-
tended to elucidate and enforce a
theory of colonial policy Avhich sub-
sequent events have deprived of all
interest or present ap[)licability."'*
Before the " Colonial Policy " was
issued, its author had appeared as a

* Art. "Lord Brouf^liam.''
pers for the People," No. 88.

"Chambers' Pa-

600

HENEY, LOED BEOUGHAM.

Icadiiio- coutributor and contriver of a
work, ne\v in its scope in periodical
literature, with which his labors were
long to be identified. The "Edin-
burgh Review," the first number of
which was published in October, 1802,
originally suggested by Sydney Smith,
was planned in a little coterie, of which
Brougham was a prominent member.
His account of the inception of the
work is given in a passage of the Au-
tobiography. " I can never forget Buc-
cleuch-place (where Jefii-ey resided) ;
for it was there, one stormy night in
March, 1802, that Sydney Smith first
announced to me his idea of establish-
ing a critical periodical, or review of
works of literature and science. I be-
lieve he had already mentioned this to
Jeffrey and Horner ; but on that night
the i^roject was for the first time seri-
ously discussed by Smith, Jeffrey, and
me. I at first entered warmly into
Smith's scheme. Jeffrey, by nature al-
ways rather timid, wasfuU of doubts
and fears. It required all Smith's
overpowering vivacity to argue and
laugh Jeffrey out of his difficulties.
There would, he said, be no lack of
contributors. There was himself, ready
to write any number of articles and to
edit the whole ; there was Jeffrey,
facile 'prince}:)S in all kinds of litera-
ture ; there was myself, full of mathe-
matics, and everything relating to col-
onies; there was Horner for political
economy, Murray for general suljjects ;
besides, might we not, from our great
and never-to-be-doubted success, faii-ly
hope to receive help from such levia-
thans as Playfair, Dugald Stewart,
Eobinsou, Thomas Brown, Thomson,
and othei-s ? All this was iiTesistible,

and Jeffrey could not deny that he had
already been the author of many im-
portant 2)apers in existing periodicals."

With this enthusiastic impulse of
Sydney Smith, the "Review" was
agreed upon. It was seven months,
however, before it could be brought
to the light, so many petty obstacles
were interposed in the negotiations for
a publisher, getting together the con-
tributors, and other difficulties, seem-
ingly inseparable from a new under-
taking of the kind. Brougham, who
proved one of its stanchest suppoiiis,
was balky at the start, and at one time
declined to have any connection with
it. This, he tells us, was from doubts
of its management and its proper in-
dependence. "When he found that
Jeffrey was to be its editor, and that
the publishers were to have no control
over its papers, he assented, and wrote
no fewer than seven articles for the
first number, four of them on books of
travels, two on science — reviews of
Wood's Optics and Playfair's Illustra-
tions of the Huttouian Theory, and
one on his peculiar topic, the " Crisis
of the Sugar Colonies." Of five arti-
cles which he contributed to the second
number, four were on scientific topics.
In the fourth he reviewed the " Trans-
actions of the American Philosophical
Society."

In the first twenty numbers of the
Review, seventy-five articles were writ
ten by Jeffrey, twenty-three by Sydney
Smith, fourteen by Horner,, and eighty
by Bi'ougham. These were essentially
the founders of the Review. Its suc-
cess was immediate. The number?
were rej^rinted, and a large circulation
established. There were good reasons

HENEY, LOED BEOUGHAM.

50]

for this in the l^oldness and even reck-
less independence of the work, the
variety and spirit of its articles, and
the intellectual harvest it Avas reaping
from the first glowing efforts of con-
tributors destined to high distinction
in the literary world. But its main
strength lay in the cause of Reform,
which it supported. "Its great im-
portance," writes Brougham, " can only
he judged of by recollecting the state
of things at the time Smith's bold and
sagacious idea was started. Protection
reigned triumphant — parliamentary
representation in Scotland had scarce-
ly an existence — the Catholics were
uuemancipated — the Test Acts unre-
pealed- — men were hung for stealing a
few shillings in a dwelling-house — no
counsel allowed to a prisoner accused
of a capital offence — the horrors of the
slave-trade tolerated — the prevailing
tendencies of the age, jobbery and cor-
ruj^tion."

In the autumn of 1804, Brougham
ventured upon a tour on the Continent,
an undertaking liable to painful inter-
ruption to an Englishman at that time,
under the system of reprisals adopted
by the Napoleonic government. To
obviate this, Brougham went as an
American, furnished with an Ameri-
can passport and papers. His first
point was Holland, which he visited
to obtain information on the slave-
trade, the fij-st great public question
to which, as we have noted, he was
directing his talents. At the Hague
be had opportunities of discussing the
question with the leading statesmen of
the country, while he noticed the do-
mestic slavery of the Hollanders under
the exactions of France. In October

lie reached Venice; and his diary, an
off-hand piece of work, without effort
at finish, is filled with jottings of pic-
tures, theatres, manners, and costumes.
Meanwhile he is writing an article for
the Edinburgh Review " On the Mili-
tary Character of the different Euro-
pean Armies," on the completion of
which he solaces himself with a gon-
dola for two or three hours " to enjoy
the lagune," and immediately after-
wards attends high mass, and finds
" something solemn in the thing,"
though it was performed by the parish
priest, " with a courier-like velocity " —
perhaps on that account, the more ac-
ceptable to the mercurial and haste-
lovinir traveller. After three or four
days' rapid journeying over rough
roads, with an expedition worthy his
assumed American character, " fa-
tigued and jolted to shivers," he came
in sight of the Eternal City, an event
recorded in the following memoran-
dum : " The distant view is fine ; but
all the Campagna di Roma is absolutely
a waste of waving ground in heath, lean
grass, and scattered, stunted vegeta-
tion, with a cottage, church, and
chapel, and crucifix here and there.
Met vast flocks of sheep and lambs.
The shepherds seem an odd race of
peasants, covered with hairy skins;
dog:s all crossed with the wolf. View
of Rome at a distance very fine, from
the unevenness of its foundations and
the number of cupolas. St. Peter's
looks like St. Paul's, only on a gigan-
tic scale. Passed the Tiber — red,
rather than * flavus Tiberis ' — by an
old bridge. Passport civilly looked
at at the Porta del Popolo — fine obe-
lisk Came through the Corso ; passed

602

HEISTET, LOED BEOUGHAM.

Trajan's pillar and some fine buildings ;
arrived Lere in the Venetian house of
the minister and couriers — a very
large, good palace, surrounded by
others, some of which have eighty-
foui- windows on a side. After dining
at the Cafe di Venezia, and sleeping,
which was necessary to remove a fever
which was ojyjyressing me, went to the
opera; neat, but small. An opera
buffa and a comedy in one act. Music
very pretty. Tiers of stage boxes are
called after the great composers. Ac-
tors very submissive, as usual — bow
when applauded," The next day is
giving to sight-seeing, and at its close
the feverish traveller is off for Naples,
glances at Vesuvius, hurries through
the Virgilian localities, is back to
Rome at the end of a week, gives a
month to Austria and, at the close of
January, is again in England.

In the following year, 1806, arrived
the desired opportunity for diplomatic
employment, when the Whigs came
nto power for a short time, on the
death of Pitt. An exj)edition to Por-
tugal was determined upon, to prevent
the threatened occupation of the coun-
try by Buonaparte. A mission was
appointed, consisting of the Earl of
Rosslyn, the Earl of St. Vincent, and
Lt.-General Simcoe, and Brougham
was selected by Fox to accomjjany it as
Secretary. Gen. Simcoe being taken ill
on the voyage to Lisbon, and compelled
to retui-n immediately to England, the
work of the commission was carried
on by Brougham and the others. The
conduct of this aifair brought our
young advocate directly into relation
with the puldic events of the conti-
ueut_ and the embassy lost nothing

from any lack of activity or intrepid
ity on the j^art of its Secretary during
the few months it was employed in
Portugal. After his return, Brougham
became a resident of London, and was
in constant communication with the
"Whig leaders in the discussion of pub-
lic questions, though their short tenure
of power enabled them to do nothing
for his official advancement. Li the
meantime he was admitted to the Eng-
lish bar, in 1808, with a view of prac-
ticino; on the influential Northsrn Cir-
cuit. He was successful in this, though
by no means disposed to surrender
himself wholly to the profession, poli-
tics and literature being still his fa-
vorite pursuits. His Whig friends
were desirous of securing his aid in
Parliament; and in January, 1810, he
was offered by the Duke of Bedford,
through Lord Holland, a seat for
the borough of Camelford, tinder the
Duke's control as successor to Lord
Henry Petty, on his accession to the
peerage as Marquis of Lansdowne.
The offer was accepted, and thus the
great advocate of the Reform Bill de-
stroying such opportunities, came into
Parliament a representative of a pri-
vate borough. His fii'st speech on the
2d of March, was in support of a mo-
tion of Whitbread, of a vote of cen-
sure on the government for keeping
l^rivate a report of the Expedition to
the Scheldt, worthy of notice here for
the testimony borne by Horner to the
success of Brougham on its delivery.
His language and manner were said by
him to be thoroughly in harmony with
the style which Parliament demanded.
During the first session he also spoke
on one of those reform qiiestions which

HENKY, LOED BEOUGHAM.

503

afterward so much ens'ao'ed his atten-
tion — the abuse of flo2:2:insc in the
army and navy. This was foUowed
by no action in Parliament ; but out-
jpide of it, in no long time, Brougham
had the opportunity of vindicating his
principles, as well as of asserting the
liberty of the press in court, in the
successful defence of the Hunts against
a criminal information o-rowinsc out of
their publishing an alleged libellous
article on the subject in their news-
paper, "The Examiner."

The most important speech of
Brougham in Parliament durins; this
first session was in support of further
legislation to repress the trafiic in
slaves, which, for lack of sufficient
penalties, still existed, notwithstand-
ing the Act passed for the abolition of
the trade several years before. In his
speech in June, he thus vigorously at-
tacked the abettors of the nefarious
traffic : " It is not commerce but crime
that they are driving. Traders, or
merchants, do they i:>resume to call
themselves ! and in cities like London
and Liverpool, the very creations of
honest trade ? I will give them the
right name, at length, and call them
cowardly suborners of piracy and mer-
cenary murder."

A Ijill, which he subsequently intro-
duced, declaring a participation in the
slave-trade a felony punishable with
transportation or imprisonment, was
passed without a dissenting vote. His
next great success, upon which he after-
wards greatly prided himself, was that
which, in 1812, attended his efforts for
the repeal of the Orders in Council,
equally injurious to the country and
unjust to neutral powers, by which

Parliament, in a hazardous exercise of
authority or assumption of power, had
endeavored to retaliate upon the com-
mercial policy of Napoleon in his
issue of the Berlin and Milan Decrees.
" The repeal of the Orders in Council,"
says Brougham in his Memoirs, " was
my greatest achievement. It was sec-
ond to none of the many effoi-ts made
by me, and not altogether without
success, to ameliorate the condition of
my fellow-men. In these I had the
sympathy and aid of others, but in the
battle against the Orders in Council I
fought alone."

Parliament beins; dissolved in 1812,
and the borou2;h of Camelford havinsr
been sold, being no longer at the Duke
of Bedford's disposal, Brougham en-
tered upon the open contest for Liver-
pool, in which he suffered a defeat.
Canning being elected. In a speech to
the electors he attacked with ccreat elo-
quence the policy of Pitt, turning to
account the news which had that day
been received of the burning of Mos-
cow.

For the ensuing three years Brough-
am remained out of Parliament, not
entering it again till 1816, when he
was returned by the influence of the
Earl of Darlington for the borouijli of
Winchelsea, which he continued to
represent for fourteen years. He now
identified himself closely with various
questions of reform, legal and j^arlia-
mentary, and began his labors in the
cause of education by instituting an
inquiry into the instruction of tlie
poiu" in the metropolis. Tlie revela-
tions resultinsi' from this investimitiou
led him to further eff'orts in the cause
outside of Parliament, in aiding in the

504

HENEY, LOED BEOLTGHAII.

formation of the Loudon Mechanics'
Institution in 1823, and the subsequent
])ublioation, entitled, "Practical Ob-
servations on the Education of the
People, addressed to the Working
Classes and their Employers," which
ran through twenty editions. In 1825
he was elected to the honorary office
of Lord Rector of the University of
Glasgow, as the successor to Sir James
Mackintosh, in preference to Sir "Wal-
ter Scott. In furtherance of the work
of education, he became largely inter-
ested in the foundation of the Univer-
sity of London, and in establishing, in
1827, the Society for the Diffusion of
Useful Knowledge, of whose commit-
tee he long acted as Chairman, and to
whose numerous valuable publications
in various departments of literature he
led the way, by the comj)osition of
their first work issued from the press,
his admirable discourse " On the Ob-
jects, Pleasures and Advantages of
Science." All this was done within
his second parliamentary period, from
1816 to 1830. That included also his
series of legal exertions in the service
of the Princess of Wales, as her Coun-
sel during her difficulties with the
Prince Regent, culminating in his de-
fence in 1821, of that lady, when, by
the death of George III., she had at-
tained the rank of Queen, and was
brought to trial on the charge of in-
fidelity to her husband, before the
House of Lords. The peculiar nature
of the accusations brou2;ht against her.
with the well-known libertine char-
acter of George IV., and the part the
Tory authorities took in the prosecu-
tion ; sympathy for the woman, justly
regarded by a large party as the vic-

tim of an unscrupulous opj^osition ;
the political prejudices naturally ex-
cited by the" contest — all drew the at-
tention of the people to the advocate
of the distressed Queen, whom she hadi
appointed her attorney-general. With
many in the country it was the King
rather than the Queen who was on trial,
and Brougham was regarded by them,
not only as the chivalrous champion
of a much-injured lady, but a vindi-
cator of the popular liljerties in de-
nouncing a series of bold acts of op
pression, implicating the highest pub-
lic officers in the realm. He devoted
himself to the defence with his unusual
unwearied energy and dexterous re-
sources, and his exertions were reward
ed by the acquittal of the Queen.

The year 1828 was memorable for
Brougham's earnest eno^as^'ement in the
work of Law Reform, the cause with
which his later years were identified,
and which, in its beneficent success,
sheds the greatest glory upon his life.
In an elaborate speech in February,
continued through nine hours, he sur-
veyed the whole field, concluding with
an appeal to the House of Commons,
in which he introduced with effect the
victory over Napoleon, again to be van-
quished in the acts of peace. The con-
test upon which he thus entered was a
long one; but it was triumj^haut in
the end, and he lived to witness its
success.

In 1830, on the death of George IV.,
a dissolution of Parliament took place,
when Brougham was invited to stand
for Yorkshire, the county famed for its
liberal principles, which had so nobly
sustained Wilberforce in his long con-
test with slavery, and was now seeking

HEISTRY, LOED BEOUGHAM.

505

a candidate to promote the great work
of Parliamentary Reform. In Brough-
am they had such an advocate, and he
was triumphantly returned. He felt
the value of this mark of confidence ;
for he had previously sat in Parlia-
ment by the favor of influential friends,
a representative of private horoughs;
he was now chosen by the most dis-
tinguished and po^verful constituency
in the country. He at once became
the leader of the Liberal party, and
was about engaging, on the opening of
Parliament, in the work of reform in
that body, when, Earl Grey being sud-
denly called to office, in the political
adjustments which ensued in the for-
mation of the new ministry, he was
promoted to the peerage as Lord Chan-
cellor, with the title of Baron Brough-
am and Vaux — the latter name V)eiug
derived from an old family in Nor-
mandy with which his ancestors were
connected. With characteristic energy,
on the very day on which his peerage
was made out, the 23d of November,
1830, he introduced into the House of
Lords four bills relating to the reform
or reorganization of the Courts of Law,
two of them affecting the practice of
the Court of Chancery to which he
was then just introduced. "Look at
the gigantic Brougham," said Sydney
Smith, in his Speech on the Reform
Bill, " sworn in at twelve o'clock, and
before six p.m. he has a bill on the ta-
ble abolishing the abuses of a court
which has been the curse of the peo-
ple of England for centuries. For
twenty-five long years did Lord Eldon
sit in that Court, surrounded -with
misery and sorrow, which he never
held up a finger to alleviate. The
Gi

widow and the orphan cried to him
as vainly as the town-crier when he
offers a small reward for a full purse.
The bankrupt of the Court became the
lunatic of the Court. Estates mould-
ered away and mansions fell down, but
the fees came in and all was well ; but
in an instant the iron mace of Brougham
shivered to atoms the House of Fraud
and of Delay. And this is the man who
will help to govern you — who bottoms
his reputation on doiug good to you—
who knows that to reform abuses is
the safest basis of fame, and the surest
instrument of power — who uses the
highest eift of reason and the most
splendid efforts of genius to rectify all
those abuses, which all the genius and
talent of the profession have hitherto
been employed to Justify and protect.
Look you to Brougham, and turn you
to that side where he waves his long
and lean finirer, a.nd mark well that
face which nature has marked so forci-
bly — which dissolves pensions, turns
joljbers into honest men, scares away
the plunderer of the public, and is a
terror to him who doth evil to the
people !"

Lord Brougham held the Chancel-
lorship for four years, going out of
office with a change of ministry in
1834. This period was distinguished
by his successful engineering of the
Refoi'iu Bill, which was carried in the
House of Lords by his bold handling
of the King, in inducing him to con-
sent, if it should be needed, to a large
creation of new peers. This act of
prerogative being secured, the thrc^at
proved sufficient, and the bill was
passed. Other measures of import-
ance in which he assisted, euumerattid

506

HENEY, LORD BEOUGHAM.

by himself, marked the fow years of
his administration as Chancellor un-
der the first Reform Parliament, — the
abolition of slavery in the Colonies;
the opening of the East India trade,
and destruction of the Company's mo-
nopoly ; the amendment of the criminal
laws ; vast improvements in the whole
municipal jurisi:»rudence, both as re-
gards law and equity; the settlement
of the Bank Charter ; the total reform
of the Scotch municipal corporations ;
the entire alteration of the Poor Laws ;
an ample commencement made in re-
forming the Irish Church, by the abo-
lition of ten bishoprics.

After his retirement from the Chan-
cellorship, Lord Brougham never held
office in any administration of his
party, a neglect attributed to his pe-
culiarities of temper and conduct ; but
he continued, in the House of Lords, his
advocacy of measures of reform, chief-
ly in reference to the administration of
the law. He became also much em-
ployed in various literary productions
of a philosophical and critical char-
acter, including a series of Lives of
the Men of Letters and Science, and
the Statesmen of the time of George
HI., comprising, in natui'al philosoj)hy.
Black, Watt, Priestley, Cavendish, and

their fellows; in literature, Voltaire
Eousseau, Hume, Robertson, Johnson
and Gibbon ; and in statesmanship,
Chatham, Lord North, Burke, Fox,
Pitt, Sheridan and others. A work on
"Political Philosophy," published in
three volumes, 1840-44, is one of the
most valuable of his contributions to
this department of study. He also
wi'ote a volume on Natural Theology.
His works, as collected by himself,
in 1837, are comprised in ten octavo
volumes; to which have subsequently
been added three volumes of collected
" Contributions to the Edinburgh Re
view."

Lord Brougham was married in 1819
to Mary Anne, eldest daughter of
Thomas Eden, brother of Lord Auck-
land. She was the widow at the time
of this marriage of a Mr. Spalding.
Two daughters were the fruit of this
union, one dying in infancy, the other
in 1839. In his later years the health
of Lord Brougham was much impaired,
and he frcquei^ily resorted, for the sake
of the milder climate, to a residence at
Cannes in the south of France, in a
chateau which he had built for him-
self. Here his death occurred on the
7th of May, 1868, in the ninetieth
year of his age.

LORD BYRON.

THE family of Lord Byron traces
its descent to the Byi'ous of Nor-
mandy, who came to England with
William the Conqueror.* In Domes-
day-Look the name of Ralph de Burun
ranks high among the tenants of land
in Nottinghamshire ; and in the suc-
ceeding reigns, under the title of Lords
of Horestan Castle, we find his de-
scendants holding considerable posses-
sions in Derbyshire, to which, afterward,
in the time of Edward I., were added
the lands of Rochdale in Lancashire.
Its antiquity, however, was not the only
distinction by which the name of By-
ron was recommended to its inheritor ;
those personal merits and accomplish-
ments which form the best ornament
of a genealogy seem to have been dis-
played in no ordinary degree by some
of his ancestors. At the siege of Cal-
ais, under Edward III., and on the
memorable fields of Cressy, Bosworth,
and Marston Moor, the Byrons reaped
honors both of rank and fame, of Avhich
their young desceudant has shown
himself proudly conscious. In the
reign of Henry VIII., upon the disso-
lution of monasteries, the church and

* Abridged from tho "Life and Correspond-
ence " by Thomas Moore.

priory of Newstead, with the lands
adjoining, were added to the posses-
sions of the Byron family. These
spoils of the ancient religion were
conferred upon the grand-nephew of
the gallant soldier who fought by the
side of Richmond at Bosworth, and
was distinguished as " Sir John BjTon
the Little with the great beard." At
the coronation of James I., we find an-
other representative of the family se-
lected as an object of royal favor, be-
ing made on this occasion a Knight of
the Bath. From the following reign
(Charles I.), the nobility of the By-
rons dates its orio^in. In the vear
1643, Sir John Byron, great grandson
of him Avho succeeded to the rich do-
mains of Newstead, was created Baron
Byron of Rochdale, and seldom has a
title been conferred for more high and
honorable services than those of tliij
noldeman. Through the history of
the Civil Wars, we trace his name in
connection with the varying fortunes
of the king, and find him faithful, per-
sevei'ing, and disinterested to the last.
Such are a few of the gallant and
distinguished personages of tliis nol)le
house. By the nniternal side also Lord
Byron had to pride himself on a line

'0071

608

LOKD BYRON

of ancestry as illustrious as any tliat
Scotland can boast, liis mother, wlio Avas
one of tlie Gordons of Giglit, having
been a descendant of that Sii- William
Gordon, who was the third son of the
Earl of Huntley by the daughter of
James I.

After the eventful period of the
Civil Wars, the celebrity of the name
appears to have died away for near a
century. About the year 1750, the
shipwreck and sufferings of Mr. By-
, ron, afterward Admiral, awakened
in no small degree the attention and
sympathy of the public. Not long-
after, a less innocent notoriety attach-
ed itself to two other members of the
family — one, the grand-uncle of the
poet, and the other, his father. The
former, in the year 1765, stood his
trial before the House of Peers for
killing, in a duel, or rather scuffle, his
relation and neighbor, Mr. Chaworth;
and the latter, having carried off to
the Continent the wife of Lord Car-
marthen, on the marquis obtaining a
divorce from the lady, was married to
her. Of this short union, one daugh-
ter only was the issue, Augusta Byi"on,
afterwards the wife of Colonel Leigh.
The iii'st wife of the father of the
poet having died in 1784, he, in the
following year, married Miss Cathar-
ine Gordon, only child and heiress of
George Gordon, Esq., of Gight. In
addition to the estate of Gight, this
lady possessed no inconsiderable prop-
erty, and it was known to be solely
with a view of relieving himself from
his debts that Mr. Byron paid his ad-
dresses to her. Soon after the mar-
riage they removed to Scotland. The
creditors of Mr. Byron now lost no

time in pressing their demands ; and
not only was the whole of her ready
money, bank shares, fisheries, etc., sac-
riticed to satisfy them, but a large
sum raised by mortgage on the estate
for the same purj)Ose. In the sum-
mer of 1786 she and her husband pro-
ceeded to France ; and in the follow-
ing year the estate of Gight itself was
sold and the purchase money applied
to the payment of debts, with the ex-
ception of a small sum invested in
trustees for the use of Mrs. Byron.

From France Mrs. Byron returned
to England at the close of the year
1787, and on the 22d of January, 1788,
gave birth, in Holies-street, London, to
her first and only child, George Gor-
don Byron. From London she pro-
ceeded with her infant to Scotland,
and in the year 1790, took up her resi-
dence in Aberdeen, where she was soon
after joined by Captain Byron. Here
for a short time they lived together
but, their union being by no means
hapi^y, a separation took place between
them, and Mrs. Byron removed to lodg
inffs at the other end of the street.
Notwithstanding this schism, they con-
tinued to visit each other ; but the el-
ements of discord were strong on both
sides, and their sej)aration was, at last,
complete and final.

By an accident which, it is said, oc-
curred at the time of Byron's birth,
one of his feet was twisted out of its
natural position; and this defect (chief-
ly from the contrivances employed to
remedy it) was a source of much pain
and inconvenience to him, during his
earlier years. The expedients first
made use of to restore the limb to
shape were adopted by the advice of

LOED BTEON.

509

the celel)rated surgeon, John Hunter;
and his nurse, to whom fell the task
of putting on these machines or band-
ages at bedtime, would often sing him
to sleep, or tell him stories or legends,
in which, like most other children, he
took great delight. It is a remarkable
fact, indeed, that through the care of
this woman, who was herself of a very
religious disj)ositiou, he obtained a far
earlier and more intimate acquaintance
with the Sacred Writings than falls to
the lot of most young people.

Captain Byron now determined to
retire to France, and previous to Ms
departure he returned to Aberdeen,
which he had left some time after his
quarrel with his wife. As on the for-
mer occasion, his object was to entreat
more money from the unfortunate wo-
man whom he had beggared ; and, so
far was lie successful, that during Ms
last visit, she contrived to furnish him
with the money necessary for his jour-
ney to Valenciennes, where, in the fol-
lomng year, 1791, he died.

When not quite five years old, young
Byron was sent to a day-school in Ab-
erdeen, taught by Mr. Bowers ; and he
remained there, Avith some interrup-
tions, during a twelvemonth. The
terms of this school were only five
skillings a quarter for reading ; and it
was evidently less with a view to the
boy's advance in learning than as a
cheap mode of keeping him quiet, that
his mother had sent him there. Of the
progress of his infantine studies at
Aberdeen, Lord Byron gives some par-
ticulars in one of his journals. " I was
sent at five years old or earlier, to a
school kept l)y Mr. Bowers. I learned
little there, except to repeat by rote

the first lesson of monosyllables, with-
out acquiring a letter. Whenever proof
was made of my progress at home, I
repeated these words with the most
rapid fluency, but on turning over a
new leaf, I continued to repeat them,
so that the narrow boundaries of my
first year's accomplishments were de-
tected, and my intellects consigned to
a new preceptor. He was a very de-
vout, clever little clergyman, named
Ross, afterwards minister of one of the
kirks. Under him I made astonishing
progress, and I recollect to this day
his mild manners and good-natiired
painstaking. The moment I could
read, my grand passion was hi.ston/ ;
and why, I know not, but I was par-
ticularly taken with the battle of Lake
Eegillus, in the first Roman history
put into my hands. Four years ago,
when standing on the heights of Tus-
culum, and looking down upon the lit-
tle round lake that was once Regillus,
and which dots the immense expanse
below, I remembered my young enthu-
siasm and my old instructor. After-
ward I had a very serious, saturnine,
but kind young man, named Pater-
son, for a tutor. He was the son of
my shoemaker, but a good scholar, as
is common with tlie Scotch. He was
a rigid Presl^yterian also. With him
I l)egan Latin in Ruddiman's gram-
mar, and continued till I went to the
grammar school; where I threaded all
the classes to the fourth, when I was
recalled to England by the demise of
my uncle. I acquired this handwrit-
ing, which I can scarcely read myself,
imder the fair copies of Mr. Duncan
of the samo city. The grammar school
might consist of a hundred and fifty

510

LOED BTEOW.

of all ages under age." B}Ton was
mucli more anxious to cUstinguisli
himself among his school-fellows by
prowess in all manly sports and exer-
cises, than hy advancement in learn-
ing. Though quick, when he had any
study that pleased him, he was in gen-
eral very low in the class, nor seemed
ambitious of being promoted any high-
er. In the summer of 1796, after an
attack of scarlet-fever, he was removed
by his mother for change of air into the
Highlands; and it was either at this
time, or in the following year, that they
took up their residence at a farm-house
in the neighborhood of Ballater, a fa-
vorite summer resort for wealth and
gaiety, about forty miles up the Dee
from Aberdeen.

By the death of the grandson of the old
lord at Corsica in 1794, the only claim-
ant that had hitherto stood between
little George and the peerage was re-
moved; and the increased importance
which this event conferred upon them
was felt, not only by Mrs. Byron, but
by the young future Baron of New-
stead. The title of which he thus
early anticipated the enjoyment, devol-
ved to him but too soon. Had he been
left to struggle on for ten years long-
er as plain George Byron, there can
be little doubt that his character Avould
have been, in many respects, the better
for it. In the year 1798, his grand-
uncle, the fifth Lord Byron, died at
Newstead Abbey, having passed the
latter years of his life in a state of
austere, almost savage seclusion. The
cloud Avhich, to a certain degree unde-
servedly, his unfortunate affray with
Mr. Chaworth had thrown upon his
character, was deepened and confirmed

by the eccentric and unsocial course of
life to which he afterward betook
himself The only companions of his
solitude — besides a colony of crickets,
which he is said to have amused him-
self with rearing and feeding — were
Old Murray, afterward a favorite ser-
vant of his successor, and a female do-
mestic. Though living in this sordid
and solitary style, he was frequently
much distressed for money; and one
of the most serious injuries inflicted
by him upon the property, was his
sale of the family estate of Rochdale,
in Lancashire. On account of his ina-
bility to make out a title, proceedings
were institxited during the young lord's
minority for its recovery, which after
some years were successful. At New-
stead the mansion and the grounds
around it were allowed to fall hope-
lessly into decay.

On the death of his grand-uncle. Lord
Byron, having become a ward in Chan-
cery, the Earl of Carlisle, who was in
some degree connected with the family,
was appointed his guardian ; and in
the autumn of 1798, Mrs. Byron and
her son, attended by their faithful
Mary Gay, left Aberdeen for New-
stead. On their arrival, Mrs. Byi-on,
with the hope of having his lameness
removed, placed her son under the
care of a person who professed the
cure of such cases, at Nottingham.
The name of this man, who appears to
have been a mere empirical pretender,
was Lavender, and the manner in
which he is said to have proceeded,
was first by rubbing the foot with oil,
and then twisting the limb forcibly
around, and screwing it in a Avooden-
machine. That the boy might not

LOED BTROK

511

lose ground in his education, during
this interval he received lessons in
Latin from a respectable schoolmaster,
Mr. Eogers, who read parts of Virgil
and Cicero with him, and represents his
proficiency to have been, for his age,
considerable. Finding but little bene-
fit from the Nottingham practitioner,
Mrs. Byron, in the summer of the
year 1799, thought it best to remove
her boy to London, where, at the sug-
gestion of Lord Carlisle, he was put un-
der the care of Dr. Baillie. It beinsc an
object, too, to place him at some quiet
school, where the means adapted for
the cure of his infirmity might be
more easily attended to, the establish-
ment of Dr. Glennie, at Dulwich, was
chosen for the purj^ose.

When he had been nearly two years
under the tuition of Dr. Glennie, his
mother, discontented at the slowness of
his progress — -although she herself, by
her interference, was the cause of it — ■
entreated so urgently of Lord Carlisle
to have him removed to a public school,
that her wish was at length acceded
to ; and " accordingly," says Dr. Glen-
nie, " to Harrow he went, as little pre-
pared as it is natural to suppose from
two years of elementary instruction,
thwarted by every art that could es-
trange the mind of youth from precep-
tor, from school, and from all serious
study." To a shy disposition, such as
Byron's was in his youth, a transition
from a quiet establishment, like that
of Dulwich Grove, to the bustle of a
great pul)lic school, was sufficiently
trying. We find from his o\vn account
that, for the first year and a half, he
hated Harrow. The activity and soci-
ableness of his nature, however, soon

conquered this repugnance ; and from
being, as he says, " a most unpopular
boy," he rose at length to be a leader in
all the sports, schemes, and mischief of
the school. At Harrow, Lord Byron
was remarked for the great readiness
of his general information, but in all
other respects idle, capable of great
sudden exertions, but of few" continu-
ous drudgeries. His qualities, at this
time, seemed much more oratorical and
martial, than political ; and it was the
opinion of Dr. Durry, the head master,
that he would turn out an orator. His
first verses (in English) were received
but coolly.

We come now to an event, which
according to his own deliberate persua-
sion, exercised a lasting influence over
the whole of his subsequent character
and career. It was in the year 1803,
that he conceived an attachment, which
sank so deep into his mind as to give
a color to all his future life. On leav-
ing Bath, Mrs. Byron took up her abode
in lodojino-s at Nottiuo-ham — Newstead
Abbey being at that time let to Lord
Grey de Ruthen — and during the Har-
row vacations of this year she was
joined there by her son. So attached
was he to Newstead, that he was con-
tinually in its neighborhood. An inti-
macy soon sprang up between liim and
his noble tenant, and an apartment in
the Abbey was henceforth alwaj-s at
-his service. To the family of Miss
Chaworth, who resided at Annesley,
in the neighborhood, he had boon made
known some time before in London,
and he now renewed his acquaintance
witli them. The }'ouTig heiress pos-
sessed much personal l)eauty, with a
disposition the most amiable and at

512

LORD BYRON.

tac-liiug. Byron at this time was in
his uiueteenth year, and the object of
his adoration two years older. The
sis shoi-t summer weeks which he now
passed in her company, were sufficient
to lay the foundation of a feeling for
all life. At first he used to return to
Newstead Abbey every night ; but, be-
insr induced one evenina: to remain at
Annesley, he stayed there during the
rest of his visit. His time here was
mostly passed in riding with Miss Cha-
worth and her cousin ; sitting in idle
reverie, as was his custom, pulling at
his handkerchief, or in firing at a mark.
During all this time he had the pain
of knowing that the heart of her he
loved was occupied by another — that,
as he himself expressed it :

"Her sighs were not for him; to her he was
Even as a brother — but no more!"

Neither is it probable that, had even
her afEections been disenojaofed. Lord
Byron would have been selected as the
object of them. Miss Chaworth look-
ed upon him as a mere schoolboy. He
was in his manners, too, at that period,
rough and odd, and by no means pop-
ular among girls of his own age. If
at any moment he had flattered him-
self with the hope of being loved by
her, a circumstance mentioned in his
" memoranda," as one of the most pain-
ful humiliations to which the defect in
his foot had exposed him, must have"
let the truth in, with the dreadful cer-
tainty, upon his heart. He was either
told of, or overheard. Miss Chaworth
saying to her maid, " Do you think I
could care anything for that lame
boy ?" This speech, as he himself de-
scribed it, was like a shot through his

heart. Thoiigh late at night when he
heard it, he instantly darted out of the
house, and scarcely knowing whither
he ran, never stopped, till he found
himself at Newstead. In one of the
most interesting of his poems, "The
Dream," he has drawn a picture of
this youthful love. In the following
year, 1805, Miss Chaworth was mar-
ried to his successful rival, Mr. John
Winters.

In the month of October, 1805, he
was removed to Trinity College, Cam-
bridge, and it was in the summer of
this year that he first engaged in pre-
paring a collection of his poems for
the press; the idea of printing them
first occurred to him during his vaca-
tion at Southwell. From this moment
the desire of appearing in print took
entii'e possession of him, though for
the present his ambition did not ex-
tend in view beyond a small volume
for private circulation. In consequence
of the objection of his friend, the Rev.
]\Ii'. Becher, to a certain poem in this
volume, the edition was suj^pressed,
and Lord Byron set about preparing
another, which was j^roduced about six
weeks after. The fame which he now
reaped within a limited circle, made
him more eager to try his chance on a
wider field. The hundred copies of
which this edition consisted were hard-
ly out of his hands, when with fresh
activity he went to j)ress again, and his
fii'st published volume, the " Hours of
Idleness," made its appearance. Some
new pieces which he had written in
the interim were added, and no less
than twenty of those contained in the
former volume omitted. The rank and
name of Lord Byron gained for t.his

LOED BYRON.

513

volume a consideralDle circulation in
the faslnonaT)le world of London,
which, perhaps, the merits of the
poetry alone might not have attained.
Upon his return to Cambridge he
again engaged in all the dissipations
that were at that time so frequent
among young men of rank and fashion.
In the spring of this year, 1808, ap-
peared the memorable critique ujjon
the " Hours of Idleness " in the Edin-
hurgh Review. The effect this critic-
ism produced upon him can only be
conceived by those who, besides hav-
ing an adequate notion of what most
poets would feel under such an attack,
can understand all that there was in
the temper and disposition of Lord
Byron to make him feel it with ten-
fold more acuteness than others. From
his sensitiveness to the praise of the
meanest of his censors, we may guess
how painfully he must have writhed
under the sneers of the highest. A
friend, who found him in the first mo-
ments of excitement after readinsr the
article, inquired anxiously whether he
had received a challenge, not knowing
how else to account for the fierce defi-
ance of his looks. Among the less
sentimental effects of this review upon
his mind, he used to mention that on
the day he read it, he drank three bot-
tles of claret, to his own share, after
dinner ; that nothing, however, relieved
him till he had given vent to his indig-
nation in rhyme, and that " after the
first twenty lines he felt himself con-
siderably 1)etter."

His time at Newstead during the

autumn was principally occupied in

enlarging and pre])ariiig Iiis satire for

the press. This work, which owed its

force and spirit chiefly to the article
we have just spoken of, had been com-
menced by Lord Byron a long time
before. The importance of this new
move in literature seems to have been
fully appreciated by him. He saw
that his chances of future eminence
now depended upon the effort he was
about to make, and therefore deliber-
ately collected all his energies for the
spring ; and the misanthropic mood of
mind into which he had fallen at this
time, from disappointed affections and
thwarted hopes, made the ofiice of
satirist but too congenial and welcome
to his spirit.

His coming of age in 1809 was cele-
brated at Newstead by such festivals
as his narrow means and society could
furnish. It was not till the beginning
of this year that he took his satire to
London. During the progress of this
poem through the press he increased
its length by more than a hundred
lines, and the alterations which he
constantly made, show to what a de-
gree his Judgment and feelings were
affected by the impressions of the mo-
ment. On the 13th of March, Lord
Byron took his seat in the House of
Lords ; and a few days after, the " Eng-
lish Bards and Scotch Reviewers"
made its appearance. This satire was
issued anonymously, but it was not
long before the name of the author
was generally known. Lord Byron,
immediately upon its publication, had
retired into the country. He Avas soon,
however, called back to London to
superintend a new edition, in conse-
quence of the rapid sale of the first
To this second edition he made con-
siderable additions, and prefixed his

LOED BYKOK

name. He now made up bis mind
to leave England with his friend
Mr. Hobhouse, early in the following
June, for an extended tour in Sj^ain,
and the East.

Having put the finishing hand to his
new edition, he took leave of London,
on the 11th of June, and in about a
fortnisrht after sailed for Lisbon in
company with his friend, Mr. Hob-
house, takius: with him his valet,
Fletcher, Murray, the old family ser-
vant, a German attendant, and a boy
named Robert Rushton, who is intro-
duced as his page, in the First Canto
of " Childe Harold." From Lisbon he
traveled on horseback throiigh Portu-
gal and Spain, visiting, on the way,
the beautiful scenes of Cintra and Ma-
fra, Seville and Cadiz, and thence in the
" Hyjierion " frigate to Gibraltar, His
letters of the time record, in a most
lively manner, the adventures which
he met with during this hasty passage.
The dark -eyed beauties of Andalusia
appear to have made deep impressions
upon the heart of Byron, to judge
from the frequent allusions in his
poems of this period. Having made
a short stay at Giljraltar, on the 15th
of August he sailed for Malta. Here,
through some trifling misunderstand-
ing, he was at the point of fighting a
duel with an ofiicer of the garrison.
Lord Byron was on the ground at the
time appointed, but, through some mis-
take in the arrangements, his adversary
did not appear ; but, an hour after, an
officer deputed by him arrived, and
not only accounted for the delay, but
made every explanation with respect to
the supposed offence that could be re-
quu-ed. This incident is interesting, as

showing tbe manly courage and cool
ness of Lord Byron, in the only action
of the kind that he was ever engaged
in. The route which he now took
through Albania, and other parts of
Tiu'key, may be traced, by those who
desire the details, in IVIr. Hobhouse's
account of his travels. He passed from
Prevesa, where he landed, through
Acarnania and ^tolia, viewing the
famous sites of Actium and Lepanto,
and the classic ground of Delphi and
Parnassus, and after crossing Mount
Cithoeron, he arrived at Athens, the
city of his dreams, on Christmas-day,
1809. Here he made a stay of be-
tween two and three mouths.

On the 5th of March, the travelers
took a reluctant leave of Athens, and
continued their journey to Smyrna,
where, with the exception of a visit
to the ruins of Ephesus, they remained
for about a mouth. It was during this
time, as appears from a memorandum
of his own, that he finished the first
two Cantos of " Childe Harold." From
Smyrna he sailed up the Dardanelles
to Constantinople. During his pass-
age up the straits. Lord Byron repeat-
ed Leander's famous exploit of swim-
ming across the Hellespont, a feat to
which he afterward alludes in his let-
ters. Another year was now passed in
the East, at Constantinople and Athens,
and among the islands of the Archi-
pelago ; and about the middle of July,
1811, we find him again in England.

He had no sooner arrived in England
than he set about preparing for the
press some of the poems which he had
written while abroad. His first atten-
tion was given to a paraphrase of the
" Ars Poetica'' of Horace, a poem hardly

LORD BYEOK

515

worthy of his genius, but which, with
that strange blindness of authors to
the merits of their own Avorks, he per-
ferred to his (glorious " Childe Harold."
Happily, the better judgment of liis
friends averted the risk to his reputa-
tion which would have been the conse-
quence of his giving this poem to the
press at this time, and he at length
consented to the immediate jDublication
of '• Childe Harold," and it was put into
the hands of Mi'. Murray for that pur-
pose.

While thus busily engaged in his
literary projects, he was called away .
to Newstead by the intelligence of the
illness of his mother. She had been
indisposed for some time, but not to
any alarming degree. At the end of
July her illness took a new and fatal
turn ; and so strangely characteristic
was the close of the poor lady's life,
that a fit oi rage, brought on, it is
said, by reading over the upholsterer's
bills, was the ultimate cause of her
death. Although Lord Byron started
from town as soon as he heard of the
attack, he was too late, — she had
breathed her last.

" Childe Harold " was not ready for
publication until February of the fol-
lowing year. A few days previous to
its appearance, Lord Bp'on made the
first trial of his eloquence in the House
of Lords. The subject of debate was
the Nottingham Frame-breaking Bill.
In reference to his parliamentary dis-
j)lays, he says : " I spoke once or twice ;
but dissipation, shyness, haughty and
reserved opinions, together with the
short time I stayed in England, pre-
vented me from repeating the experi-
ment ; as far as I went, it was not dis-

couraging, particularly my first speech
(I spoke three or four times in all),
but just after it my poem of " Childe
Harold" was published, and nobody
ever thought of my prose afterward,
nor, indeed, did L"

Two days after his speech, the poem
appeared; and the impression which
it produced upon the public was as in-
stantaneous as it proved deep and last-
ing — ^the effect was electric ; his fame
had not to wait for any of the ordinai^^
gradations, but seemed to spring up,
like the palace in the fairy tale, in a
night. As he himself briefly described
it in his memoranda : — " I awoke one
morning and found myself famous."
The first edition of his Avork Avas dis-
posed of instantly. " Lord Byron "
and "Childe Harold" l)ecame the
theme of eA^ery tongue. At his door
most of the leading men of the day
presented themselves; from morning
till night the most flattering testimo-
nies of success croAvded his table ; he
saAV the Avhole splendid interior of
high life thrown open to receive him,
and found himself its most distinguish-
ed object. The copyright of his poem,
Avhich Avas purchased by Mr. Murray
for £600, he presented to his friend,
Mr. Dallas, saying that "he never
woiild receive money for his Avritings,"
a resolution, the mixed result of gen-
erosity and pride, which he afterAvards
Avisely abandoned.

Early in the sju-ing of 1S13, he
brought out, anonymously, his poem
on " Waltzing," and in the month of
May appeared his wild and beautiful
" Fi-agment," the " Giaour." The pub-
lic hailed this ncAV offspring of his

genius Avith Avouder and delight.

This

516

LOKD BYROK

poem, which when first published was
contained in four hundred lines, was
increased by subsequent additions to
fourteen hundred. The plan, indeed,
which he had adopted, of a series of
fragments, left him free to introduce,
without reference to more than the
general complexion of his story, what-
ever sentiments or images his fancy, in
its excursions, could collect. This was
succeeded by the " Bride of Abydos,"
which was published at the beginning
of December of the same year, having
been struck off, like its predecessor, in
one of those paroxysms of passion
and imao-ination, which adventures
such as the poet was now engaged in
were, in a temperament like his, calcu-
lated to excite.

About a year before, Lord Byi'on
had been induced to turn his thoughts
seriously to marriage, at least as seri-
ously as his thoughts were ever capa-
ble of being so turned, — and, chiefly
by the advice and intervention of his
friend, Lady Melbourne, to become a
suitor for the hand of a relation of that
lady. Miss Milbanke. Though his
proposal was not then accepted, every
assurance of friendship and regard ac-
companied the refusal; a wish was
even expressed that they should con-
tinue to write to each other, and a cor-
respondence ensued between them.

His own account of the circum-
stances which led to his second propo-
sal for Miss Milbanke, is, in substance
as follows : A person, who had for
some time stood high in his affection
and confidence, observing how cheer-
less and unsettled was the state both
of his mind and prospects, advised
him strenuously to many; and, after

much discussion, he consented. The
next point for consideration was, who
was to be the object of his choice;
and while his friend mentioned one
lady, he himself named Mis9 Mil-
banke. To this, however, his adviser
strongly objected, as Miss Milbanke
had at present no fortune, and that his
own embarrassed affairs would not
permit him to marry without one, and
that she would not at all suit him. In
consequence of these representations,
he aOTeed that his friend should write
a proposal for him to the other lady
named, which was accordingly done ; —
and an answer containing a refusal, ar-
rived, as they were, one morning, sit-
ting together. "You see," said Lord
Byron, '• that after all. Miss Milbanke
is to be the person ; — I will write to
her." He accordingly wrote on the
moment, and a few days after he re-
ceived a very flattering acceptance of
his offer. The die was cast now, and
he had no alternative but to proceed.
Accordingly, at the end of December,
accompanied by his friend, Mr. Hob-
house, he set out for Seaham, the resi-
dence of Sir Ralph Milltanke, the lady's
father, in the county of Durham ; and
on the 2d of January, 1815, he was
married.

After the wedding. Lord Byron re-
sided with his wife for some time at
Seaham, but he soon wearied of the
monotony of country life ; and to-
wards the end of March, he returned
to London, where, on the 10th of De-
cember of the same year, his daughter,
Augusta Ada, was born. The strong
and affectionate terms in which, after
his marriage, he had in some of his
letters declared his own happiness.

LOED BTEOISr.

517

tended to still those appretensions
whicli the first view of his alliance
gave rise to. These indications of a
contented heart, however, soon ceased.
His mention of the partner of his
home hecame rare and formal ; and a
feeling of unquiet and weariness ap-
peared, which brought back all the
worst anticipations of his fate.

About a mouth after the birth of
her child, Lady Byron most unexpect-
edly adopted the resolution of sepa-
rating from her husband. She had
left London at the latter end of Janu-
ary, on a visit to her father's house, in
Leicestershire, and Lord Byron was, a
short time after, to accompany her.
They had parted in the utmost kind-
ness, — she wrote him a letter, full of
playfulness and affection, on the road ;
and immediately on her arrival at
Kirkby Mallory, her father wrote to
acquaint Lord Byron that she would
return to him no more. At the mo-
ment when he had to stand this unex-
pected shock, his pecuniary embarrass-
ments, which had been fast gathering
around him during the whole of the last
year, (there having been no less than
eight or nine executions in his house
within that period,) had arrived at
their climax ; and at a moment, when,
to use his o^vn expression, he " was
standing alone on his hearth, with his
household gods shivered around him,"
he was doomed to receive the startling
intelligence that the wife who had Just
parted with him in kindness had part-
ed with him— forever !

The poet now determined to leave
England for a tour through Swit-
zerland, the Netherlands, and Italy.
Since his early travel in the East, his

thoughts had often fondly reverted to
those southern lands which had so
powerfully impressed his imagination,
and he now turned away Avithout re-
gret fi'om the country which had given
him up, and the friends who had for-
saken him. During the month of Janu-
ary and part of February, his poems
of the " Siege of Corinth " and " Pa-
risina," were in the hands of the prin-
ters, and about the end of the latter
month, they made their appearance.
Although Lord Byron was in the most
embarrassed circumstances, and his
creditors, animated by the general out-
cry, were pressing their claims with
more severity than ever, he still re-
fused to accept any compensation for
his works. It was under these disas-
trous and almost humiliating circum-
stances that Lord Byron took his final
leave of England. On the 25th of
April he sailed for Ostend, accom-
panied by Dr. Polidori, two foreign
servants, and William Fletcher and
Robert Rushton, the same " yeoman "
and " page " who had set out with him
in his 3-outhful travels in 1809.

The course which he now pursued
through Flanders, and by the Ehine,
may best be traced in his own match-
less verses in the Third Canto of
"Childe Harold." At Geneva, he
took up his residence at the Hotel
Lecheron, on the banks of the lake.
Here he first made the acquaintance
of Shelley and his wife, who were
living in the same hotel. The con-
stant intercourse of the poets, thus
thrown together, produced an inti-
macy between them which lasted with
unabated warmth until the death of
Shelley. The opinions and theories of

his new companion were not without
their influence upon the impression-
able mind of Lord Bp-on, and among
those fine "bursts of passion and de-
scription which abound in his later
poetry, may be discovered traces of
that mysticism of meaning — that sub-
limity losing itself in vagueness, which
characterized the ^mtings of his extra-
ordinary friend. After a stay of a few
weeks at this place, he removed to a
vdlla in the neighborhood, called Dio-
dati, very beautifully situated on the
high banks of the lake, where he es-
tablished his residence for the remain-

Harold." After accomplishing this
journey, about the beginning of Octo-
ber, he took his departure for Italy.
After a month spent at various places
on the way, chiefly at Milan and Ve-
rona, he reached Venice, where he in-
tended to reside for the winter. All
the restraint of popular opinion being
now removed ; and rendered desperate
and careless of his reputation by the
constant recollection that he was an
outcast from his native land. Lord By-
ron plunged into all the disipations
which were offered to him in the li-
centious society and easy morals of
an Italian citv. During this time,

der of the summer. The efl:ect of the

late struo'gle upon his mind, in stin-ing however, his literary occupations were

up all its resources and energies, was not entirely neglected ; he finished his

visible in the great activity of his extraordinaiy creation of " Manfi'ed,"

genius during the whole of this period, and wrote several smaller pieces. He

and the rich variety, both in character
and coloring, of the works with which
it teemed. Besides the Third Canto,
and the " Prisoner of Chillon," he pro-
duced also his two poems, " Darkness "
and " The Dream," the latter of which
must have cost him many a tear in
writing, being, indeed, the most mourn-

usually devoted part of the morning
to the study of Armenian, at the con-
vent of the Armenian monks on one
of the islands of the lagoon. In this
language he does not seem to have at-
tained much proficiency, although he
took some part in the translation of an
Epistle of St. Paul, not generally con-

ful, as well as picturesque " story of a sidered genuine, which had been pre-

wanderincr life " that ever came from
the pen and heart of man.

served in the Armenian writings. The
irreorular course of life which he had

Soon afterward, upon the arrival of adopted, soon showed its effect upon

his friends, Mr. Hobhouse and Mr. S.
Davies, he set out with the foiTuer on
a tour through the Bernese Alps. He
has left a journal of this excursion, in
which he records, in hasty memoranda.

his health, and in a few mouths he wag
attacked with a low fever, which left
him quite weak. In order to escape
the unhealthy season at Venice, and to
recinait his constitution by a change to

the first impressions produced upon the purer and more wholesome air of
his mind by the magnificent scenery the main land, he removed for the sum-
through which he traveled ; and it is mer to a villa at La Mira, on the
interesting to trace in these careless Brenta, not far from the city,
notes, the germs of his most splendid Some time before this. Lord Byron
imagery in " Manfred " and " Cbilde ! had made a hurried trip to Florence

and Bome^ wliich was snfficieait, how-
ever, to ftore liis mind witdi the xrnd
impressions of the^ &moas oti^ and
their tieasm^s of art and antiq[iiifj,
which enrich his poems. In £act, so
far fiom the power* of his inteHect be-
ing weakened by his inne^tilarities, he
was, peihaps, at no time of life so ae-
tivelir in the ftdl possession of his en-
eiv^e^ for it was at this time that he
produced the fourth and last canto of
" ChUde Harold,'^ which was consider-
ed even io surpass its piiedeoessc^rs.
About this period, his hnmoious story
of ~ Beppo,'" descriptive of Italian life,
was also published.

liOid Byrau in one of his letters re-
marks, that the ancient beauty of the
Yeneldan women had deseited the
'"■ dame *" or higha' orders, and that the
faces which adorn the canvass of Titian
and Giorgione were now only to be
found under the ^^jfazriole," or ker-
chiefs of the lower. It was unluckily
amon? thi^e latter specimens of the
" bel sangue " of Venice, thai he wias
now, by a sudden deseent in the scale
of reSnemi^it, to select the companions
of his disengaged hours. A proof,
however, that in this short and despe-
rate career of libertinism, he was only
seeking relief far a wronged and mor-
tified spirit, is that, sometimes, when
his house was in possession of such vis-
itantSs he would hurry away in his gon-
dola, and pass the greater part oi the
night upon the water, as if hating to
return h<Hne. It is, indeed, certain
that he always looked back to this pe-
riod of his life with self-reproach ; and
the excesses to which he had there
abandoned himself, were among the
prominent causes of the detestation

which ie afi^-tvards felt fc«r Venice
It w^as whSe these diSeieat feelings
wiane strxiggJing in his breast, iliat le
conceived and be^an his poeai of ~ Don
Juanf and never -lid pages m<aie ^ith-
fiilly represait every variety of eoao-
tion, and wlum, and pa^on, that, like
the laek of autumn, swept across the
authors mind in writing th^n. The
eool shrewdness of age, with the vivaci-
ty and glowing teaipiaankQit of youth —
the wit of a Voltaire, with the seasibLl-
ity of a Bousseau — the minute practi-
cal knowledge of a man of society,
with the abstract and self-oont^anpla-
tive spirit of a poet — a susceptibility
of all that is grandest and most affect-
ing in human virtue, with a dt^p,
withering experience of all that is most
&tal to it — the two estranes in short,
ct inan''s wild and inconsisteiii nature ;
such was the strange ass»anblage of
contrary eli^nents all meeting in the
same mind, and all brought to bear,
in turn, upon the same task, from w^hich
alone could have spnms- this extraor-
dinary poem, — tie most powerful in
many r^)eci^ the most painful dis-
play of the versatility of genius that
has ever been left for succeedinir ages
to wonder at and deplore.

It vi-as about the time that a full
consciousness of the evils of this course
of life broke upon him. that an attach-
ment, difteriag altogether, both in du-
ration and intensity, from any oi those
that, since the dreams of his l-oyhood,
had inspired him. gsiined an indnence
over his mind which lasted throue-h
his few remaining years ; and, undenia-
bly wrc^ng and immoral, even n\>m an
Italian point of view, as was the na
ture of this -.-oanectioa, we can hardly

520

LOED BYROK

perhaps — taking into account the far
worse wrong from which it rescued
hira — consider it otherwise than fortu-
nate. The fair object of this last love
was a young Romagnese lady, the
Countess Guiccioli, the daughter of
Count Gamba, of Eavenna. Her hus-
band had, in early life, been the friend
of Alfieri, and had distinguished him-
self in the promotion of a national
theatre, in which cause he joined his
own wealth to the talents of the poet.
Notwithstanding his . age, and a char-
acter by no means reputable, his opu-
lence made him a prize which all the
mothers of Ravenna strove to secure
for their daughters, and the young and
beautiful Teresa Gamba, just emanci-
pated from a convent and only eight-
een, was the selected victim. The
first time that Lord Byron met this
lady was at the house of the Countess
Albrizzi, in the autumn of 1818. No
acquaintance, at this time, ensued be-
tween them, and it was not till the
following spring that they were intro-
duced to each other. The love that
sprang up at this interview was instan-
taneous and mutual. "From that eve-
ning," she says, "we met every day as
long as I remained at Venice." About
the middle of April the Countess was
obliged to quit Venice with her hus-
band, for Ravenna. From every place
on the road she -wrote letters to her
lover, expressing in the most passion-
ate and pathetic terms her despair at
leaving him. So great was her afflic-
tion that it produced a dangerous ill-
ness, which, by the time that she reach-
ed the end of her journey , had assumed
such an alarming aspect that her life
was despaired of The timely arrival

of Lord Byron at Ravenna had, how
ever, a most favorable effect ; and she
was soon sufficiently recovered to go to
Bologna, whither he accompanied her
The state of her health before long,
however, obliged her to return to Ve-
nice ; her husband, being unable to go
with her, consented that Lord By-
ron should be the companion of her
journey. The air of the city not
agreeing with the countess, they short-
ly afterAvard took up their residence
at a villa on the Brenta. This arrange-
ment, as might be expected, hardly
pleased the count, her husband ; and
in the winter he returned to Venice
to claim his absent sjiouse. He imme-
diately insisted that his lady should
return with him, and after some nego-
tiations she reluctantly consented to
accomj^any her lord.

Lord Byron now turned his thoughts
towards Eno-land. For some time he had
contemjjlated a visit to his native land
to attend to his affairs at home ; and
now he had at last, though unwillingly,
resolved upon the journey, and fixed
the time for his departure, when the
tidings reached him that the countess
was again alarmingly ill at Ravenna.
Her sorrow at their separation had so
preyed upon her mind, that even her
own family, and her husband, fearful
of the consequences, had withdrawn
all opposition to her wishes, and en-
treated her lover to hasten to her side.
Lord Byron, only too glad ol any ex-
cuse for abandoning his journey, and
eager to return to the woman for whom
he felt the deepest passion that had,
since his boyhood, animated his exist-
ence, and who had shown such a de-
voted attachment to him, more touch

inof amid tlie coldness and insfratitude
tliat lie had lately met with, lost no
time in resjDouding to the summons.
His presence, as before, revived her
sinkino- health. He now transferred
his wandering; household to Ravenna,
Avheu he fell into his usual routine of
daily employments : riding in the pine
forest celebrated by Boccaccio in the
afternoon, and passing his evenings in
the company of his inamorata, or go-
ing occasionally into the society of the
place. At this time, all connection
with his own countrymen, except by
correspondence, had almost entirely
ceased. There were no resident Ensr-
lish at Ravenna, and travelers seldom
came there, and never stayed long. He
was surrounded by a retinue of Italian
servants, and the only person that he
ever saw who spoke his native tongue,
was his valet Fletcher, and he, he says,
spoke Nottingliamsliire dialect. At
that time the state of Italy was very
much disturbed by the talk of revolu-
tions and secret leaarues as-ainst the ex-
isting foreign government. Lord By-
ron, as it appears from many allusions
in his letters, took a warm interest, if
not a more active part, in these move-
ments.

Before long, these agitations excited
so much alarm in the hearts of the
rulers of Italy, that they issued a sen-
tence of proscription and banishment
against all those whom they supposed
had in the remotest degree contributed
to them. The two Gambas, the father
and brother of the Countess Guiccioli,
were, of course, as suspected chiefs of
the CarV)onari of Roniagna, included.
About the middle of July, the Count-
ess wi'ote to inform Lord Byron that
66

her father, in whose palazzo she was
now residing, and her brother, had
Just been ordered to quit Ravenna
within twenty-four houi's. She her-
self found, a few days after, that she
must also join the crowd of exiles.
Lord Byron himself had become an
object of strong suspicion to the gov-
ernment; but, not daring to attack him
directly, they hoped that by driving
his fi-iends away, he would be induced
to share their banishment. The de-
sired result was obtained ; for, a short
time afterward, he joined them at Pisa,
in Tuscany, which place they had
agreed upon for the winter. In his
journey to this place, he met at Bo-
logna, by a previous appointment, the
poet Rogers, who has introduced the
circumstance in his " Italy."

Upon his arrival at Pisa, Lord By-
ron took up his residence in a famous
old feudal palazzo on the Arno, the
lanfranchi Palace. Soon after his
removal from Ravenna, he received
the sad intelligence that his natural
daughter, AUegra Byron, whom he
had left at the convent of Bagna Ca-
vallo for the care of her education,
was dead. The blow was a heavj'
one, but after the first violent burst
of grief, he bore up against it with a
firmness and com^josure unusual to his
temperament. While he was at Pisa,
a serious afi'ray occurred, in ^vhicll he
was personally concerned. Lord By-
ron, -with some of his friends, was rid-
ing near the gates of the city, when a
dragoon, whom he mistook for an ofli-
cer, but who afterwai-d turned out to
be only a sergeant-major, called upon
the guard to arrest them. Lord Byron
and another, an Italian, rode through

522

LOED BYEON.

tlie guard, without heeding them, but
they detained tlie rest. He then rode
home, and sent his secretary to give an
account of the affaii- to the government
and procure their release. Upon re-
tixruiug to the spot, he met the same
dragoon, and had some words with
him, and supposing him to be a gen-
tleman, asked him his name and ad-
dress. As the dragoon was riding
away, he was stabbed and dangerous-
ly wounded by one of Lord Bp'on's
servants, wholly, however, without
his direction or approval. The conse-
quence of this rencontre was, that the
two Gambas and Lord Byron's ser-
vants were banished from Pisa. He
himself was advised to leave it. As
the Countess went with her father, he
a short time after joined them at Leg-
horn, and spent six weeks at Monte-
nero, in the neia:hborhood. His return
to Pisa was occasioned by a new prose-
cution of the family of the GamLas.
They were commanded to leave the
Tuscan states in four days. After
their departure, the Countess Guiccioli
and Lord Byron returned to the Lan-
franchi Palace.

Durino; all this time he had not been
idle with his pen. " The Prophecy of
Dante," " Sardanapalus," a tragedy ;
" Heaven and Earth," a mystery ; and
" Cain," a mystery, were written at
Ravenna. The last production called
forth the severest denunciations, for
Avhat appeared to he its impiety in
questioning the benevolence of Provi-
dence. From this the author defended
himself on the ground that it was
strictly a dramatic work ; that if it
was blasj)hemous, so also must be
Milton's " Paradise Lost," with Satan's

"Evil, be thou my good." At Pisa
he wrote, however, a tragedy, " The
Deformed Transformed," and contin-
ued "Don Juan" through the Seven-
teenth Canto.

We now come to a period in Byron's
career when a new start was to be taken
by his daring sj)irit, and a course, glori-
ous as it was brief and fatal, entered
upon. At the beginning of the month
of April, 1823, Lord Byron received a
visit from Mr. Blaquiere, the agent of
the Greek Committee, in England. He
had been directed to stop at Genoa
and communicate with Lord Byi'on, as
it Avas thouo'ht that he mio-ht feel in-
clined to aid the revolutionists. In
this way. Lord Byron's active partici
pation in the struggle began, and he
found himself, almost before he had
time to form a decision, or well knew
what he had undertaken, obliged to
set out for Greece. The preparations
for his departure were now hastened.
All was soon ready, and on the 13th
day of July, he slept on board the
Hercules, an English brig, which had
been taken to convey him to the East.
His suite, at this time, consisted of
Count Gamba, Mr. Trelawney, Dr.
Bruno, and eight domestics. About
sunrise the next morning they suc-
ceeded in clearing the port, but after
remaining in sight of Genoa the whole
day, they were obliged, by adverse
winds, to return. This incident was
regarded by Byron as a bad omen, and
tended still more to depress his spirits.
When, however, they had fairly got to
sea on the next day, and he was wholly
disengaged, as it were, from his former
existence, the natural j^ower of his
spirit shook ofE this despondency, and

LOKD BYEOX.

523

tlie liglit and life of his Ijetter nature
again shone forth. After a passage of
five days they reached Leghorn, where
they were to stop to take in a supply
of powder and other English goods,
not to be had elsewhere. On the 24:th
of July, after a most favorable voj'age,
they cast anchor at Agostoli, the chief
port of Cephalonia. It had been
thought prudent that Lord B}tou
should first direct his course to one of
the Ionian islands,. from whence, as a
post of observation, he should be able
to ascertain tiie exact position of affairs
on the mainland. "With this view he
determined not to land at Agostoli,
but to await on board of his vessel
further information from the govern-
ment of Greece. While awaiting the
return of his messengers, he emj)loyed
his time in a visit to the neighboring
island of Ithaca. Unchanged since
his early travels, he still preferred the
wild charms of natui'e to the classic as-
sociations of ai't and story, although
he viewed with much interest those
places which tradition had sanctified.
The benevolence, which was one of the
chief motives of his present course,
had opportunities of showing itself,
even during his short stay in Ithaca.
On hearing that a number of destitute
fomilies had fled thither for refuge
from Scio, Patras, and other parts of
Greece, he sent to the commandant
three thousand piastres for their relief.
Upon Lord Byron's return to Cepha-
lonia, a messenger brought him a let-
ter from Marco Botzari, one of the
chiefs of the insurrection in Western
Greece. He hailed his arrival with
enthusiasm, and thanked him for the
aid which he had alrea<ly given to the

cause, in arming forty Suliotes, and
sending them to assist in the relief of
Missolonghi, at that time besieged by
the Turks. This letter preceded, only
by a few hours, the death of the writer.
The same night he led his baud into
the midst of the Turkish camp, and fell
at last close to the tent of the Pacha
himself. This glorious enterprise
checked, but did not j)reveut the ad-
vance of the Turks. After the battle,
Lord Byron transmitted bandages and
medicines, of which he had a large
supply, and also pecuniary assistance
to the wounded.

Aware that, to judge deliberately of
parties, he must keep out of their
vortex, and warned of the risk he
should run by connecting himself with
any, he resolved to remain for some
time longer at Cej^halonia. Diiring
the six weeks that he had been here,
he had been living in the most com-
fortless manner, on board the vessel
which brought him. Having made up
his mind to 2:)rolong his stay, he
decided upon fixing his residence on
shore, and he retired, for the sake of
privacy, to a small village called
Metaxata, about seven miles from
Agostoli.

Before his removal he despatched
Mr. Trelawney and Mr. Hamilton
Browne with a letter to the existing
government, explaining liis own views
and those of the committee whom he
represented ; and it was not till a
month after, that intelligence from
these gentlemen reached him. The
picture they gave of the state of the
country was confirmatory of what has
already been described, — inca])acity
and selfishness at the head of aftairs,

disorganisation thronghout the body
politic ; but still, with all this, the heart
of the nation sound, and bent on resis-
tance. His lordship's agents had been
received with all due welcome by the
government, who were most anxious
that he should set out for the Morea
without delay ; and pressing letters to
this purport were sent to him, both
from the legislative and executive
bodies.

Here, in his retirement, while await-
ing more positive assurances to direct
his movements, conflicting calls were
reachino; him from all the various scenes
of action , Metaxa, at Missolonghi, en-
treated him to hasten to the I'elief of
that place, which the Turks were now
blockading by sea and land ; the head
of the military chiefs, Colcotroui, was
no less urgent that he should present
himself at the approaching congress of
Salamis, where, under the dictation of
these rude warriors, the affairs of the
country were to be settled ; while from
another quarter, the great opponent of
these chieftains, Mavrocordato, was,
with more urgency, as well as more
ability than any, endeavoring to
impress upon him his own views, and
imploring his presence at Hydra,
whither he had been forced to retire.
Byron listened with equal attention to
all these conflicting appeals, and, not
committing himself to any party, strove
in his own way to discover the truth,
and to form his Judgment from it.

Besides the aid which he had already
afi'orded to the Greeks, in many differ-
ent ways, Lord Byron assisted the
government by the loan of large sums
of money, to raise which he sold his
manor of Rochdale, and drew large-

ly upon his income for the ensuing
year.

The Grecian squadron, which had
been long expected at Missolonghi,
had now arrived, and Mavrocordato,
the only leader worthy of the name of
statesman, having been appointed to
organize Western Greece, the time for
Lord Byron's presence on the scene of
action seemed to have arrived, and he
set about preparing for his departure.
His friends endeavored to dissuade
him from fixing on such an unhealthy
spot as Missolonghi for his residence,
but his mind was made up, — the prox-
imity of the port in some degree
tempting him, — and having hired for
himself and suite a light fast-sailing
vessel, with a boat for part of his
baggage, and. a larger vessel for the
horses, etc., he was on the 26th of
December ready to sail. This short
voyage was not without its accidents.
Several hours before daybreak, while
waiting for the other party to come up,
Lord Byron found himself close under
the stern of a large vessel, which was
soon found to be a Turkish frigate.
By good fortune, they were mistaken
for a Greek fire-ship by the Turks,
who therefore feared to fire, but
with loud shouts frequently hailed
them. By maintaining perfect silence,
and under cover of the darkness, Lord
Byron's vessel was enabled to get
away safely ; and took shelter among
the Scrofes, a cluster of rocks but a
few hours' sail from Missolonghi.
Finding his position here untenable in
case of an attack, he thought it right
to ventiu'e out again, and making all
sail, got safe to Dragomestina, a small
sea-port town on the coast of Acarnania.

LOED BYRON.

525

The other boat, with Count Gamba on
board, was not so fortunate, having
been brought to by the Turkish frigate
and carried into Patras, where the
commander of the squadron was sta-
tioned. Here after an interview with
the Pacha, by whom he was treated
most courteously, during his detention
he had the good fortune to prociire the
release of his vessel and freight, and
on the 4th of January he arrived at
Missoloughi, where, on the next day,
he was joined by Lord Byron, who was
received by the garrison and the in-
habitants with the greatest demon-
strations of enthusiasm. The whole
population of the place crowded to the
shore to welcome him; the ships
anchored off the fortress fired a salute
as he passed, and all the troops and
dignitaries of the place, with Prince
Mavrocordato at theii' head, met him
on his landing, and accompanied him,
amid the mingled din of shouts, wild
music, and discharges of artillery, to the
house that had been prepared for him.
An expedition against Lepanto, a
fortified town on the gulf of Corinth,
was now proposed, and the command
was given to Lord Byron, who entered
into the project with great enthusiasm.
The delay of Parry, the engineer, who
was expected with supplies necessary
for the formation of a brigade of artil-
lery, for some time checked this imjjor-
tant enterprise, and a st'.ll more for-
midaljle eml)arrassnu'nt presented itself
in the turliulcuce and insubordination
of the Suliote troops, on whose services
it depended. Presuming upon the
generosity of Lord Byron and theii-
own military importance, they never
ceased to rise in the extravagance of

their demands. They pleaded the
utterly destitute and homeless state of
their families, whom they had been
compelled to bring with them, as a
pretext for their exaction and discon-
tent. A serious I'iot, which occurred
between the Suliotes and the people,
and in which several lives were lost,
also added much to the anxiety of
Lord Byron, who deeply felt the
disappointment which the ill success
of his endeavours had caused him.

Towards the middle of February,
the indefatigable activity of Mr. PaiTy
having brought the artillery brigade
into such a state of forwardness as to
be almost ready for service, an inspec-
tion of the Suliote coi-ps took place
preparatory to the expedition ; and
after much of the usual deception and
unmanagebleness on their part, every
obstacle appeared to be at length
surmounted. It was agreed that they
should receive a month's pay in ad-
vance ; — Count Gamba, with three
hundred of their corps as a van-guard,
was to march next day, and take up a
position under Lepanto, and Lord
Byron with the main body and the
artillery was speedily to follo^v. New
difficulties, however, were soon started
by these intractable mercenaries , and
at the instigatioiL, as it afterwards
appeared, of Colcotroni, the great rival
of Mavrocordato, they put forward
their exactions in a new shape, by
requiring the government to appoint
generals, colonels, captains, and inferior
j officers out of their own ranks, to the
extent that there should be, out of
three or four hundred Suliotes, one
hundred and fifty above the rank of
I private. This audacious dishonesty

526

LOED BYEOK

roused the anger of Lord Byi'on, and
he at once signified to the whole body
that all negotiation with them was at
an end ; that he could no longer have
confidence in persons so little true to
their engagements; and, although he
should still keep up the relief which
he had given to their families, all his
enofasrements with them were thence-
forward void.

It was on the 14th of February that
this rupture with the Suliotes took
place ; and though on the following
day, in consequence of the full submis-
sion of their chiefs, they were again
received into his service on his own
terms, the whole affair, combined with
other difficulties that beset him, asri-
tated his mind considerably.

While these vexatious events Avere
occurring, the interruptions of his
accustomed exercise by the rains in-
creased the irritability that these delays
excited; and the whole together, no
doubt, concurred with whatever pre-
disposing tendencies were already in
his constitution to brina: on that con-
vulsive fit — the forerunner of his death,
— which, on the evening of the 15th of
February, seized him. He was sitting,
at about eight o'clock, with only Mr.
Parry and Mr. Hesketh, in the apart,
nient of Colonel Stanhope, talking
jestingly upon one of his favorite
topics, the difference between himself
and this latter gentleman, and saying
that " he believed, after all, the author's
brigade would be ready before the
soldier's printing-press." There was an
unusual flush on his face, and from the
rapid changes of his countenance it
was manifest that he was suffering
under some nervous agitation. He

then complained of being thirsty, and
calling for some cider, drank it ; iipon
which, a still greater change being
observable over his features, he rose
from his seat, but was unable to walk,
and, after staggering a step or two, fell
into Mr. Parry's arms. In another
minute his teeth were closed, his speech
and senses gone, and he was in strong
convulsions. The fit was, however,
as short as it was violent; in a few
minutes his speech and senses returned ;
his features, though still pale and
haggard, resumed their natural shape,
and no effect remained from the attack
but excessive weakness. The next
morning he was found to be better,
but still pale and weak, and he com-
plained much of a sensation of weight
in his head. Leeches were therefore
applied to his temples, but on their
removal it was some time before they
could stop the blood, which flowed so
copiously that he fainted from exhaus
tion. While he was thus lying pros-
trate upon his bed, a party of mutinous
Suliotes rushed into the room, covered
with dirt and splendid attire, franti-
cally brandishing their arms, and wild-
ly insisting upon compliance with their
demands. Lord Byron, electrified by
this unexpected act, seemed to recover
from his sickness, and the more they
raa;ed the more his calm couraofe re-
turned. His health now slowly im-
proved, and his strength increased so
that, in a few daj^s, he was enabled to
take his daily rides in the neighbor-
hood.

On the 9th of April, Lord Byron
Avent out on horseback Avith Count
Gamba. About three miles from
Missolonghi they were overtaken by a

LOKD BYEOJSr.

627

heavy shower, and returned to the
walls wet through, and in a state of
violent perspiration. It had been their
usual practice to dismount at the walls,
and return to their house in a boat;
but on this day, Count Gamba, repre-
senting to Lord Byron how dangerous
it would be, warm as he then was, to
sit exposed so long to the rain in a
boat, entreated him to go back the
whole way on horseback. To this
Lord Byi'on would not consent, and
they accordingly returned as usual.
Al)out two hours after his return
home he was seized with a shudderin<x,
and complained of a fever and rheu-
matic pains. " At eight this evening,"
says Count Gamba, " I entered his
room. He was lying on a sofa, rest-
less and melancholy. He said to me,
' I suffer a great deal of pain. I do
not care for death, but these agonies I
cannot bear.' " The following day he
rose at his accustomed hour, transacted
business, and was even able to take his
ride in the olive-woods. He com-
plained, however, of perpetual shud-
derings, and had no appetite. On the
evening of the 11th, his fever, which
was pronounced to be rheumatic, in-
creased ; and on the 12th he kept his
bed all day. The two following days,
although the fever apparently dimin-
ished, he became still more weak, and
suffered much from pains in his head.
About three o'clock in the afternoon
of the IStli, Lord Byron rose and went
into the adjoining room. He was able
to walk across the chamber, leaning on
liis servant Tita; and, when seated,
asked for a book, which was l)rouglit
to him. After reading, however, for a
few minutes, he found himself faint ;

and again taking Tita's arm, tottered
into the next room and returned to
bed. At this time, tha physicians,
becoming alarmed, held a consultation.
It Avas after this consultation, as it
appears, that Lord Bp'on first became
aware of his ajiproaching end. Mr.
Millingen, Fletcher and Tita were
standing around his bed ; but the two
first, unable to restrain their tears, left
the room. Tita also wept, but as
Byron held his hand, he could not
retire. He, however, turned away his
face ; while Byron, looking at him
steadily, said, half smiling, " Oh,
questa fe una bella scena ! " He then
seemed to reflect a moment, and ex-
claimed, " Call Parry." Almost imme-
diately afterward, a fit of delirium
ensued, and he began to talk wildly,
as if he were mounting a breach at an
assault, calling out half in English
half in Italian, "Forwaixl, forward —
courage — follow," etc. On coming
again to himself, he asked Fletcher
whether he had sent for Dr. Thomas,
as he desired. On being told that he
had, he expressed his satisfaction. It
was now evident that he knew he was
dying; and between his anxiety to
make his servant know his last wishes,
and the rapid failure of his powers of
utterance, a most painful scene ensued.
On Fletcher offering to bring pen and
paper to take down his words — " Oh,
no," he replied, " there is no time, it is
now nearly over. Go to my sister —
tell her — go to Lady BjTon — you will

see her, and say " Here his voice

faltered, and gradually became indis-
tinct, so that only a few words could
be heard.

Tlie decision adopted by the consul

528

LORD BYEON.

tation bead been, contrary to tlie oi^mion
of Mr. Millingen and Dr. Freiber, to
administer to the patient a strong anti-
spasmodic potion, which, while it
produced sleep, possibly hastened his
death. After taking some of this, he
fell into a slumber. In about half an
hour he again woke, when a second
dose was given to him. His speech
now became very indistinct, though he
still kept on muttering to himself so
incoherently that nothing could be
understood. About six o'clock on the
evening of this day, he said, "now I
shall go to sleep;" and then, turning
round, fell into that slumber from
which he never awoke. For the next
twenty-four hours he lay incapable of
either sense or motion — with the excep-
tion of, now and then, slight symptoms
of suffocation, during which his ser-
vant raised his head — and at a quarter
past six on the following day, the
19th of April, 1824, he was seen to
open his eyes, and immediately shut
them again. The physicians felt his
pulse — he was no more !

The funeral ceremony took place in

the church of Saint Nicholas, at Misso-
longhi, on the 22nd of April. His
remains were borne to the church on
the shoulders of the officers of his
corps, in the midst of his own brigade,
with almost the whole population
following. The coffin was a rude, ill-
constructed chest of wood ; a black
mantle served for a pall ; and on it
were placed a helmet and a sword,
with a crown of laurel. After the
funeral service was read, the bier was
left in the church until the next day,
that all might view, for the last time,
the features of their benefactor.

The first step taken, before any
decision as to its ultimate disposal,
was to have the body conveyed to
Zante, and on the morning of the 2d of
May, the remains were embarked,
under a mournful salute from the guns
of the fortress.

It was on Friday, the 16th of July,
that, in the small village church of
Hucknall, the last duties were paid to
the remains of Byron, by depositing
them close to those of his mother, in
the family vault.

c^^-Cc^o^^ ■ y^<^

ELIZABETH FRY.

MRS. ELIZABETH FRY was
l)orn iu Norwich, England, May
21st, 1780. She was the third daugh-
ter of John Giirney of Eastham, in
the county of Norfolk, and Catherine,
daughter of Daniel Bell, a London
merchant, whose wife was a descend-
ant of the ancient family of the Bar-
clays, of Ury, in Kincardineshire, and
granddaughter of Robert Barclay, the
famed vindicator of the opinions and
principles of the Quakers. The Gur-
ney's were of Norman origin, the im-
mediate ancestor of the present family
in Norfolk being John Gurney, born
in the middle of the seventeenth cen-
tury, who in early life joined the So-
ciety of Friends, when the sect was
first instituted by George Fox. His
son inherited his Quaker tenets, which
had been transmitted through three
succeeding generations, when Eliza-
beth Gurney, the subject of this no-
tice, came into the world. Her father
was a successful merchant and banker,
which im])li('d free intercourse with
the world, and some relaxation of the
stricter requirements of his sect. He
is described as " a man of ready talent,
of bright, discerning mind, singularly
warm-hearted and aftectionate, very
67

benevolent, of a naturally social dis-
position, inducing unusual liberality
of sentiment towards others, and in
manners courteous and popular."

He was married to a lady of much
personal beauty, of an amiable dispo-
sition, inclined to literary society,
alive to the beauties of nature, and of
that cultivated conscientiousness in the
duties of religion which is the best
characteristic of the Society of Friends.
Living in ease and luxury, she care-
fully implanted in the minds of her
children growing up about her a pro-
per sense of the duties of life, sup-
ported and strengthened by personal
piety. Her scheme of education for
the young members of her family, as
left by her in some private memoran-
da, also shows a liberal appreciation
of intellectual culture, and may be re-
ferred to as an illustration of the sim-
ple and refined ideal of household life,
under favorable circumstances, in the
last century.

The home in which these virtues
were practiced was mostly in the ru-
ral vicinity of Norwich, first at Bram-
erton, a pretty country village, and
afterwards at the more costly resi-
dence of Eastham Hall, a fine old

(529)

560

ELIZABETH FRY.

Louse in a well-wooded park, with a

winding stream flowing by it. At
Bramerton, wliicli the family left when
Elizal>eth was five years old, she had
already been taixght, in walks with her
mother, that care and attention for the
poor by which she was to be so great-
ly distinguished in her later life. " My
mother," she wrote, nearly forty years
afterwards, "was most dear to me,
and the walks she took with me in
the old-fashioned garden, are as fresh
with me as if only just passed; and
telling me about Adam and Eve be-
ing driven out of Paradise : I always
considered it must be just like our
garden at Bramerton." It is worth
noticing that, in her childhood, Eliza-
beth exhil)ited great sensibility and
even timidity. She was of a nervous
susceptibility through life, and in a
proper estimate of her character and
labors, this should not be forgotten.
Great boldness and resolution came to
be required of her, so that it would
appear these last qualities were not
built up, without something of effort
and self-sacrifice in the suppression of
natural weakness. It was doubtless
her delicacy and imjjressibility of
temperament, her very fears and anx-
ieties, which supplied the first incen-
tives to that desire of doing good to
the suffering and aflilicted, however
painful the contact might be, which
became the ruling passion of her life.
Her mother dying when Elizabeth
was at the age of twelve, she was left
with her sisters, two of them older
than herself, to grow up under the
social and other influences of a resi-
dence on a wealthy country estate,
with free access to the company of a

neighboring large provincial town.
Though following the customs of the
Quakers in attendance upon Friends'
meetings, the Gurneys at Eastham
were not to be ranked among the
strictest members of the sect. IVIr.
Gurney, in his business, was associ-
ated familiarly with jiersons of all de-
nominations ; music and dancing, gen-
erally forbidden, or regarded with great
suspicion by the fraternity, were by
no means probibited in his household,
where Elizabeth might be heard, with
a natural sweetness and pathos, sing-
ing a duet with her sister Rachel ;
or, at the provocation of health and
spirits, be seen gracefully engaged
in the dance. In the Memoir of her
Life, edited by her two daughters,
from which the present narrative is
drawn, we are told, with a candor
somewhat unusual with biographers,
that " she was not studious by nature,
and was as a child, though gentle and
quiet in temper, self-willed and de-
termined. Her dislike to learnino;
proved a serious disadvantage to her
after she lost her mother ; her educa-
tion, consequently, being defective
and unfinished. In natural talent,
she was quick and penetrating, and
had a depth of originality very un-
common. As she grew older, enter-
prise and benevolence were two pre
dominant features in her character.''
With these qualities of her child-
hood Elizabeth grew up towards wo-
manhood in the Avealthy and refined
home at Eastham, enjoying its social
opportunities, and moved at times by
the visits of earnest inquirers after
truth, to that personal religious intro-
spection always favored by her sect.

ELIZABETH FEY.

531

A private journal, wliicli she kept in
lier seventeenth year, shows a self-
questioning disposition, with a desire
for the improvement of life, which
were graduall}- preparing her for ear-
nest convictions of Christian faith and
duty. Unlike many diaries of the
kind, there is nothing of a morbid
character in the little record ; but, on
the contrary, a decidedly practical
turn. Writing on a bright summer
morning in June, she says : " Is there
not a ray of perfection amidst the
sweets of this morning ? I do think
there is something perfect from which
all good flows." She aj^pears to have
been often dra^^'n by the beautiful
scenery around her, in her own quota-
tion of the poet, " to look through Na-
ture up to Nature's God ;" and this re-
ligious sentiment is associated in her
mind with a desire to do good to
others. She is thus early learning to
govern herself, to subdue vanity and
selfishness. " We should first look to
ourselves," she writes, " and try to
make ourselves virtuous, and then
pleasing. Those who are truly virtu-
ous, not only do themselves good, but
they add to the good of all. All have
a portion entrusted to them of the
general good, and those who cherish
and preserve it are blessings to so-
ciety at large ; and those who do not,
become a curse. It is wonderfully
ordered, how in acting for our own
good, we promote the good of others.
My idea of religion is, not for it to
unfit us for the duties of life, like a
nun who leaves them for prayer and
thanksgiving; but I think it should
stimulate and capacitate us to i)erf()rm
these duties properly." Another day

she writes : " Some poor people were
here ; I do not think I gave them what
I did with a good heart. I am inclin-
ed to give away ; but for a week past,
owing to not having miich money, I
have been mean and extravagrant.
Shameful ! Whilst I live, may I be
generous ; it is in my nature, and I
will not overcome so good a feeling.
I am inclined to be extravagant, and
that leads to meanness ; for those who
will throw away a good deal, are apt
to mind o-ivina; a little." An acute re-
mark, this last, for a young girl living
in the midst of abundance^ — a key to
a proper economy — a profound maxim
in the administration of wealth. At
the end of a year, the passages given
from the diary pre:ent the following
striking entries : " My mind is in a
state of fermentation ; I believe I am
going to be religious, or some such
thing. * * * I am a bubble, with-
out reason, without beauty of mind or
person, I am a fool ; I daily fall lower
in my own estimation. What an in-
finite advantage it would be for me to
occupy my time and thoughts well."
In this state of mind, with the pro-
blem of her destiny in a life of religi-
ous faith and active devotion to benefi-
cence half worked out, at a Friends'
Meeting at Norwich, in February,
1708, she listens to an address by
William Savery, an American preacher
of the Society of Quakers, one of that
faithful band of missionaries of the
sect in the last century who, in various
lands, bore their testimony to the in-
finite value of tlie soul of man, and
the superiority and strength of the
s])iritual life above and beyond all
accidental conditions. The American

532

ELIZABETH FRY.

Colonies, not always grateful for tlie
gift, too often i-eturniug hatred and
persecution for love, and brotherly
kindness, and religious freedom, owed
much in their imperfect civilization to
these itinerant disciples of George
Fox ; and now one of them, on a visit
to England, was to repay the obliga-
tion in the formation and development
of one of her leading philanthrojiists.
Her own account, in her diary, of
the first meeting with Savery, exhibits
a somewhat tumultuous feeling, verg-
towards enthusiasm ; but regulated by
a characteristic caution and distrust.
" I have had a faint light sjiread over
my mind," she writes, " at least I be-
lieve it is something of that kind,
owing to having been much with, and
heard much excellence fi'om one who
appears to me a true Christian. It
has caused me to feel a little religion.
My Imagination has been worked upon,
and I fear all that I have felt will go
oflE. I feel it now ; though at first I
was frightened, that a plain Quaker
should have made so deep an impres-
sion upon me; but how truly preju-
diced in me to think, that, because
good came from a Quaker, I should be
led away by enthusiasm and folly."
This remark sounds a little oddly,
coming from a member ^of a family
which had so long been in the sect ;
but it marks a very prominent distinc-
tion, which had grown up between
what she called the " plain," and what
may be termed the latitudinarian
division of the fraternity. The banker's
household were evidently of the latter
way of thinking, less restricted in
dress, amusements and intercourse with
the world ; and Elizabeth, accustomed

to think for herself, may have shown
an unusual degree of independence,
while her youth and sprightliuess were
likely to attract to her some of the
vanities of life. Two days after the
preaching of Savery, there is a charac-
teristic entry in the diary : " My mind
has by degrees flown from religion. I
rode to Norwich, and had a very
serious ride there ; but meeting, and
being looked at, with apj^arent admir-
ation by some officers, brought on
vanity ; and I came home as full of
the world, as I went to town full of
heaven." Her more serious emotions,
however, preponderate, while on a visit
the same month to London with its
gaieties and amusements in prospect,
which is to test the young lady's
resolutions of self-denial more severely
than the casual glance of the military
gentlemen quartered at Norwich.
There is one safeguard, however ; —
William Savery is to be in the great
metropolis at the same time, and she
will " see him most likely, and all
those plain Quakers."

Looking back upon this visit to
Loudon, after an interval of thirty
years, Mrs. Fry regarded it as as an
important experience of the pleasures
of the world in which she had found
much that was questionable, and which
she was enabled to relinquish, on
proof of their vanity and folly. At
the time, she was pleased to think, as
she records in her diary, that she did
not " feel Eastham at all dull after the
bustle of London ; on the contrary, a
better relish for the sweet innocence
and beauties of nature." A timely
letter from William Savery, written
with that simplicity and feeling and

ELIZABETH FRY.

533

fulness of religious hope and consola-
tion derived from the Gospel, which
characterizes in so remarkable a man-
ner the compositions of the early
Quakers, where their piety seems to
insi^ire their style with a rare grace
and sweetness beyond the reach of
artificial rhetoric, — this affectionate
letter, peculiarly adapted to her state
of mind, may well have strengthened
her resolution to an advancement in
the life of holiness upon which she
had already entered. It is noticeable
how soon this counsel influenced her
life in the practical work of doing
good. One of her very first acts on
her return from London, was to devote
herself to an old dying servant living
at a cottage in the park, and we pres-
ently hear of a plan of gathering poor
children about her for Biblical and
religious instruction on Sunday even-
ings. Meantime, she lays down for
herself these golden rules of living.
" First, never lose any time ; I do not
think that lost which is spent in
amusement or recreation, some time
every day ; but always be in the habit
of being employed. Second, never err
the least in truth. Third, never say an
ill thing of a person, when I can say
a good thing of them ; not only speak
charitably, but feel so. Fourth, never
be irritable nor unkind to anyl:)ody.
Fifth, never indulge myself in luxuries
that are not necessary. Sixth, do all
things with consideration, and -when
my path to act right is most difticult,
feel confidence in that power that
alone is able to assist me, and exert
my own powers as far as they go."

While these new and more earnest
views of life were being formed in her

mind she is preparing to assimilate in
some external matters to the habits of
the more rigid Quakers — finding it
impossible, as she says, to keep up to
their principles without altering her
di-ess and speech. "Plainness," she
is ready to vindicate, " as a sort of pro-
tection to the principles of Christian-
ity in the j^resent state of the world."
At length the cap and close handker-
chief of the Society of Friends are
adopted with their other peculiarities,
and she henceforth appears as she is
represented in the portrait which ac-
companies this biography, fully a Qua-
keress to outer view as in her inner
life. And all this change was accom-
plished while she was living in ease
and aflluence, by the time she was
twenty.

It was early in the year 1780 that
she received proposals of marriage from
Joseph Fry, a wealthy merchant of
London ; a strict member of the Society
of Friends. After considerable anxiety,
with " many doubts, many risings and
fallings about the aflfair " in relation to
her spiritual welfare, the offer was
looked upon, as it is apt to be in such
cases, as a call of duty, and accepted.
The marriage, accordingly, took place
in August, at the Friends' Meeting
House, in Norwich.

Mrs. Fry now, for some years, accord-
ing to the custom of the day, resided
with her husband in the large commo-
dious house in Avhich his business was
transacted, in St. Mildred's Court, in
London. Her associations were with
the stricter members of the Society of
Friends, of whom, fi-om time to time,
she met with many of the most distin-
guished, and was encouraged in the

634

ELIZABETH FRY.

practical work of philanthropy upon
which she had already set her heart.
Her diary, which was regularly kept
up, exhibits more of an introspective
character, showing her thoughts oc-
cupied in her religious culture and in
the vicissitudes of her large family
connexion. She herself became the
mother of a numerous offspring, ten
children in all, the last being born in
1816, so that much of her time was
enofrossed in household cares. In 1809,
on the death of her father-in-law, she
removed from London, with her hus-
band, to his country residence at Flas-
ket House, in Essex, where she was
again surrounded by the rural associa-
tions of her youth, and returned to
that enjoyment of the beauties of na-
ture which was always a passion with
her. Here, too, she developed those
schemes for the improvement of the
poor which she had early entertained,
visiting the sick and laborers in their
cottages, providing them with the
necessaries of life and assisting in open-
ing a school for girls, in accordance
with the method of Joseph Lancaster,
Avhose school for poor children she had
visited in London, where she had also
been appointed visitor to a school of
the Society at Islington. After her
father's death, which happened in the
autumn of this year, she occasionally
spoke in the meetings, and after a year
or so was duly recognized as a Minister
or Preacher of the Society to Avhich
she was attached. In 1813 we find
her attending some of the prominent
meetings in London in this capacity,
and in January of that year making
her first visit to Newgate Prison, which
was soon to become the scene of her

philanthropic labors, destined in their
progress to render important aid in
one of the great works of reform of the
century. She was led to Newgate, in
consequence of the representations of
several members of the Society of
Friends of her acquaintance, who had
visited some persons about to be ex-
ecuted. Mrs. Fry was accompanied in
her visit by a sister of the eminent
philanthropist, Sir' Thomas Fowell
Buxton, who had a few years before
married her own sister Hannah. They
found the female prisoners in a lamen-
table condition of neglect and destitu-
tion.

Though the care of her rapidly in-
creasing family was quite sufficient to
occupy her attention during the ensu-
ing four years her zeal was kept alive
by the efforts of her brother-in-law.
Samuel Hoare, and Sir Thomas Fowell
Buxton, in their work of prison reform
and discipline in relation to juvenile
offenders. She visited, with Hoai"e, the
women in Cold Bath Fields House of
Correction, where she witnessed the
evils of the neglect into which inatitu
tions of its class in England had gener-
ally fallen. But it was not till the
close of 1816 that she fairly herself
entered upon her practical work of
reform among the female prisoners of
Newgate. At her own request, on this
her second visit to the prison, she was
left alone with the women for some
hours — a memorable scene, suggesting
much to the imagination in its wild
details, of which we have no more par-
ticular notice than that Mrs. Fiy read to
the assembly the parable of the Lord"
of the vineyard, fi-om the Gospel of St.
Matthew, and appealed to the hearts

ELIZABETH FRY.

535

of her hearers, by tlie proffers of mercy
from the Saviour, even at the eleventh
hour. Calling the attention of the
mothers to the forlorn and sufferina;
state of their diildreu, she i:)roposed to
open a school for them and look after
their welfare. This was the readiest
way of reaching the hearts of the par-
ents, who joyfully entertained the sug-
gestion. Mrs. Fry wisely left them to
think over the matter and choose a
governess from among themselves.
They did so, and made an admirable
selection in a young woman (Mary
Connor) who had been recently com-
mitted for stealing a watch. Presently,
with the consent of the Sheriffs of
London, and the officials of the j^rison,
this person was installed as school-
mistress, in a vacant cell approjjriated
for the purpose, over a group of child-
ren and young persons under twenty-
five years of age. Mrs. Fry was pres-
ent at the opening of the school, ac-
companied by her friend ]\Iary Sander-
sou, of whose sensations on the occas-
ion we have this incidental notice :
" The railinsr was crowded with half
naked women, struggling together for
the front situations, with the most
boisterous violence, and begging with
the utmost vociferation. She felt as
if she were going into a den of Avild
beasts ; shuddering when the door
closed upon her, and she was locked in
with such a herd of novel and desper-
ate companions." The prison authori-
ties, though they ap])roved of the at-
tempt, had little faith in its success;
indeed, they regarded the scheme as
visionary and hopeless. It was left to
a few benevolent women to prove it
otherwise. Mrs. Fry, joined with a

few associates, persevered, overcoming
all obstacles by the influence of kind-
ness; and, at the end of a month, hav-
ing i^roved the practicability of the
undertaking by actual experiment, a
society was, in April 1817, formed,
consisting of the wife of a clergyman
and eleven members of the Society of
Friends, entitled " An Association for
the Improvement of the Female Pris-
oners in Newgate." Their object was
" to provide for the clothing, the in-
struction, and the employment of the
women ; to introduce them to a know-
ledge of the Holy Scrijjture, and to
form in them, as much as possible,
those habits of order, sobriety and in-
dustry which may render them docile
and peaceable while in prison, and re-
spectable "when they leave it." A
body of rules, twelve in number,
necessary for carrying out these de-
signs, was prepared and submitted
severally to the prison women, who
voted uj^on each, every hand being
held up in approbation. By these
rules a matron was to be appointed for
the general superintendence; suitable
employment was to be engaged ; clas-
ses were to be formed, with a directing
monitor over each ; cleanliness and
order "were fully secured ; instruction
was to be given by reading, chiefly
from the Scriptures. To render the
work more permanent and responsible,
on proof of its practicability, it was
adopted by the proper authorities, and
became a part of the prison sj-stem of
the city. At first it was confined to
the prisoners who had undergone trial ;
and was afterwards extended to the
other prison of the untried, but with
less success. Owing to the imcertainty

530

ELIZABETH FRY.

of their condition, tliis class of persons
was less willing to work and submit
to restraint. The matron, who was
apjjointed, was paid in part by the
Corporation and partly by the funds
subscribed for the Ladies' Association-
Other expenses were provided for by
charitable contributions, largely from
the wealthy Quaker merchants. In
the course of a few months, in the au-
tumn of the year, the success of the
experiment was noticed, in corrobora-
tion of his own views, in one of the
addresses to the public, of the eminent
reformer, Robert Owen, of Lanark. In
February of the following year such
an interest in the general subject had
been awakened that Mrs. Fry had the
honor of being called upon to give her
testimony of the working of the Ladies'
Association before a Committee of the
House of Commons, appointed to re-
port on the Prisons of the Metropolis.
Her endeavor on that occasion marks
the opening of a new era in the work
of prison reform. It appears from
Mrs. Fry's statement that, during the
whole time which had intervened, some
eight or nine months, since the plan
had been put in operation, she had
never punished or proposed punish-
ment for any woman ; that the rules
had been strictly attended to ; that
nearly twenty thousand articles of
Avearing apparel had been made by
the prisoners, averaging in earning for
each person of about eighteen pence
per week, which was generally spent
in assisting them to live and helping
to clothe them by a voluntary sub-
scription on their part, supplemented
by double the sum thus furnished,
given by the Association ; that the

Scripture readings were earnestly re-
ceived, while many had been taught
to read a little themselves, the read-
ings avoiding matters of doctrine, and
being confined to the plain morals of
the Bible, the duties towards God and
man. In reply to various questions,
much was elicited illustrating, in a
very striking manner, peculiarities of
the unhappy condition of the persons
thus benefited, and bearing upon the
general subject of prison improvement.
It was fortunate for the cause, that
this first experiment was tried in so
conspicuous a place as Newgate. For
the civilized world, London is a city
set upon a hill ; and here the work of
benevolence was carried on at its very
heart. There was at once the most to
be done, and the best help toward ac-
complishing it. A success thus open
to the eyes of the world, and recog-
nized by Parliament, could not fail in
finding support and encouragement
elsewhere. But it was reserved es-
pecially for Mrs. Fry, by her personal
exertions and influence, to perfect in
her day what the j)hilanthropist John
Howard had striven to accomplish a
generation or two before. That, after
his distinguished labors in prison re-
formation, so much was left for her to
accomplish, is a humiliating proof of
the tendency to abuse in the adminis-
tration of government under what
might be considered highly favorable
circumstances, and of the slow pro-
gress of apparently the most obvious
improvements. The whole plan or
scheme of Mrs. Fry now seems very
simple, involving only ordinary atten-
tion to the decencies of life, the hum-
blest means of religious instruction,

ELIZABETH FRY.

537

witli the jilain resources of an indus-
trial school. By the aid of these sim-
ple elements, the employment of time,
with a certain customary and moral
discipline, controlled by Christian
kindness, a great work was to be
effected throughout the world. It is
not too much to say that the con-
science of legistators was awakened
throughout Christendom by that sim-
ple experiment of one benevolent
Quaker lady, and a few associates, in
the prison of Newgate. Its first fi'uits
were in the wideuiua; circle of benevo-
lent suj)ervision, extending to the care
of the convicts on their way to trans-
portation, theuce in the ships at sea,
and then on their landino- at their
place of destination. Before Mrs. Fry
appeared upon the scene, the most dis-
gusting condition of things prevailed
at each of these stasres. There had
been riot and destruction on leavincf
the prison, breaking of windows, fur-
niture, and the like ; soon all was or-
der and quiet. The convicts had been
generally conveyed to the water-side
in open wagons, amidst noisy and vici-
ous crowds ; by Mrs. Fry's influence,
the women were decently removed in
hackney-coaches, without exposure to
insult. Her kind solicitude followed
them on shipl)oard, suggesting (what
was adopted) an organization into
classes, with monitors, chosen by
themselves, for the preservation of
order. In correspondence with the
proper authorities, she urged that a
suitable provision l)e made for their
reception on their arrival in Van Die-
man's Land. She also took earnestly
to heart, and enforced by examples
dl■a^vn from her own observation, the
68

evils of the wide adoption of capital
punishment, which then prevailed in
the administration of English criminal
law, and which has since been so greatly
curtailed.

Like Howard, INIi's. Fry accomplish-
ed much in her Journeys about Great
Britain and Europe. The fii"st of these,
in 1818, with her brother Joseph John
Gurney, primarily connected with the
concerns of the Society of Friends, in
which it will be remembered she had
been for some time an active leader, led
her throuo'h the north of England in-
to Scotland, where, in many places,
the jails were found to be in the most
lamentable condition, with great suf-
fering on the part of the inmates — a
terrible picture of human misery —
which was presented to the piiblic in
all its horrid details, that they might
be at once alleviated, in a narrative of
the tour by Mr. Gurney. The treat-
ment of the insane, which would have
been disgraceful if practised towards
wild beasts, which she witnessed, it
need not be said awakened her deejiest
sympathies and earnest efforts for its
reform. Humanity shudders at the
recital of what this brother and sister
encountered in their pilgrimage in be-
half of their oppressed and suffering
fellow-beings. That such inflictions
are almost impossiltle at present, is
largely due to the Chi'istian exertions
of this devoted Quaker mother.

In 1827, she visited Ireland, paying
particular attention to the prisons at
Dul)liu, and, in the succeedinf; vears,

7 7 O •^ '

traveled largely through England, and
sojourned for a time in the island of
Jersey, where she undertook, and
eventually accomplished, much in her

538

ELIZABETH FRY.

work of prison reform. She also, about
this time, procured the introduction of
libraries at the coast-guard stations
and on the government packets — a
work of enlightenment, which, in its
extension, is one of the most benefi-
cent social improvements of our own
day. She paid her first visit to Paris
in 1838, and was received with dis-
tinguished attentions, examining care-
fully, under the best auspices, the va-
rious prisons of the metropolis, was in
communication with various celebri-
ties, and was entertained by Louis
Philippe and the Koyal family. On
her return home, we find her medi-
tating a visit to the United States,
where her brother, Joseph John Gur-
ney, was pursuing his labors as a min-
ister of the Gospel. A second journey
to the Continent follows, the next year;
Paris, its prisons and hospitals are
again visited ; and the tour is extend-
ed through various parts of France,
and into Switzerland. In 18-40, she
travels through Belgium, Holland, and
Germany ; countries which she again
visits a year or two later. She is also
in correspondence with the authorities
in St. Petersburgh — in all, whether by
person or by letter, with a single eye
to her constant work of philanthropy.

Her last visit to the Continent, chiefly
confined to Paris, was in 1843. After
her return to England, we read of her
health failing, which continued, with
more or less of sufi^ering and privation,
in the midst of family afiiictious, till
her own life, too, was terminated at
Ramsgate, on the 12th of October,
1845. She died as she had lived, at
peace with herself, and charity with
the world, in the enjoyment of the
consolations of her simple Christian
faith. Her remains were interred in
the Friends' burying-ground at Bark-
ing. No better inscription to her
memory can be penned, than the lines
written by Hannah More, in a copy of
her work on " Practical Piety."

TO MRS. PRY.

PBESENTED BY HAimAH MORE.

As a token of veneration

Of her heroic zeal,

Christian charity,

And persevering kindness,

To the most forlorn

Of human beings.

They were naked, and she

Clothed them ;

In prison, and she visited them ;

Ignorant, and she taught them,

For His sake,

In His name, and by His Word,

Who went about doing good.

^<i>c

ROBERT PEEL,

THE RIGHT HONORABLE SIR
ROBERT PEEL, Bart., twice
prime minister, and for many years
the leading statesman of England, was
born on the 5th of February, 1788, in
a cottage near Chamber Hall, the seat
of his family, in the neighborhood of
Bury — Chamber Hall itself being at
the time under repair. He was a scion
of that new aristocracy of wealth
which sprang from the rapid progress
of mechanical discovery and manufac-
tures in the latter part of the eight-
eenth century. His ancestors were
Yorkshire yeomen in the district of
Craven, whence they migrated to
Blackburn, in Lancashire. His grand-
father, Robert Peel, first of Peelfold,
and afterwards of Brookside, near
Blackburn, was a calico-printer, who,
appreciating the discovery of his towns-
man, Hargreaves, took to cotton-spin-
ning with the spinning-jenny, and grew
a wealthy man. His father, Robert
Peel, third son of the last-named, car-
ried on the same business at Bury,
with still greater success, in partner-
ship with Mr. Yates, whose daughter
Ellen, he mamed ; made a princely

fortune; became the owner of Dray-
ton Manor, and member of Parliament
for the neighboring borough of Tam-
worth ; was a trusted and honored, as
well as ardent, supporter of Mr. Pitt ;
contribiited magnificently towards the
suj)port of that leader's war policy;
was rewarded witli a baronetcy ; and
founded a rich and powerful house, on
whose arms he emblazoned, and in
whose motto he commemorated, the
prosperous industry from Avhich it
sj)rang. The great minister was always
proud of the self-won honors of his
family ; and as a public man his heart
strongly felt the bias of his birth. He
was sent, however, to be educated
with the sons of the old nobility and
gentry at Harrow, one of the most
aristocratic of English schools, and at
Christ Church, then the most aristo-
cratic of English colleges. At Har-
row, according to the accounts of his
contemporaries, he ^vas a steady, in-
dustrious boy ; the l)est scholar in the
school ; fonder of solitary walks than
of the games of his companions, but
ready to help those who were duller
than himself ; and not impopular
among his fellows. At Christ Cliurch,
where he entered as a gentleman com-

(539)

540

EOBEET PEEL.

mouer, he studied hard, and was the
first who, under the new examination
statutes, took a first class both iu
classics and in mathematics. His ex-
amination in the Schools for his B.A.
degree in Michaelmas term, 1808, was
an academical ovation in presence of a
numerous audience, who came to hear
the first man of the day ; and a rela-
tion who was at Oxford at the time
has recorded that the triumph, like
both the triumphs and I'everses of
after-life, was calmly borne. From his
classical studies Sii" Eobert derived,
not only the classical, though some-
what pompous character of his
speeches, and the Latin quotations
with which they were often happily
interspersed, but something of his
lofty ideal of political ambition. Nor
did he ever cease to love these pur-
suits of his youth ; and, in 1837, when
elected Lord Rector of Glasgow Uni-
versity, he, in his inaugiiral speech,
passed a glowing eulogy on classical
education. To his mathematical train-
ing, which was then not common
among public men, he no doubt owed
in part his method, his clearness, and his
great power of grasjiing steadily and
working out difiicult and complicated
questions. His speeches show that,
in addition to his academical knowl-
edge, he was well versed in English
literature, in history, and in the prin-
ciples of law. In after-life he had a
taste for art, though none for music,
and took an interest in science, though
he had no scientific education. While
reading hard, he did not neglect to
develop his tall and vigorous frame,
and fortify his strong constitution, by
manly and gentlemanlike exercises;

and though he lost his life partly
through his bad riding, he was al-
ways a good shot and an untiring
walker after game. Sprung from the
most religious class of English so-
ciety, he grew up and remained
through life a religious man; and
from that source drew deep con-
scientiousness and tranquillity under
all difficulties and in all fortunes. His
Oxford education confirmed him in the
principles of the Protestant Ciiurch of
England. His practical mind remain-
ed satisfied with the doctrines of his
youth ; and he never showed that he
had studied the great religious contro-
versies, or that he understood the
great religious movements of his day.
In 1809, being then in his twenty-
second year, he -was brought into Par-
liament for the close borousrh of Cashel,
which he afterwards exchanged for
Chippenham ; and commenced his par-
liamentary career under the eye of his
father, then meml)er for Tamworth,
who fondly saw in him the future
leader of the Tory party. In 1811,
he was made Under-Secretary for the
Colonies. In 1812, being then only in
his twenty-fifth year, he was trans-
ferred by Lord Liverpool to the more
important post of Secretary for Ire-
land. There he was engaged till 1817,
when he obtained the highest jjarlia-
mentary distinction of the Tory party,
by being elected member for the Uni-
versity of Oxford — an honor for which
he was chosen in preference to Canning,
on account of his hostility to Catholic
emancipation. Lord Eldon lending him
his best support. In the following
year he resigned the Irish secretary-
sliii^, of the odious work of -which he

ROBEET PEEL.

541

liad long been very weary, and re-
mained out of office till 1822. In that
year lie consented to strengthen the
enfeebled ministry of Lord Liverpool
by becoming Home Secretary ; and in
that capacity he had again to under-
take the office of coercing the growing
discontent of Ireland, of which he re-
mained the real administrator, and had
attain to lead in the House of Com-
mons the opposition to the rising
cause of Catholic emancipation. In
1825, being beaten on the Catholic
question in the House of Commons,
he wished to resign office ; but Lord
Liverpool pleaded that his resignation
would break up the government. He
found a hajjpier and more congenial
task in reforming and humanizing the
criminal law, especially those parts of
it which relate to offences against
property and offences punishable by
death. The five acts in which Mr.
Peel accomplished this great work,
the first stej) towards a complete and
civilized code, as well as the great
speech of March 9, 1826, in which he
opened the subject to the House, will
form one of the most solid and endur-
ina: monuments of his fame.

In January, 1828, after Canning's
death, the Duke of Wellington formed
a Tory government, in which Mr. Peel
was Home Secretary, leader of the
House of Commons, and probably vir-
tual prime minister. The policy of
the cabinet was to endeavor to stave
off the growing demand for organic
chano-e by administrative reform, and
by lightening the burdens of the people.
The civil list was retreiiclu'd A\it]i an
unsparing hand, and the public expen-
diture was reduced. Mr. Peel also in-

troduced into London the improved
system of police which he had previ-
ously introduced with so much success
into Ireland. When the question of
Catholic emancipation was brought to
a crisis by the menacing power of the
Catholic Association and the election
of O'Connell for the county of Clare,
Mr. Peel expressed to the Duke of
Wellington his conviction that it must
be settled. The Duke consented. The
consent of the king, which could
scarcely have been obtained except by
the Duke and Mr. Peel, was extorted,
withdrawn (the ministers being out
for a few hours), and again extorted ;
and on the 5th of March, 1829, Mr.
Peel proposed Catholic emancipation
in a speech of five hours and a half,
which was listened to with imfiagging
attention, and concluded amidst cheers
which were heard in Westminster
Hall. The apostate was overwhelmed
with obloquy. Having been elected
for the University of Oxford as a
leading opponent of the Catholics, he
had thought it right to resign his
seat on being converted to emanci-
pation. His friends put him again in
nomination, but he was defeated by
Sir R. H. Inglis, though the great ma-
jority of distinction and intellect was
on his side. He took refuge in the
close borough of Westbury, whence
he afterwards removed to Tamworth,
for which he sat till his death — pre-
ferring that secure and friendly con-
nection to the offers of larger con-
stituencies. While in office, Mr. Peel
succeeded to the baronetcy, Drayton
Manor, and a great estate, by the
death of his father. May 3, 1830.
The ability and obstinacy of Sir

542

EGBERT PEEL.

Robert Peel's opposition to the Re-
form Bill won back for him the alle-
giance of his party. His opi)ositiou
was able and obstinate; but it was
temperate, and not such as to inflame
the fierce passions of the time, delay
the return of civil peace, or put an
insurmountable barrier between his
friends and the more moderate among
their opponents. The general election
of 1832, after the passing of the Re-
form Bill, left him with barely a hun-
dred followers in the House of Com-
mons ; but this handful rapidly swell-
ed under his management into the
great Conservative party. In 1834,
on the dismissal of the Melbourne
ministry, power came to Sir Robert
Peel before he expected or desired it.
He hurried from Rome at the call of
the Duke of Wellington, — and be-
came Prime Minister, holding the two
offices of First Lord of the Treasury
and Chancellor of the Exchequer. A
dissolution gave him a great increase
of strength in the House, but not
enough. He was beaten on the elec-
tion of the Speaker at the opening of
the session of 1835, and, after strug-
gling on for six weeks longer, was
finally beaten, and I'esigned on the
question of appropriating the surplus
revenues of the Church in Ireland to
national education. From 1835 to 1840
he pursued the same course of patient
and far-sighted opposition, the end of
which, sure, though distant, was not
only office, but power. • At length, in
the autumn of 1841, becoming First
Lord of the Treasury, with a com-
manding majority in both Houses of
Parliament, the country in his favor,
and a staff of colleagues and subordi-

nates unrivalled perhaps in the annals
of English administrations, he grasped
with no doubtful grasp the reins of
power.

The crisis called for a master-hand.
The finances were in disorder. Dis-
tress and discontent reigned in the
country, especially among the trading
and manufacturing classes. The great
financier took till the spring of 1842,
to mature his plans. He then boldly
supjilied the deficit by imposing an in-
come-tax on all incomes above a cer-
tain amount. He accompanied this tax
with a reform of the tariff, by which
prohibitory duties were removed and
other duties abated on a vast number
of articles of import, especially the
raw materials of manufactures and
prime articles of food. The increased
consumption, as the reformer expected,
countervailed the reduction of duty.
The income-tax was renewed, and the
reform of the tarifl^ carried still further
on the same principle, in 1845. The
result was, in place of a deficit of up-
Avards of two millions, a surplus of
five millions in 1845, and the removal
of seven millions and a half of taxes
up to 1847, not only without loss, but
with gain to the ordinary revenue of
the country. In 1844, another great
financial measure, the Bank Charter
Act, was passed. In Ireland, O'Con
nell's agitation for the repeal of the
Union had now assumed threatening
propoi'tions, and verged upon rel^el-
lion. The great agitator was prose-
cuted, with his chief adherents, for con-
spiracy and sedition ; and though the
conviction was quashed for informal-
ity, Repeal was quelled in its chief.
At the same time a healing hand was

EOBEET PEEL.

543

extended to Ireland. The last rem-
nants of the penal laws were swept
from the statnte-book, and justice was
extended to the Roman Catholic
Church in Canada and Malta..

But there were malcontents in Sir
Rohert Peel's party whose presence
often caused embarrassment. The fa-
tal question was Protection, which
was being fast brought to a crisis by
public opinion and the Anti-Corn Law
League. Sir Robert Peel, who had
been long in principle a free trader,
proposed to his cabinet the rej)eal
of the Corn Laws. Lord Stanley and
the Duke of Buccleuch dissented,
and Sir Robert resigned. But Lord
Russell failed to form a new govern-
ment. Sir Robert again came into
office ; and now, with the consent of
all the cabinet but Lord Stanley, who
retired, he, in a great speech on the
27th of January, 1846, brought the
repeal of the Corn Laws before the
House of Commons. His measure was
carried ; but immediately afterwards
the offended Protectionists, goaded by
Lord George Bentinck and Mr. Dis-
raeli, coalesced with the Whigs, and
threw him out on the Irish Coercion
Bill. He went home from his defeat,
escorted by a great crowd, who un-
covered as he passed, and immediately
resigned.

Though out of office, he was not out
of power. He had " lost a party, but
won a nation." The Whig ministry
which succeeded him leaned much
on his support, with which he never
taxed them. He joined them in carry-
ing forward free trade principles by
the repeal of the Navigation Ltiws

He joined them in carrying forward
the principle of religious liberty by
the bill for the emancii)ation of the
Jews. One great measure was his own.
It was the Encumbered Estates Bill for
Ireland, which transferred the land of
that country from ruined landlords to
solvent owners capable of performing
the duties of property towards the
people. On the 28th of June, 1850,
he made a great speech on the Greek
question against Lord Palmerston's
foreign policy of interference. This
speech being against the government,
was thought to show that he was
ready to return to office. It was his
last. On the following day he was
thrown from his horse on Constitution
Hill, and mortally injured by the fall.
Three days he lingered in all the pain
which the quick nerves of genius can
endui-e. On the fourth (July 2, 1850,)
he took the sacrament, bade a calm
farewell to his family and fi-ieuds, and
died ; and a great sorrow fell on the
whole land. All the tributes which
respect and gratitude could pay were
paid to him by the Sovereign, by Par-
liament, by public men of all parties,
by the country, by the press, and,
above all, by the great towns and the
masses of the people to whom he had
given "bread unleavened with injus-
tice." He would have been buried
among the great men of England in
Westminster Abbey, but his will de-
sired that he might be laid in Drayton
Church. It also renounced a peerage
for his ftxmily, as he had before de-
clined the garter for himself when
offered him by the Queen thi'ough
Lord Aberdeen.

WILLIAM WORDSV/ORTH.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
was born at Cockermouth, a
small town near tlie banks of the Der-
went, in Cumberland County, England,
on the Ttli of April 1770. His father,
John Wordsworth, descended from an
ancient family which had been settled
in Yorkshire, was an attorney-at-law
by profession, and law agent to the
Earl of Lonsdale. He was married in
1766 to Anne, daughter of William
Cookson, mercer, of Penrith, and of
Dorothy Crackanthorp, a descendant
of the ancient family of that name
which fi'om the days of Edward HI.
had occupied Newbiggen Hall, in
Westmoreland. There were five child-
ren of this union : Richard, who be-
came a lawyer and died in 1816 ; Wil-
liam, the Poet ; Dorothy, born in 1771 ;
John Wordsworth, who was lost at
sea off Weymouth, in command of an
East Indiaman, in 1805 ; and Chris-
topher, a divine and author of emi-
nence, the father of the Bishop of
Lincoln, the poet's biographer. John
Wordsworth, the poet's father, is des-
cribed as "a person of considerable
mental vigour and eloquence." He
was rapidly rising in his profession
when a dark shadow passed over his

(544)

life in the death of his wife in 1778,
after which, his son, the poet, tells us
he never recovered his usual cheerful-
ness of mind. He survived the event
less than six years, being carried off
by illness resulting from a cold caught
from exposure at night in a profes
sional ride in which he had lost his
way among the mountains of the
country. At his death, his son Wil-
liam was in his fourteenth year. His
education up to this time, so far as
school instruction went — an important
qualification in the case of a man who
was so little indebted to teachers for
the developement of his mental acquir-
ments — had been assisted by an an-
cient dame at Penrith, a schoolmistress
of the old school who is reported to
have been more intent on exercising
the memory than prematurely testing
the reasoning faculties of her pupils —
a neglect or forbearance for which
Wordsworth appears to have been
duly grateful in after-life, thinking it
the most philosophical method. His
father also, we are told, " set him very
early to learn portions of the works
of the best English poets by heart, so
that at an early age he could repeat
large portions of Shakespeare, Milton,

/A/^^^u^^->^^^'U^ry^'

WnXIAM WOEDSWORTH.

545

and Spencer." He was also instructed
in the rudiments of learning, at Cock-
ermouth, by the Eev. Mr. Gilbanks ;
and, in Lis ninth year, was sent Avith
his elder brother to an ancient public
school at Hawkshead, in Lancashire,
founded by Archbishop Sandys, in the
sixteenth century. Here, as in his na-
tive village, he was surrounded by
those favorable influences of nature
which always had so beneficial an
effect upon his moral and intellectual
character — influences so gratefully ac-
knowledged on many pages of his
Avritings. Thus, iu that autobiograph-
ical poem mainly devoted to his early
life, "The Prelude, or Growth of a
Poet's Mind," he writes :

"Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up,
Fostered alike by beauty and by fear :
Much favored in my birth-place, and no less
In that beloved Yale, to which, ere long,
We were transplanted — there were we let loose
For sports of wider range."

The vale was the beautiful vale of
Esthwaite, with its lake, near which
Hawkshead was situated. It was the
custom for the pupils of the school to
board with the dames of the villasre
and neighboring hamlets, which intro-
duced them to an honest simplicity of
living, which ever dwelt gracefully in
the recollection of our jioet, as in these
lines of the Prelude, directly commem-
orating the scene : —

" Ye lowly cottages, wherein we dwelt,
A ministration of your own was yours;
Can I forget you, being, as you were,
So beautiful among the pleasant fields
In which ye stood ? or can I hero forget
The plain and seemly countenance with which
Ye dealt out your plain comforts ? "

with that quaint idyllic scene which
69

follows in the verse, picturing the
evening indoor studies of the youths,
and the amusement they extracted
from a well-worn, dilapidated pack of
cards : —

"Those sooty knaves, precipitated down
With scoffs and taunts, like Vulcan out of

heaven :
The paramount ace, a moon in her eclipse.
Queens gleaming through their splendor's last

decay;
And monarchs surly at the wrongs sustained
By royal visages."

Meanwhile, for the Muse of Words-
worth, imjiatient of confinement with-
in, must soon turn to Natui-e with-
out: —

"Abroad
Incessant rain was falling, or the frost
Raged bitterly, with keen and sUent tooth ;
And, interrupting oft that eager game,
From under Esthwaite's splitting fields of ice
The pent-up air, struggling to free itself.
Gave out to meadow grounds and hills a loud
Protracted yelling, like the noise of wolves
Howling in troops along the Bothnic Main."

While Wordsworth was at Hawks-
head school, the head master, Taylor,
died, and the upjier boys, Wordsworth
among them, were called to a leave-
takinof at his death-bed — a scene
which is also spoken of in the Prelude,
wdth this tribute to the master : —

" He loved the Poets, and, if now alive.
Would have loved me, as one not destitute
Of promise, nor belying the kind hope
That he had formed, when I, at his command.
Began to spin, with toil, my earliest songs."

These early verses, on subjects set by
the master, were on "The Summer
Vacation," and an elaborate eflfort in
the versification of Pope's heroic cou-
plets — in celebration of the two-hun-
dredth anniversary of the foundation

646

WILLIAM WOEDSWORTH.

of the school. The task completed,
the youthful poet was moved to write
to please himself ; and, as he tells us,
he composed, while yet a school-hoy,
a long poem, running upon his own
adventures, and the scenery of the
country in which he was brought uj).
Of this, only a single passage has been
preserved, which stands in the classifi-
cation of the author's poems, at the
head of those written in youth. They
are certainly good lines for a boy of
fourteen, and noticeable for a vein of
sentiment, entertained thus early,
which was to pervade the writer's long
life.

Wordsworth, always demanding for
himself personal freedom, in a fragment
of autobiography, expresses his satis-
faction with his school-days, pronounc-
ing them "very happy ones, chiefly be-
cause I was left at liberty, then, and
in the vacations, to read whatever
books I liked. For example, I read
all Fielding's works, Don Quixote, Gil
Bias, and any part of Swift that I
liked ; Gulliver's Travels, and the Tale
of a Tub, being both much to my
taste." Besides this private stock of
English literature, to which is to be
added his early acquaintance with the
poets, Wordsworth carried away with
him from school a resjiectable knowl-
edge of Latin, for which, he tells us,
he was mainly indebted to one of the
ushers at Hawkshead, who taught him
more of the language in a fortnight
than he had learned in his preceding
two years' study at the school at Cock-
ermouth.

Before leaving this early period of
the poet's life, the reminiscences must
not be forgotten, which he has given

us of his mother, who once said to one
of her female friends, that " the only
one of her five children, about whose
future life she was anxious, was Wil-
liam ; and he, she said, would be re-
markable either for good or evil, the
cause of this saying being that I was
of a stiff, moody and violent temper."
This element of his character was con-
quered, not by restraint, but by free-
dom, hj leaving nature, under favora-
ble circumstances, to work out her own
cure, when, what would otherwise
have been a calamity, became a con-
dition of strength. It is noticeable
how the poet, again and again, in his
writings, advocates this life of liberty.
In his poetical notice of his mother, it
is her main eulogy that she could trust
much to God's good government of
the world, in the unfettered develop-
ment of the life of her child.

The father of Wordsworth dying, as
we have stated, while his son was yet
a school-boy, he was left, with his
brothers, to the care of their two un-
cles, Richard Wordsworth and Chris-
topher Ci'ackanthorpe, by whom he
was sent, in 1787, in his eighteenth
year, to the University of Cambridge,
and became a member of St. John's
College. The estate left by his father,
suddenly cut off in the midst of his
professional pursuits, with a fortune in
prospect, rather than in possession,was
necessarily small, and it was dimin-
ished by the expenses of litigation in
a protracted suit to recover a debt due
from Lord Lonsdale ; but enough was
left, with economy, for the honorable
maintenance of the family. Words-
worth, in the portion of the " Prelude "
devoted to his College life, tells us of

WILLIAM WORDSWOETH.

547

the contrast to his former habits in his
first days at Cambridge, when

"As if the change
Had waited on some Fairy's wand, at once
Behold me rich in monies, and attired
In splendid garb, with hose of silk, and hair
Powdered like rimy trees, when frost is keen.
My lordly dressing-gown. I pa.ss it by,
With other signs of manhood that supplied
The lack of beard. — The weeks went roundly on,
With invitations, suppers, wine and fruit.
Smooth housekeeping within, and all without
Liberal, and suiting gentleman's array."

Expense, however, was never a charac-
teri,stic of "Wordsworth's mode of life.
" Phiin living and high thinking," was
his motto, and the world owes him
much for this simple collocation of
Avords, with such a wealth of prosperity
in them for one who can appreciate
and act upon the lesson. The " splen-
did garb," and other personal accessor-
ies are mentioned by the poet, evi-
dently as excejDtional circumstances
in contrast to his former mode of liv-
ing, to which, we shall see, he pre-
sently returns with greater avidity
than ever. His University career was,
in some respects, peculiar. He never
was the close student, or devotee to
the honors of the place, which other
members of the family became; his
younger brother, Christopher, for ex-
ample. He was too wayward and
self-willed, or rather, too much under
the influence of previously acquired
habits of physical freedom and moral
independence, to set a very high value
upon academical contests in the i:)ur-
suit of learning, or submit to the
severe study and training needed to
carry off the colU'ge prizes. Other-
wise he might have taken a felluws^hip,
and become an able divine, as his

friends expected. But he was, by no
means, a mere idle looker on; while
his sympathetic mind could not allow
him to be insensible to the genius of
the place. In many respects he re-
sembled Milton, and as Milton before
him, at Cambridge, had exhibited his
sjiii-it of independence, in contact with
the College authorities, so Wordsworth
justified his indiff'erence to some of
the requisitions, as the fi'equent attend-
ance upon chapel, by the laxity and
absence of high principle which he
saw around him in the leaders of the
flock. He looked for an ideal sanctity
and sincerity in his learned guides ;
and, not finding these high qualities,
withdrew to the prosecution of his own
thoughts, in the woods and fields, ever
the aids of his in.spiration. Yet, he
dwelt with fondness upon the past
life of the place, in its associations
with the generations of illustrious
men, whose presence had consecrated
the spot ; and the jioets, as we might
expect, were not forgotten among
them.

There follows this in the poem, the
confession of an excess of indulgence
unique in the poet's life. Having
among his associates the occupant of
the very room in which Milton had
resided, the friends, in company with
some festive companions, quafl^ed liba-
tions to the memory of the illustrious
bard, till, as he tells us,

"Pride
And gratitude grew dizzy in a brain
Never excited by the fumes of wine
Before that hour, or since."

The poet's first summer vacation was
passed at Esthwaite, the scene of his

548

WILLIAM WOEBSWOETH.

school life, where he found, not only
familiar nature, but the welcome coun-
tenances of fi-iends, not the less en-
deared to him for their plain homely
life; nor was, among his favorites, the
dog forgotten, Avho had accompanied
him in his solitary walks. There he
received, with new feelings of affec-
tion, added to his previous sense of
wonder and delight, the inspiration
which nature yields only to the poetic
mind.

The poet, the hierophant and inter-
preter of nature, was thus already dedi-
cating himself to his life-long work.
Among his earliest poems, there is one
of some length, entitled " An Evening
"Walk, addressed to a young lady."
That lady was his sister, Dorothy,
hardly two years younger than himself,
whose gentle disposition and sympathy
with nature, prompt as his own, made
her the confidant of his thoua;hts and his
companion in many a rural excursion.
She had been sej)arated from him dur-
ing his school-days, living with her
maternal grandfather at Penrith, in
Cumberland. In his college holidays,
they were now again brought together,
and together explored those scenes
on the banks of Emont, in the vi-
cinity of her residence, which live
on many a bright page of the
poet's song. The "Evening Walk,"
dedicated to her, embodies the poetic
studies of several years. It includes a
general sketch of the lake country, with
particular description of the several
seasons of the day, from morn to mid-
night, the landscape being enlivened
by the introduction of animal and hu-
man life, the cock strutting ferociously
round his native walks, the mountain

ringing with his shrill voice, the swan
in his pomp of movement upon the
lake showing

"How graceful pride can be, and how majestic

the poor beggar-woman cherished vdth
her children by these prodigalities of
summer, to be fatally overcome by the
hostility of winter. The author tells
us, and the reader can well believe it,
that there is not an image in the poem
which he had not drawn from obser-
vation ; and he mentions a particular
couplet, descrij^tive of the efl:ect of the
evening shadows among the boughs
and leaves of an oak, the notice of
which, as he saw it on the way between
Hawkshead and Ambleside, marked an
important moment in his poetical his-
tory. " For," says he, " I date from it
my consciousness of the infinite varie-
ty of natural appearances, which had
been unnoticed by the poets of any
age or country, so far as I was acquaint-
ed with them; and I made a resolu-
tion to supply in some degree the defi-
ciency, I could not have been at that
time above fourteen years of age." The
last summer college vacation of Words-
worth was passed in a pedestrian tour
in France. He had for his companion
in this journey a brother collegian,
Robert Jones, of Wales, subsequently
the incujnbent of a parsonage in Ox-
fordshire, a character formed for friend-
ship, with those lights and shades dis-
playing a versatility meet for all occa-
sions. The man is delightfully sketched
by the poet in some of his more play-
ful verses.

With such a companion of whom all
this can be said, and youth and genius

"WILLIAM WOKDSWOETH.

549

inspirers of the way aud tbe heart of
Eurojje for the scene, there could be
Ijut one spirit, that of joy and exulta-
tion, on the journey. It introduced the
poet to the wonders of the Alps, and
the sweet landscape ujjon which the
mountains descend in Northern Italy.
For fourteen weeks, from July to Oc-
tober, they traversed, mostly on foot,
France , from Calais to Lyons, passing
through Switzerland, crossing by the
Simplon to the lake of Como, and re-
tracing their steps by a different route
to Constance and the Rhine. It was
the memorable year 1790, and they
landed in France on the eve of the day
when the whole nation, with a sense of
triumph, was to receive the King's oath
of fidelity to the Constitution. Even
Calais was lighted up by the general
exhilaration of that summer hour , for,
in the traveler's words,

"There we saw,
In a mean city, and among a few.
How bright a face is worn wlien joy of one
Is joy for tens of millions."

The general animation attended
them as they journeyed through the
country in that new-born light of lib-
erty, hailed by our poet, in common
with so many noble minds of the pe-
riod, as the life and regeneration of
Europe. The very spirit of the time
breathes again in a scene so graphi-
cally described by the poet in "The
Prelude."

But a shadow was cast over the time,
as the travelers passed onward to the
Convent of Chartreuse, and its awful
solitude, about to be invaded by a
baud of revolutionary destroyers. The
poet, whose Protestantism, uidike that
of Milton, never failed in appreciation

of what was excellent in Roman Cath^
olic devotion, keenly felt the crime of
this unhallowed and unprovoked pro-
ceeding ; and he has traced with no
grudging hand the sanctities and sen-
sibilities, the aids to humanity of such
institutions.

It would be vain here to attempt to
pursue the poet through the influences
and associations of this tour. A more
particular account of the journey,
especially in relation to the scen-
ery of the regions visited, may be
foiind by the reader in the elaborate
poem entitled, "Descriptive Sketch-
es taken during a pedestrian tour
among the Al^^s," written by Words-
woi'th within a year or two after his
return.

Leaving Cambridge in January, 1791,
with the degree of Bachelor of Arts,
Wordsworth passed several months in
London, followed by a pedestrian tour
with his friend Jones in Wales. His
residence in the metropolis furnished
the theme of an entire book of " The
Prekide " — a delightful picturesque
narrative, full of youthful wonder, the
common incidents of city life striking
his sense as only a poetical mind can
appreciate them. Being still Avithout
a fixed purpose in life, and unwilling
to take holy ordei's, as some of his rela-
tives urged him, in the month of No-
vember, he set out alone for France,
with the intention of 2:)assing the win-
ter at Orleans. On this, his second
visit, he found the country more deep-
ly involved in the perils of the Revo-
lution, on the eve of its more ciangui-
nary epoch. His course lying through
Paris, he visited all objects of recent oi
present interest, —

550

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

" From the field of Mars
Down to the suburbs of 8t. Anthony,
And from Mont Martyr southward to the
Dome of Genevieve."

saw the revolutionary power surg-
ing in " tlie clamorous halls " of the
National Synod and the Jacobins, and
watched with keen inspection the
motley rout, observing the passions
blended with the gaiety of the time.

At Orleans, where he spent some
time, he l)ecame acquainted with a
band of military officers, with whom
he entertained the hopes and aspira-
tions of the day ; and he has recorded
in partictilar his intimacy with the
philosophic soldier, Beaupere, their
discussions of social questions and their
longings for human welfare in all no-
bleness and simplicity of living. We
have some vivid glimpses also of the
royalists, as yet undecided in the re-
publican ranks, particularly of one
l^owerfully moved at the reception of
the ill-omened reports from the capital.

"While he read,
Or mused, his sword was haunted by his touch
Continually, like an uneasy place
In Ms own body."

Wordsworth passed, in the succeed-
ing spring, to Blois, where news came
to him of the civil slaughter in the
capital ; and, shortly after the massa-
cre of September, was again in Paris,
where the recent events wrought upon
him, in his solitary lodging,

" Until I seemed to hear a voice that cried,
To the whole city, ' Sleep no more.' "

He fortunately left the place in time
to escape a personal experience of the
horrors of the Reign of Terror ; for he
was intimately associated with the

Girondists, and, had he remained, would
doubtless have received the attentions
of Robespieri'e and his cruel associates.
Returning to England at the close
of 1792, he became more perplexed
than ever in considering his future
prospects. Of theprofessions,the church
and the law stood open to him, but
neither suited his disposition. Litera-
ture, at least in the cultivation of his
poetic faculty, promised little. The
" Descriptive Sketches " already allud-
ed to, which he now published in
London, attracted but little attention,
the greatest gain which he received
from the work being the admiration oi
Coleridge, who fell in with the volume
at Cambridge, and hailed " the emer-
gence of an original poetic genius
above the literary horizon." But the
press seemed to offer a more immediate
means of support. In the spring of
1794, while resident with one of his
relatives in the country, he proposed
to his friend Mathews, in London, the
project of a monthly miscellany, with
the title "The Philanthropist," to
which he would contribute articles on
literature and politics, embodying his
liberal views on society. . This scheme
failing, he was about seeking employ-
ment as a writer for one of the opposi-
tion newspapers of the day, when an
event occurred, which, with his econom-
ical habits, placed him at ease in refer-
ence to pecuniary support, and left him
free to emj)loy his faculties in the way
most agreeable to his inclinations. This
was a legacy of nine hundred pounds,
bequeathed to him by his friend Pais-
ley Calvert, whose companion he had
been in his last illness. The act, Words-
worth tells us, " was done entirely from

WILLIAM WOEDSWOETH.

551

a confidence on liis part, that I liad
powers and attainments which might
be of use to mankind." In after years,
the poet recalled the gift in a noble
sonnet, dedicated to the memory of his
benefactor; and he has also in "The
Prelude " recorded the circumstance as
an important event in his career.

The subsequent payment of tTie debt
due his father's estate by Lord Low-
ther, the successor of Lord Lonsdale,
still further secured the indej)endence
of the poet. In the autumn of 1795
we find him living, with his sister, at
Racedown Lodge, near Crewkerne, in
Dorsetshire — he always chose rural
residences— where, amidst its pleasant
scenery, he devoted himself anew to
poetical composition. Here he wrote
his poem entitled " Guilt and Sorrow ;
or Incidents upon Salisbury Plain,"
and his tragedy, " The Borderers ;"
and here he was visited by his asso-
ciate in genius and companion in fame,
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, like himself,
then Just entering upon his literary
career. The guest recited a large por-
tion of his tragedy of " Osorio," the
title of which was subsequently
changed to " Remorse," and Words-
worth replied by reading the " Bor-
derers," which he had just finished.
Mutual admiration and regard were at
once fixed in a lasting friendship. To
be alongside of his friend, who then
lived near the villa<?e of Nether-
Stowey, in Somersetshire, Wordsworth
chancred his residence to a house at
Alfoxden, in that vicinity, a fine old
mansion, surrounded by woods and
vales, and within two miles of the sea.
Here, and in their walks in the neigh-
borhood, the two poets held high con-

verse on the themes of poetry and
philosophy, and one day they were
joined by the celebrated political agi-
tator, Thelwall, who came to visit
Coleridge — a man of many acquii'e-
ments, ever a student, who had pub-
lished poetry in his youth, and after
his trial and acquittal on a charge of
high treason, had now withdrawn from
public life. His previous reputation
as a reformer, however, kept the eyes
of the authorities upon him, and his
movements in Somersetshire were
carefully observed. His apparent in-
timacy with Coleridge and Words-
worth drew suspicion upon them, and
a government spy was at hand to
watch their proceedings. Hiding him-
self behind a bank near their accus-
tomed seat by the sea-side, he over-
heard the poets in their conversation,
frequently talking of Spinosa, whicli
he interpreted Spy-Nosey, and took as
a personal application to himself.
Joining Coleridge on the road, he
affected to be a revolutionist, to draw
out his opinions, when he was over-
whelmed by a philosophical tirade
against Jacobinism, and so overcome
by the poet's eloquence, that the latter
congratulated himself on the oppor-
tunity he had of setting to rights a
disaffected democrat. To the villag-
ers, Wordsworth, with his solitary
walks and muttered soliloquies, ap-
peared much the more probable con-
spirator of the two. Coleridge was
too loquacious to be suspected. In
the case of WordsAvorth, according to
the account of Joseph Cottle, as it was
related to him, half quizzicall}-, by
Coleridge, his peculiar ways were so
little understood, and he became the

552

WILLIAM WORDSWOETH.

subject of so much idle misrepresenta-
tion, that the ignorant dolt who had
the letting of the Alfoxden dwelling,
at the end of the year, refused to
renew the lease to so equivocal a per-
sonage. "The wiseacres of the village
had, it seemed, made Wordsworth the
subject of their serious conversation.
One said that ' he had seen him wander
about by night, and look rather
strangely at the moon ! and then he
roamed over the hills like a partridge.'
Another said ' he had heard him mut-
ter, as he walked, in some outlandish
brogue, that nobody could understand.'
Another said, 'it's useless to talk,
Thomas, I think he is what people call
a wise man — a conjuror.' Another
said : ' You are every one of you
wrono;. I know what he is. "VVe have
all met him tramping away to'wai'd
the sea. Would any man in his sen-
ses, take all that trouble to look at a
parcel of water ? I think he carries
on a snug business in the smuggling
line, and, in these journeys, is on the
look-out for a wet cargo ? ' Another
very significantly said : ' I know that
he has got a private still in his cellar,
for I once passed his house, at a little
better than a hundred yards distance,
and I could smell the spirits, as plain
as an ashen fagot at Christmas ! '
Another said, ' However that was, he is
surely a despard French Jacobin, for he
is so silent and dark, that nobody ever
heard him say one word about politics !'
And thus these ignoramuses drove
fi-om their village a greater ornament
than will ever again be found amongst
them."*

* Cottle's Reminiscences of Coleridge and
Southey. Am. ed., 137.

However all this may have been,
Wordsworth, while he was in posses-
sion of the jiremises, made good use of
his o2:)portunities, in turning the nature
about him to poetical account. Many
of his most striking early poems are
descrijjtions of scenes and incidents
observed by him at this time in the
region. The thorn tree, about which
he gathered the piteous circumstances
of the ballad bearing that name, had
actually ajij^ealed to his imagination
as he came upon it in a storm, on the
ridge of Quantock Hill ; the moon-lit
sky, which opens to the traveller's gaze
in the verses entitled " A Night Piece,"
Was composed by him extempore, as he
traversed the road between him and
Coleridge ; the afPecting poem, " We
are Seven," so tender and pathetic — a
consolation to thousands of bereaved
hearts — was written here ; and, with
various others, " Tlie Idiot Boy " — that
tale, the more affecting in its quaint
simplicity, separating it from all com
mon narratives, had their inspiration
in the groves of Alfoxden. Some of
these poems were composed for his
publication, the " Lyrical Ballads," a
collection which had its oi'igin under
rather peculiar circumstances. The
poet, in company with his sister and
Coleridge, was accustomed to make
excursions about the romantic county
bordering on the sea, in which they
dwelt. On one of these occasions,
when they were about to visit Linton
and its neighborhood, to eke out their
united funds for the expenses of the
journey, the two poets proposed to
write a poem, to be sold to a magazine
in London. In this way was planned
" The Ancient Mariner." Wordsworth,

WILLIAM WORDSWOETH.

553

who liacl been reading in " Sbelvocke's
Voyages," a day or two before, of the
huge albatrosses seen about Cape
Horn, suggesting the employment of
that bird in the spiritual agency of the
poem, and furnishing some of the
opening lines. The suT)ject, however,
proved so entirely suitable to the
peculiar genius of Coleridge that it
was left in his hands. The work, as it
proceeded, became important enough
for a volume, and Wordsworth wrote
a number of pieces to accomjjany it,
among them the " Lines," as he simply
entitled that exquisite philosophical,
descriptive poem composed on revisit-
ing Tintern Abbey and the banks of
the Wye. It was a rare book to con-
tain two such poems, one at its begin-
ning, the other at its close. It also
included, in addition to the poems
written by Wordsworth, at Alfoxden,
already mentioned, the story " Goody
Blake and Harry Gill," which, among
other simjjlicities in the volume, so
greatly provoked the wrath of the
revieAvers of that day. There was,
undoubtedly, something of excess in
the bluntness with which the poet, in
these and other productions of a simi-
lar class, which followed, thrust for-
ward the fomiliar language and inci-
dents of every-day life — and these,
too, of the lowest classes, as the pro-
per language and themes of poetry.
Si)urning the elegant style of the day
in verse, which had degenerated into
conventionalism and mere sounding
platitudes — for the most part, poor
alike in execution and subject-matter,
he resolved deliljerately to look for
new sources of inspiration, in a closer
study of nature and the homely reali-
70

ties of life. His coui-se, in this respect,
was somewhat similar to that of the
so-called Pre-Raphaelite painters of
our own day, who, weary of the insip-
idities of conventional art, sought
escape from its vapid generalization in
an extreme literalism, which sometimes
proved its sincerity at the expense of
the necessary qualities of taste and
judgment. Beauty, the highest object
of art, was thus sacrificed for a moral
13urpose. For a time there seemed a
repugnance between the two ; in the
end they were brought together in
harmony, in greater strength fi'omthe
temporary separation. Nor was it
by any means a mere question of style
or literary expression with Words-
worth. He had, from the beginning,
a moral purpose in view. His poetry
was the outgrowth of his independent
nature, and of the democratic convic-
tions which he keenly felt in early life,
and which he never abandoned ; though,
as he grew older, he saw that there
were means to reach the results he
aimed at, of a conservative character,
which he had once overlooked. It was
not the man who was changed ; but
his system had become more compre-
hensive. He always, in fact, repre-
sented the reforming spirit of his age.
At the outset we have seen his. sympa-
thy w^ith the humanitarian work of
the French revolution, before it was
corrupted by crime and bloodshed.
His personal tastes, from the begin-
ning, were very simple. If he was
dazzled for a moment by the glare of
expense, at the beginning of his Uni-
versity course, it was but to return,
with the greater zest, in his first vaca-
I tion to the rude simplicities of the

55i

WILLIAM WOKDSWOETH.

humble country-folk among whom he
had been nurtured. This foundation
of pure natural emotion strengthened
his whole life. He could enter heart-
ily into the truths — of all men, he was
the least likely to be carried away by
the falsities of revolutionary France.
There was a sound English element in
his character, which acted instinctively.
The first product in literature of the
new reforming spirit, preceding and
attendins: the revolution on the conti-
nent, was a morbid or elegant senti-
mentality, represented in such works
as the " Sorrows of Werter," Schiller's
"Robbers," and, in its milder phrase,the
fables of Gesner and Florian. But the
Muse of Wordsworth never gave the
slif^htest encouragement to the utter-
ance of despair, or could find any con-
solation in the languid shepherds and
shepherdesses of the stage. His nature
was too manly for either. Nor, in his
pursuit of simplicity, did he ever lose
sight, in his poetry, of the paramount
claims of the imaijination. The most
maligned by the critics of his early
works, are never without some exercise
of this quality; while, alongside of them,
even in his early publications, are to
be found some of its finest examples
in our English literature. With the
exception of a few wilful or ill-con-
ceived passages of a common or vulgar
aspect, comparatively insignificant in
number, which, in the revision of his
writings, in the later publications of
his works, he mostly, if not entirely,
rejected, Wordsworth was really very
little of an innovator in his poetic lan-
guage. His taste in verse, so much
objected to, was^C, after all, in the very
spirit of the old English ballads,

which, revised by Bishop Percy in the
previous generation, brought with
them a new breath of life to the faded
literature of the age. The poet-artist,
Blake, preceded Wordsworth by some
years in the production of his "Poetical
Sketches," and " Songs of Innocence
and Experience," and stamped the
same impress of feeling upon his
verses. There is one among them, in
particular, "The Chimney Sweeper,"
which, in its quaintness, and the selec-
tion of the subject, might have found
its place in the "Lyrical Ballads." Yet
the English world, after long neglect,
has learned to honor the visionary
Blake as he deserved ; and his poems,
when they were written, were worthy
of greater regard, in the poverty of
original genius in that time. It is
almost inconceivable now, the spirit of
opposition which long dogged the pro-
gress of Wordsworth. But the very
irritation which he caused may be
taken as proof of his power, and of the
weakness of his opponents. He Avas
assailed by them even with rancorous
spite and enmity, as if it had been the
unpardonable sin to attempt to des-
cribe, in verse, the lowly sorrows of
suffering peasants ; and a man was to
be ranked with old women for writing
about them, or set down as an idiot for
picturing, with a sense of humor and
pity, his inoffensive ways. If Words-
worth sinned in the production of the
" Lyrical Ballads," a share of the pun-
ishment should have been inflicted on
Coleridge, who planned with him the
work, and who, in numerous pages of
his best prose, nobly vindicated the
attempt. In the division of the task
which they set before them, it was

WILLIAM WORDSWOETH.

555

Wordswortli's part, he says, " to pro-
pose to himself as his object, to give
the charm of novelty to things of every
day, and to excite a feeling analogous
to the supernatural, by awakening the
mind's attention to the lethargy of
custom, and directing it to the loveli-
ness and the wonders of the world
before us ; an inexhaustible treasure,
but for which, in consequence of the
film of familiarity and selfish solici-
tude, we have eyes, yet see not ; ears
that hear not, and hearts that neither
feel nor understand "^certainly some-
thing well worthy undertaking, which
we may be thankful there was a power
above that of the blind critics of the
day, to protect.

In one of its depreciatory articles on
the poet's works, -WTitten some years
latter, the " Edinburgh Eeview " tells
us that the " Lyrical Ballads " had been
" unquestionably j)opular." If so, the
publisher, who would doubtless gladly
have welcomed such an impression, did
not, at the outset, perceive it. His ac-
count-books told a different story. The
work Avas published by Josejih Cottle,
at Bristol, in 1798 ; the edition was
but five hundred ; and, as he tells us in
his " Reminiscences," the " sale was so
slow, and the severity of most of the
reviews so great, that its progress to
oblivion seemed to be certain." He
parted with most of the impression to
a London bookseller at a loss; and,
when, soon after retiring from business,
he transferred his copyright to the
Messrs. Longman, that of the " Lyrical
Ballads " v,-as set down as of no value ;
and, at the suo-gestion of Mr. Cottle,
was readily enough presented to the
authors. The publisher, however, had

paid Wordsworth thirty pounds for
his contributions to the volume, which,
his residence at Alfoxden being at an
end, he invested iu a trip to Germany
In company with his sister and Cole-
ridge, shortly after the publication of
the " Ballads," he sailed in September
for Hamburgh, where the friends made
the acquaintance of the father of the
revived German literature, the poet
Klopstock ; and "Wordsworth had the
opportunity of informing his illustri-
ous host of the uses of the fool iu
Shakespeare's tragedy of " Lear." The
tour lasted some six months, most of
which were spent by Wordsworth and
his sister together, in lodgings at a
draper's house in the romantic imperial
town of Goslar, as it is described by the
poet, on the edge of the Hartz forest-
Coleridge, who had parted with his com-
panions at Hamburgh, was passing his
time at Ratzeburgh, and a correspond-
ence was kept up between them. The
object of the travellers, we may sup-
posed, was partly economy; but
Wordsworth and his sister were in-
tent on learning the language of the
country, for which Goslar tui-ned out
rather unpropitious, the place being
inhospitable to strangers, and Words-
worth little given to p ashing his way
into society, which was, moreover, here
fortified by almost impenetrable tobac-
co smoke, for which he had a great
aversion. He had abundant opportu-
nity, however, for study within doors,
the excessive cold of the winter check-
ing his indomitable pedestrianism.
" So severe," says he, " was the cold of
this winter, that when we passed out
of the parlor warmed by the stove, our
cheeks were struck by the air as by

55G

WnXIAM WOEDSWORTH.

cold iron. I slept in a room over a
passage tliat was not ceiled. The j^eo-
ple of the boiise used to say, rather un-
feelingly, that they expected I should
be frozen to death some night; but,
with the protection of a pelisse lined
with fur, and a dog's-skin bonnet, such
as was worn by the peasants, I walked
daily on the ramparts, or on a sort of
public ground or garden, in which was
a pond. Here I had no company but
a kingfisher, a beautiful creature that
used to glance by me. I consequently
became much attached to it. During
these walks I composed " The Poet's
Epitaph."

The mind is independent of place.
One would fancy this poem to have
been inspired by some inmost haunt
of the poet's retii'ement, in his beloved
Westmoreland, in the heart of its sum-
mer English scenery, rather than under
such wintry circumstances in frozen
Goslar. But the poet creates an at-
mosphere and region of his own, and
we constantly find the most character-
istic poems to have been written in the
most unexpected places. This poem
is noticeable for its ideal portrait of
the poet — a sketch from his own life.
After, as in some ancient chant by
Grreek or Roman priest, warning oif
unprepared souls from access to the
shrine — the hardened lawyer, the stall-
fed divine, the "fingering slave" of
science, the self-sufiicing moralist — we
are admitted to the sacred poet, while,

" With modest looks,
And clad in homely russet brown
He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their own."

The poet's biographer, Bishop Words-
worth, notices how his mind turns

from the scene around him, this rugged
winter, to his native England ; and how
his themes are drawn from his early as-
sociations, as he recalls in touching
strains the haunts of his school-boy
days at Esthwaite ; the heart philoso-
phies of his teachers, sacred to memory
as in that touching poem, "The Two
April Mornings ; " or the conversation,
insjjired by the burdens of age, at
" The Fountain ; " and the interview
with the dying Master, and the long
farewell at the grave. There, too, he
wrote that reminiscence of one of the
playmates of his boyhood, eminent
among the thousand pictures of the
lake scenery for its clear-toned empha-
sis and imaginative beauty- — lines
which would have received the plaud-
its of a Grecian theatre in the best
days of Attic literary fame : the verses
commencing,

" There was a boy; ye knew him well, ye cViSs
And islands of AVinander!"

Leaving Coleridge to j)ursue his stu-
dies at Gottingen, Wordsworth and
his sister, in the spring, gladly return-
ed to England, having their residence
for a time with their friends, the
Hutchinsons, at Sockburn-on-Tees. Re-
viewing now his literary career, with
the encouragement of Coleridge, he re-
solved upon a work of greater magni-
tude than the detached poems which
had hitherto occupied him. The pro-
cess which he employed, in a mercan-
tile phrase, " taking stock " of his in-
tellectual faculties, dictated his subject
— " a record in verse," as he describ-
ed it of " the origin and progress of
his own powers," which, as the precur
sor of a philosophical poem of wider

WILLIAM WOEDSWOKTH.

557

scope, lie entitled "The Prelude." It
was thus a species of autobiography,
and as such furnishes the most inter-
esting materials for the poet's history.
The passages we have drawn from it
exhibit something of its scope and
manner in the narrative portions ; the
philosphical are of equal interest. Its
composition occupied some six or seven
years; but it remained unpublished
until after the author's death.

In the autumn of 1799, an excursion
which Wordsworth made into Cum-
berland and Westmoreland, in com-
pany with his sister and Coleridge, led
to his hirino" a cottas^e facins; the lake,
in the vale of Grasmere, in the region
which thenceforward became his home,
and with which he was to Ijecome so
thoroughly identified. The house at
Grasmere had formerly been an inn, and
bore the name of " The Dove and Olive
Bough." Wordsworth and his sister
took possession of it on St. Thomas' day
(the 21st of December), having per-
formed most of the journey from Sock-
burn on foot, undeterred by the severity
of the winter's cold ; spite of snow and
tempest, making exhaustive surveys of
the half-frozen waterfalls and scenery
by the way. Wordsworth's enthusiasm
for the minute observation of nature,
was happily shared liy his sister. Her
companionship ^\■as invaluable to him,
not only in her ready sympathy, but in
the serviceable employment of her own
faculties. She was constantly suggest-
ing to him, or recalling to his memory
cii'cum stances which he employed in
his poems, many of whicli, though
composed, would never have been
written or given to the world but for
her ready services as an amanuensis.

" The sister's eye," we are told by
Bishop Wordsworth, " was ever on
the watch to provide for the brother's
pen. He had a most ol)servant eye;
and she also saw for him : and his po-
ems are sometimes little more than
j)oetical versions of her descriptions of
the objects which she had seen ; and
he treated them as seen by himself."
With regard to writing, there was
nothing which Wordsworth at that
time approached with greater reluc-
tance. Writing in 1803, to Sir George
Beaumont, in excuse for his long-de-
layed acknowledgement of the gift of
a beautiful site for a house near Kes-
wick, he says ; " I do not know li-om
what cause it is, but, during the last
three years, I have never had a pen in
my hand for five minutes, before my
Avhole frame becomes a bundle of un-
easiness; a perspiration starts out all
over me, and my chest is oppressed in
a manner which I cannot descrilje."
With this idiosyncracy, the constant
lovins attentions of his sister became
indispensable. AVorthily is her praise
recorded on many a page of his writ-
ino-s, and never with more warmth of
gratitude than when the pair came to
reside together in the, to them, en-
chanted mountain lake country at
Grasmere.

A new person is now to join the
brother and sister in this rurtd scene
and kindly blend v/ith the associations
of the place. In Octol)er, lSO-2, the
poet, his fortunes being improved by
the payment of the Lowther claim al-
ready alluded to, ^\•as married at
Brompton Church, to ]\Iary Hutchin-
son, and brought his Avife home with
him to the little residence at Grasmere

558

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

This was an alliance wliicli came al-
most as naturally to him as his com-
panionship, with his sister. In the
fragment of autol^iography cited at
the beginning of this memoir, he tells
us : " We had known each other from
childhood, and had practised reading
and spelling under the same old dame
at Peni'ith ; a remarkable personage,
who had taught three generations, of
the upper classes principally, of the
town of Penrith and its neighbor-
hood." In one of his college vaca-
tions, when joining his sister at Pen-
rith, where Mary Hutchinson then re-
sided with her parents, he had again,
in company with his sister, been
thrown into her society — a union
which he has celebrated in a passage
of the " Prelude."

There is in that classification of the
poet's works, entitled " Poems founded
on the Affections," one bearing the un-
pretending inscription : " Farewell,
composed in the year 1802." This
is a simple leave-taking of the cot-
tage at Grasmere, its little garden and
flowers, on setting out upon the jour-
ney, from which the poet was to re-
turn bringing his newly-married wife
with him. It is a very tender poem ;
and, as we read it, the little home
seems invested with a personal exist-
ence, as if it were to feel the jDrivation
in its occupants' temporary absence,
and be reconciled by the promised ad-
ditional wealth to be brought to its
doors.

There are other striking allusions to
this dear companion of the poet's life,
the sharer of his joys and sorrows for
nearly half a century; but the most
noticeable is the exquisite female por-

trait he has drawn in the lines, stand-
ing in his works by themselves, with-
out a title, commencing —

' ' She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight."

In the mean time, the production of
new poems at Grasmere was going on
apace. In addition to the Avork on
the "Prelude," various pastoral, de-
scriptive, and narrative verses were
added to the stock which, at the close
of the year 1800, were given to the
world in a new issue of the " Lyrical
Ballads," now extended to two vol-
umes. Besides several poems which
we have mentioned as written since
the former publication, the collection
included the idyllic poem, " The Bro-
thers " — in its simple dialogue and
unaffected heart-utterances, not unre-
lieved by quaint touches of character,
as in the querulousness of the clergy-
man so soon ending in sympathy, a
foretaste of similar scenes in the " Ex-
cursion ;" the ballad story of Ruth,
with its pictures of our own Southern
scenery ; the tale of the shepherd life
of " Michael," with its heartfelt grief,
that broken pledge of duty and affec-
tion at the sheepfold, forgotten by the
son, bringing the old man in sorrow to
the grave ; and that fine study of de-
crejjid humanity, " The Old Cumber-
land Beggar," with its plea for the
natural, as- opposed to the crushing
economic charities of poor-house re-
lief.

In these and kindred poems there
was a natural fervor and eloquence,
which, spite of critics, found its way
to the hearts of the people. Though
the publishers, Messrs. Longman, did

WILLIAM WOEDSWOETH.

559

not feel themselves justified in offering
more than a hundred pounds for two
editions of the enlarged work, yet the
poem's " fit audience " found and pre-
pared the way for greater successes.
A new edition was called for in 1802,
and another in 1805. The next publi-
cation l»y Wordsworth appeared in
1807, simply entitled, " Poems in Two
Volumes ;" a gathering up of his com-
positions during the previous seven
years. It includes some of his best
known and most admired writings,
realizing the old poet Withers saying,
in his Address to his Muse :

" If thy verse do bravely tower,
As she makes wing, she gets power :
Yet the higher slie doth soar,
She's affronted still the more,
Till she to the high'st hath past,
Then she rests with fame at last."

In su<;h productions as the " Char-
acter of the Happy Warrior ;" the no-
ble " Sonnets dedicated to Liberty ;"
the " Ode to Duty," aud the ode, " In-
timations of Immortality, from Recol-
lections of Early Childhood," the poet
was indeed approaching his highest ;
yet an Edinburgh Reviewer, with
these and other like evidences of ge-
nius and consummate art before him,
could write of these volumes: "The
diction of Mr. Wordsworth has no-
where anj^ pretensions to elegance or
dignity ; and he has scarcely ever con-
descended to give the grace of correct-
ness or melody to his versification."
The " Ode to Duty " in this article, in
which the stupidity is only equalled
by its insolence, is pronounced " a very
unsuccessful attempt at the lofty
vein ;" and the ode on " Immortality,"
"beyond all doubt the most illegible and

unintelligible part of the publication.
We can pretend to give no analysis or
explanation of it; our readers must
make what they can of the following
extracts " — one of them beins: the
passage embracing that train of
thought, beautifully expressed in
similitude, connecting man's existence
with the infinite life before and after,
looking upon which

" Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal science ; truths that wake

To perish never ;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,

Nor man, nor boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly aboUsh or destroy !
Hence, in a season of calm weather.
Though inland far we be.
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Wliich brought us hither.

Can in a moment travel thither.
And see the children sport upon the shore.
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. "

Was it nothing for the poet to write
in such a strain as this the noblest ode
of modern times ; to revive in English
literature those powers of the sonnet
consecrated by the genius of the
world's elder bards, vindicated not
less by his own creative genius than
by theii' example ? Listen to his
plea : —

"Scorn not the sonnet; critic, you have

frowned.
Mindless of its just honors ; with this key
Shakspeare unlocked his heart ; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's

wound ;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ;
Cam^ens soothed with it an exile's grief ;
The sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp.
It choori'd mild Spensor, called from Fairy-land
To struggle through dark ways ; and. when a

damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand

560

WILLIAM WORDSWOETH.

The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew
Soul-animating strains —alas, too few !"

And then see in liis writings, justify-
ing these I'eferences to his predecessors,
how elastic a medium he made the
sonnet in the utterance of kindling
thoughts of self -culture, philanthro-
py, or patriotism, of tender inspira-
tions of affection ; eml)alming personal
and historic incidents in this imperish-
able amber of pure verse, and giving
breath in its softened cadences to the
gentlest inspirations of nature. Were
all of Wordsworth's writings to per-
ish, save his sonnets, he would still be
one of the most illustrious poets of
his age.

But the new volumes have other
claims upon our admiration. They
contain that wondrous " Sons: at the
Feast of Brougham Castle," celebrat-
ing the restoration of Lord Clifford,
the shepherd, to the estates and honors
of his ancestors — a j)oem foimded on
historic incidents, surviving in the
scenery and ruins of his region, de-
lightful as a narrative poem, but ris-
ing to the dignity of the ode as it is
suffused throughout with the warm
glow of the imagination. We are
transported to the wars of the Red
and White Roses, in the vicissitudes
of which the exiled Clifford is nur-
tured in an ideal peasant land, yet not
very far from the old English life, to
return, instructed by adversity, to the
home of his ancestors. Every line of
the minstrel's song in this ballad rings
with the stirring excitements of the
period.

A distinct portion of the work was
also assigned to " Poems Written dur-
ing a Tour in Scotland." This was

the first of several journeys in that
region which gave occasion to separate
series of the author's poetical compo-
sitions. The tour Avas accomplished
in the months of August and Septem-
ber, 1803, Wordsworth and his sister
travellino' tos^ether, and beinof for a
portion of the time accompanied by
Coleridge. In the poet's biography
there is a delightful account of the in-
cidents by the way, in a journal kept
by Miss Wordsworth. One of the
most interesting circumstances was the
meeting, for the first time, of Words-
worth with Walter Scott, at the cot-
tage of the latter at Lasswade, and
subsequently at Melrose and its vicin-
ity. The Scottish poet exhibited his
usual qualities of frankness and hospi-
tality and cheerful enjoyment of life,
which were keenly appreciated by his
visitor; and the acquaintance thus
formed between them ripened into
friendship as they advanced, though
with unequal degrees of popular favor
in their literary careers. Tliree years
later, Scott and his wife visited the
Lake Country of England, when
Wordsworth accompanied them over
some of its finest scenery. Twenty
years later, Scott was again with
Wordsworth at Mount Rydal ; and in
1831, on the eve of Scott's departure
for Italy, seeking restoration of his
health, Wordsworth paid him a fare-
well visit at Abbotsford, commemo-
rated in a sonnet of great beauty and
feelino;.

Nor less noticeable than this friend-
ship with Scott, on his first tour in
Scotland, was Wordsworth's expression
of sympathy with the genius and fate
of Burns. The peasant bard of Scot-

WILLIAM WORDSWOETH.

561

land, in all bis Letter qualities, —
and tliey constituted nearly the whole
man, — was a being after Wordsworth's
own heart — manly, independent, scorn-
ing conventionalism, drawing his in-
spiration from the cominou life around
him, and elevating it, hj his " so po-
tent art," into the most consummate
products of literature. Burns had
then not been long dead ; and his
death had occurred under painful cir-
cumstances of intemperance, which
thrust themselves prominently into
Anew when people, especially rigid
moralists, thought of the man. See-
ing the mists and clouds whicli beset
his path, preachers and biographers
seemed forgetful of his meridian
brightness. Too much was said of
" poor " Burns ; too little of the good,
genial, illustrious Burns. But Words-
worth approached his grave with dif-
ferent feelings, as he thought of the
debt which he owed to his genius,
and the qtialities which he would
gladly have welcomed in the friend.

Years after, in 1815, when Words-
worth was consulted by a gentleman
of Edinburgh, John (xray, as to the
proper mode of vindicating the mem-
ory of Burns, in view of the rejmbli-
cation of Dr. Currie's "Life and Cor-
respondence " of the poet, he pul)lish-
ed an essay on the subject, entitled
" A Letter to a friend of Robert Burns,"
in which he deprecated any fui'ther
exposure of his errors, or dwelling up-
on his imperfections, as unfriendly to
the best interests of his readers. The
paper is instinct with a profound phil-
osophy in the study of human nature ;
and it is to l)e regretted, that, originally
appearing in a very small edition, it has
71

not since been included in any collec-
tion of the poet's ■\\Titings. " Only to
philosophy," says he, in this great les-
son of charity, " enlightened by the aifec-
tions, does it belong justly to estimate
the claims of the deceased on the one
hand, and of the present and future
generations on the other, and to strike
a balance between them." The reader
will remark in this essay, the strong,
sinewy, elastic English prose style,
as remarkable in our author as his
poetic composition. He was like his
predecessox", Dryden, an admiralile
master in this walk, as well as his
rival in the artful cadences of his best
versification. Wordsworth's prose
writings are well worthy of study, and
should be made accessible to the puli-
lic in a separate collection. His prefaces
to his poems are especially prominent for
their philosophical criticism ; and there
is an admirable political essay which
he published in 1809, on "The Eela-
tions of Great Britain, Spain, and Por-
tugal, as affected by the Convention of
Cinti'a, the whole brought to the test
of those principles by which alone the
independence of freedom of nations
can be preserved or recovered," which
Canning j^tronounced " the most elo-
quent production since the days of
Burke." Wordsworth also contribu-
ted a paper or two to " Coleridge's
Friend," which Avas written at his liouse
at Grasmere, and is the author of " A
Guide through the District of the
Lakes in the North of England," a
rare production among Ijooks of this
class.

Eeturning to the domestic history
of the poet, Ave find tlie little house-
hold at Grasmere visited by the usual

562

WILLIAM WOEDSWOKTH.

vicissitudes of joy and sorrow. In
June, 1803, liis eldest son, Jolin, is
born ; and in August of tlie following
year, on the birth-day of her mother,
his daughter, Dora, an event in a few
months followed l)y the loss of his
brother. Captain Wordsworth, in the
wreck of his ship on the English Coast,
— " my ever-dear brother," of whom he
writes to Sir George Beaumont, " I can
say nothing higher than that he was
worthy of his sister, who is now weep-
ing beside me, and of the friendship of
Coleridge ; meek, affectionate, silently
enthusiastic, loving all quiet things,
and a poet in everything but words."
Three otlier children were born to him,
Thomas, in 180G; Catharine, in ISOS,
and William, in 1810. Of this family
only two sons survived him. Thomas
and Catharine died in 1812. Dora, in
1811, was married to the son of an
English merchant in Portugal, Edward
Quillinan, whose early life was passed
in the army, and who has some asso-
ciation with literature, not only as an
author, but by his connection with Sir
Eger-tcn Brydges, whose daughter was
his first wife. He was long intimate
with the Wordsworth family, and an
ai'deut appreciator of the poet's genius.
His wife Dora, in 1845, visited Portu-
gal with him for the restoration of her
health, and jmblished, on her return, an
account of the tour, in two volumes, ded-
icated to her father, entitled " Journal
of a few months' Residence in Portugal,
and Glimpses of the South of Spain."
She died in 1847. The poet's son, John,
was educated at Oxford, and became a
clergyman of the Church of England.
William, the younger son, studied at
Heidelberg, and was subsequently as-

sociated with his father in his office of
distributor of stamps.

Having thus traced the formative
influences of the poet's career, it is un-
necessary here to pursue minutely the
progress of his later writings. One of
his publications stands out with pecu-
liar prominence, though in reality it
does not differ essentially from the
rest. " The Excursion," the second
part of the grand philosophical poem,
of which " The Prelude " was the first,
and which was to bear in its en-
tirety the name of "The Recluse,"
was published in the summer of 1814 ;
and may be considered, rather fi-om its
extent than quality, great as its merits
are, the most important exhibition of
his poetic and philosophical system.
Much has been written l^y Coleridge
and others, as well as by himself, con-
cerning his theories ; but the reader
who is indisposed to critical enquiries,
may pass these discussions over, ad-
mirable as they are, as by no means
indispensable to an adequate enjoy-
ment of the poems. In truth, their
philosophy is very simple. There
is nothing in " The Excursion " which
a mind of ordinary intelligence and
sensibility cannot readily learn to
appreciate ; and the word " learn " is
used advisedly, — for Wordsworth, in
common with the great masters of po-
etry, is a teacher of the world. It is
the charm in this respect of his •wait-
ings, that their meaning is not readily
exhausted ; that they aj^peal rather to
the wisdom of age than the passions of
youth ; that, Avhile they reflect the ten-
derest sympathy with all periods of
life, they are more peculiarly apprecia-
ted, to borrow an expression of their

WILLIAM WOEDSWOETH.

5G3

author, in those " years that bring the
philosophic mind." In the " Excur-
sion " particuhirly, we have that calm
survey of life, instinct with imagina-
tive sympathy and transcendental emo-
tion, which blends the results of ordi-
nary exj)ei'ience with the more tender
graces and profounder insight of poetic
culture. The story is told, diversified
in numerous examples, of the cares and
sorrows dogging our poor human life,
which is exalted as our thousrlits are
refined, by a submissive Christian ap-
preciation of the common lot, not un-
visited by glimpses, as the sun breaks
through the parted clouds, of the Heav-
en beyond. In this great poem, as with
Chaucer's "Nun," Madame Eglantine,
" all is conscience and tender heart."
The charity is inexhaustible, unlimited.
All nature is made a witness, in her
myriad foi'ms of life, to the grand
truth of man's welfare and security in
his spiritual existence, triumphant over
sense and matter, wraj^ped in the love
and cognizance of Deity. We are taught
by this great Christian moralist our
dependence upon one another, our de-
pendence upon God. To these great
truths, all else in Wordsworth's writ-
ings is subsidiary, the thousand graces
and ornaments of expression, the love
of childhood, and the symjjathy with
age, the eye responsive to the beauty
of the flower, the ear drinking the
melodies of air, the feeling heart cher-
ishing in its embrace alike the inani-
mate and animated life of this heaven-
created world.

It need not be said that .Words-
worth's greatest poem is " The Excur-
sion;" for all his poetical writings
form one great poem. The two Avorks,

says he, the " Prelude " and the " Ex-
cursion," have " the same kind of rela-
tion to each other, if he may so exjiress
himself, as the ante-chapel and the
body of a Gothic church. Continuing
this allusion, he may be permitted to
add, that his minor Pieces, when they
shall be properly arranged, will be
found by the attentive reader to have
such connection ■\vith the main work
as may give them claim to be likened
to the little cells, oratories and sepul-
chral recesses, ordinarily included in
those edifices." If there is anything
faulty in this illustration, it is that it
does not seem at first to inchide the
most jicrvading characteristic of the
poems, their out-of-door life and vital-
ity. They were composed, almost
without exception, in the open air, as
even his servant, at Rydal, knew ; for
once, being asked by a stranger to be
sbown the poet's study, she replied, as
she showed one of the rooms : " This
is mj master's library, where he keeps
his books, but his study is out of
doors." The verses were generally
murmured to the hills and gales which
insj^ired them, before they were re-
cited to the kind members of his fam-
ily, who wrote them down. The
arrangement, alluded to by the poet,
was afterwards made ; and the poems,
as they are now printed in the stand-
ard editions, are classified partly ac-
cording to the periods of life which
they represent ; partly l)y the pre-
dominant exercise of the faculties, as
of fancy or imagination involved in
their composition ; partly by theii
moral rc'lations, and in groups, accord-
ing to the several subjects.

As essential to even a general his

564

WILLIAM WOEDSWOKTH.

tory of the poet's writings, a word
must be given to the reception of The
" Excursion." The book, at the time
of its publication, was in advance of
the taste of the public ; and, indeed, is
not of the class which ever becomes
widely popular on the instant. Jeff-
rey probably expressed the common
impression, when he commenced his
memorable review of the work, in the
" Edinburgh," with the dogmatic sen-
tence : " This will never do ! " To
which Southey replied, on hearing it
stated that the arch critic had " crushed
'The Excursion,' — " He crush 'The
Excursion.' Tell him he might as well
fancy that he could crush Skiddaw."
Yet for a time the critics seemed to
triumph. The poem, indeed, in sin-
cere and cultivated minds, found " fit "
audience ; but, as in the case of Milton,
the appreciators were "few." The
first edition of "The Excursion," was,
according to the fashion of the time, in
quarto, and consisted of only five hun-
dred copies, and six years elapsed
before another was called for ; nor was
the poem at all generally circulated
till it appeared in the collection of the
poet's works, in a popular form, in
1837. In the meantime it had been
followed by numerous separate publi-
cations. " The White Doe of Rylstone "
appeared in 1815, a narrative poem
of an ancient time of srreat imajj-ina-
five beauty, which did not, however,
save it from the wrath of Jeffrey, who
in the "Edinlmrgh Review," absurd-
ly assigned it " the merit of being the
very worst poem he ever saw imprinted
in a quarto volume," which was cer-
tainly stultifying himself sufliciently,
considering the ineffable trash which

must have come before him in the pre-
vious generation, in that form. The
poem noto needs no eulogy. The stu-
pidity, malice, or detraction of critics
cannot hurt it further. In its historic
narrative it is of a kindred period,and is
wi'itten in the same enlivened strain,
with the " Song at the Feast of Broug-
ham Castle ;" while the lovely creation
of the gentle animal whose name it
bears, is unique in our poetic litera-
ture. In 1819, "Peter Bell," and the
" "Waggoner," were published ; both
had been written long before. The
first was dedicated to Southey, the
second to Charles Lamb, who, with
Coleridge, composed the inner circle of
his admirers among the authors of the
day, and were endeared to him by the
sincerest affection — sharing with him
the foolish epithet of the Lakists, or
Lake School of poets, though no
writers could be less properly classed
together, in the essential qualities
or exhibitions of their genius. The
author's caprices of fancy in these
poems were, as usual, stumbling blocks
to the critics, who would make no
allowances for the wild growths of
nature, but would have every flower
growing on a smooth little parterre,
cultivated according to their own taste,
in their own little back garden.
Henceforth, however, Wordsworth's
course was less encumbered with diffi-
culties on this score, his later writings
generally following the more accepted
paths. They are, for the most part,
embraced in various series of Sonnets,
among which the " Ecclesiastical
Sketches," as they were first entitled,
hold a leading place ; and in memor-
ials of numerous towns about England,

WILLIAM WOEDSWOKTH.

565

and the Continent, extending from the
Ehine, through the heart of Switzer-
land, to Eome and the Tiber. Words-
worth was always fond of travelling.
While books, he said, were the passion
of Southey ; " wandering " was his own ;
and it was checked only by his inabil-
ity, from want of fortune, to gratify the
propensity. Yet he showed great
steadfastness in his adherence to home
and its local associations in the Lake
country. He changed his residences
only from necessity, and then never
wandered far from the little cottage in
which he fii-st settled, with his sister,
at Grasmere. \\lien that dwelling
proved too small for his increasing
family, in 1S08, he took another in its
vicinity, at Allan Bank, where he
resided for three or four years, when
he passed to Rydal Mount, at Amble-
side, his beautiful home, bordered by
the lake and mountains, which,with the
assistance of his friend, Lord Lonsdale,
he purchased for himself, whei'e the
remaining thirty-seven years of his life
were spent. These were years of such
felicity as rarely happens to the lot of
mortals, long unvisited by sickness or
death, animated by the fervors of poet-
ical composition, which were rewarded
by increasing fame and respect ; while
an easy independence, to one of his
simple habits, was secured by the re-
munerative office which he held of
distributor of stamps for tlie County
of Westmoreland. In 18-1:3, on the
death of Southey, who had long held
the office, Wordsworth received the ap-
pointment of Poet Laureate. When
death came, after a short illness, result-
ing from a cold, which separated him
but a few days from his beloved woods

and fields, it found him, at the age of
eighty, in full enjoyment of his facul-
ties, honored by the great host of En-
glish readers throughout the world,
whom he had taught the secret charm
of verse, and whose lives he had in
vested with new interest, by the com-
munication of his generous philan-
thropy. He died in his home, at
Kydal Mount, on the 23d of April,
1850, the day celebrated as St. George's
Day ; the day of Shakespeare's birth
and of his death — ministered to in his
last hours by his beloved wife, receiv-
ing the rite of the Holy Communion
at the hands of his son. His remains
were laid near those of his children,
in Grasmere church-yard. " His own
prophecy," writes his biographer.
Bishop Wordsworth, " in the lines,

' Sweet flower ! belike one day to have
A place upon thy Poet's grave,
I welcome thee once more,

is now fulfilled. He desired no splen-
did tomb in a public mausoleum.
He reposes, according to his own wish,
beneath the green turf, among the
dalesmen of Grasmere, under the syca-
mores and yews of a country church-
yard, by the side of a beautiftil stream,
amid the mountains which he loved ;
and a solemn voice seems to breathe
fi-om his grave, which blends its tones
in sweet and holy harmony w ith the
accents of his poetry, speaking the
language of humility and love, of
adoration and faith, and preparing
the soul, by a religious exercise of the
kindly affections, and by a devout
contemplation of natural beauty, for
translation to a purer, and nobler, and
more glorious state of existence, and
for a fruition of heavenly felicity."

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS

MKS. HEMANS, whose maiden
name was Browne, was born
at Liverpool, England, the 25th of
September, 1794. Her father was a
native of Ireland, well connected in that
country ; her mother was an English-
woman of Venetian descent, the family
numbering in its early history several
Doges, and a commander at the battle
of Lepanto. Her grandfather had been
the Venetian Consul at Liverpool, and
married into a Lancashire family. In
this peculiar ancestry, combining the
blood of Ireland and Italy, mingled
with that of England, it is not difficult
to trace the source of that fine impres-
sibility and imaginative turn of mind
which distinguished Felicia from her
very childhood. She would, we are
told, by her biographer, Chorley, " of-
ten, half playfully, half proudly, allude
to her origin as accounting for the
strong tinge of romance, which, from
infancy, pervaded every thought, word
and aspiration of her daily life; and
for that remarkable instinct towards
the beautiful, whicli rarely forms so
prominent a featui-e in the character of
one wholly English born." In her
childhood she was much noticed for
her beauty — her lustrous complexion

^506)

and long, waving, golden hair. The
removal of her parents, consequent up-
on the failure of her father in his mer-
cantile business, to North Wales, in
her sixth year, placed her in a situation
well adapted to foster the living sus-
ceptibilities of her nature. The new
home to which she was taken, was a
large, old and solitary mansion near
Abergele, in Denbighshire, close to the
sea-shore, and enclosed by a range of
mountains. There was a good store of
books in the dwelling, and a loving mo-
ther by her side, of devoted piety, who
taiight and encouraged her in every
generous aspiration, and planted those
seeds of religious culture in her mind
which bore such abundant fruit in her
writings. To her mother, indeed, she
owed her early education, her own ge-
nius supplying any deficiency of tutors.
She soon appropriated to herself all the
resources of her romantic home, exhib-
iting a disposition fearless and poetic.
The house, as a matter of course, in its
lonely situation, had the rej)utation of
being haunted. There was a rumor of
a fiery greyhound keeping watch at
the end of the avenue, and the little
Felicia, more fascinated than terrified,
went out by moonlight in quest of the

c^^V^ct^z^ .^^ *'t

Ki<fL^

FELICIA DOEOTHEA HEMAISTS.

567

apparition. Tlie sea liad a great attrac-
tion for her in its various aspects. Af-
ter being placed in bed for the night,
she would steal down to the shore to
bathe in its Avaters. She was verj^
early a reader of Shakespeare ; at the
age of six taking the book with her to
her favorite haunt, a secluded seat in
the branches of an old apple-tree, an
incident recalled in one of her later
poems :

" Doth some old nook,
Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book,
Rise on thy soul, with faint-streaked blossoms

white
Showered o'er the turf, and the lone primrose-
knot.
And robins' nest, still faithful to the spot,
And the bee's dreamy chime?"

The characters of Shakespeare, we
are told, which most impressed her at
this time, were those gentler beings of
mirth and sentiment, Beatrice and
Imogen — for there was always some-
thing graceful and peculiarly feminine
in her tastes, a pure woman's thought
and instincts in all her associations.
Her poetical faculty was developed al-
most in her infancy. Like Pope, " she
lisped in numbers 'ere the numbers
came." At the age of eight, she wrote a
little poem on her mother's birth-day,
with allusions drawn fi'om the beauties
of nature around her. At eleven, she
records her affection for Shakespeare in
verses certainly giving great promise of
her future excellence :

" I love to rove o'er history's page,
Recall the hero and the sage ;
Revive the actions of the dead,
And memory of af;os Hed:
Yet it yields me greater pleasure.
To read the poet's pleasing measure.
Led by Shakespeare, bard inspired,
The bosom's energies are fired;
We learn to shed the generous tear,
O'er poor Ophelia's sacred bier;

To love the merry moonlit scene,
— With fairy elves in valleys green ;
Or, borne on fancy's heavenly wings,
To listen while sweet Ariel sings."

About the time that this was Avrit-
ten, she passed a Avinter with her pa-
rents in London, and another winter in
that capital the following year ; and it
is a little remarkable that she never
again visited the city. In these early
visits she learnt to admire works of
art in the galleries, being much im-
pressed by the " breathing marble " of
Sculpture ; but what is singular in a
child fi'om the country, she was soon,
as she expressed herself in a letter,
" satiated with opera, park and play,
and longing to get away much more
than she ever did to come." In a little
poem wi'itten in London, addressed to
her brother and sister at home, she
expresses lier longing for its rural
pleasures, when they may again rise
with the dawn, hail the budding leaves,
" weave the smiling wreath of flowers,"
wander through the wheat-fields or the
grove, read beneath some spreading
oak, view the ships upon the sea, or
gaze upon its glassy surface. The po-
etical faculty was now fully aAvakened,
and a variety of occasional verses pro-
duced, of course not of a very original
or individual character — for everytliiug
of the kind must, at such a period of
life, be more or less imitative in exjires-
sion — yet indicating a noticeable ten-
dency to excellence in the Avriter. They
attracted much attention from her fam-
ily and friends, which led, in the year
1808, Avhen slie was in lior fourteenth
year, to a collection of them being jmb-
lished. They were printed at Liver-
jjool, in a tpiarto volume of unusual

5GS

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.

elegance, with some tasteful wood-cut
illustrations l)y Henry Hole, a pupil of
Bewick. The book, siinj^ly entitled " Po-
ems ])y Felicia Dorothea Browne," was
dedicated, l>y permission, to the Prince
of Wales, and numbered many distin-
guished names, including that of the
merchant poet, Roscoe, in its large
sul^scription list. The contents of its
hundred pages are mostly supplied by
effusions of domestic tenderness, or
tributes to the beauty of nature, with
an infusion of a patriotic, martial spirit
in several poems addressed to her
brothers, who had entered the arm^',
then largely recruited for the warfare
with Napoleon. It is pleasing to read
amono; the other verses, " A Tribute to
the Genius of Robert Burns," of whom
she shows a genuine appreciation.

In 1809, there was a change of resi-
dence of the family to a less secluded
spot in Wales, near St. Asaph, in
Flintshire. Having previously acquir-
ed some knowledge of French and
Italian, she now added to those lan-
guages the study of Spanish and Port-
uguese. She was remarkable at this
time for her powers of memory ; on one
occasion, as a test of her facility in this
direction, reciting Heber's poem of
"Europe," of above four hundred
lines, after a first study of an hour
and twenty minutes. She exhibited
also a taste for drawing, with consid-
ei'able skill in music. Occasional vis-
its to Conway, with its fine river
scenery, and the historical associations
of the castle at Carnarvon, stimulated
her thoughts and afforded subjects for
verse. A prologue, written for the
perfoi-mance of the " Poor Gentleman "
by the officers of her brother's regiment,

appears among her poems of this pe-
riod, of which a second volume enti-
tled " The Domestic Affections," of the
same general character with the pre-
ceding, was published in 1812.

This was the year of her marriage
to Captain Hemans, an officer of the
Fourth Eegimeut of Infantry, whose
acquaintance she had made three years
before, when an attachment between
them arose, fostered by the association
of the family with the army. Her
husband having official duty in North-
amptonshire, she removed Avith him to
Daventry in that county, where she
passed a twelvemonth, subsequently
returning with him to Wales. Family
cares now occupied her attention, while
she became the mother of five sous,
when, her husband, on the ostens-'ble
plea of ill health, in 1818, left for
Italy, the beginning of a separation
which proved final, for the parties
never met again. The marriage had
proved an unhappy one. " To dwell
on this subject," writes the sister of
Mrs. Hemans in her memoir, " would
be unnecessarily painful, yet it must
be stated, that nothing like a perma-
nent separation was contemplated at
the time, nor did it ever amount to
more than a tacit conventional ar-
rangement, which offered no obstacle
to the frequent interchange of corres-
pondence, nor to a constant reference
to their father in all things relating to
the disposal of her boys." Left thus
to jH'ovide for herself and the education
of her children, she devoted herself
with the greater diligence to her liter-
ary j)virsuits as a means of livelihood ;
and soon enlisted, by her fine personal
qualities, the sympathy and suj)port of

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMAT^'S.

569

some of the l)est minds in tlie country.
She was fortunate in the acquaintance
of her neighljor, Dr. Luxmore, the
Bishop of St. Asaph, the diocese in
wliich she resided ; and, a year or two
later, in an intimacy with Reginald He-
ber, suljsequeutly the devoted Bishop
of Calciitta, and then Rector of Hodnet,
Salop, England, who was a frequent visi-
tor to his father-indaw in Wales, the
Dean of St, Asaph. Heber, learned,
gentle, amiable, witty and reiiued ;
like George Herbert, uniting the ac-
complishments of University life with
great merit as an author, the gentle-
man and the poet, was of all men the
best suited to symj^athize with a nature
like that of Mrs. Hemans, to stimulate
her powers and fasten hei" affections
upon all that was true and amiable in
art and religion. On her first acquain-
tance with Mr. Heber, she writes to a
friend : " I am more delighted with
him than I can possibly tell you ; his
conversation is quite rich with anec-
dote, and every subject on which he
speaks, had been, you Avould imagine,
the sole study of his life. His society
bas made mucli the same sort of im-
pression on ray mind, that the first j^e-
rusal of ' Ivauhoe ' did ; and was some-
thing so perfectly new to me, that I
can hardly talk of anything else." The
influence of these clerical associations
was seen in her writings. In 1819, she
received a prize of fifty pounds, offered,
in Scotland, for the best poem on " The
Meeting of Wallace and Bruce on the
banks of the Carrun ;" and, in 18:20, she
published a poem entitled " The Scep-
tic," didactic in its purpose, intended
as a warninff against tlie evils of
infidelity. She also ])rojected a po-
72

em of great extent or scope, to be
called " Superstition and Revelation,"
in planning which she was greatly as-
sisted and encouraged by Heber ; but
the design proved too extensive for her
time and opportunities, and was, after
a small portion of the work was writ-
ten, abandoned. In 1821, she obtain-
ed a second prize, this time from the
Royal Society of Literature, for a poem
on Dartmoor.

Living, in general, much apart from
the world, she enjoyed with a keener
zest her occasional participation in its
active current of amusements. Shakes-
peare had always been her delight ;
and when, on a visit to Liverpool, she
saw Kean, in two of his great charac-
ters, Riohai'd the Third, and Othello,
she felt, as she expressed it, as if she
had never understood Shakespeare till
then. "I shall never forget," she
Ma'ote, " the sort of electric light which
seemed to flash across my mind, from
the bursts of power he disj)layed, in
several of my favorite passages."
Chorley tells us that it was to her we
owe the saying, often quoted, that
" seeing Kean act was like reading
Shakespeare by flashes of lightning."
The impression of these stage perform-
ances may have had their influence in
her next choice of a subject, an his-
torical tragedy, "The Vesjjci's of Pal-
ermo." It was at a period when any
one who could write verse at all was
led to attemjit dramatic composition.
Hannah iNIoro, among the female au-
thors, had led the way, and Joanna
Baillie was establishing a distlnoui>hed
reputation in this field, ilrs. Hemans
was urged in the .'^ame diiection by
the advice of Heber and Milman,

570

FELICIA DOEOTHEA HEMAISTS.

whose writing for the stage did not
hinder his advauceiueut in the Church.
She took some time in the preparation
of this phay, which we may suppose to
have l)een influenced in its thought and
manner by her admiration of the dra-
matic works of Schiller, an author
whose works she greatly admired,
studying them closely in the original;
for she had now, stimulated by the
return of her sister from Germany, and
the supplies of books, forwarded by
her eldest brother, then with the em-
bassy at Vienna, entered, with her
accustomed energy, into an intimate
acquaintance with the literature of
that coiintry.

" She, in general," writes her sister,
•' preferred the writings of Schiller to
those of Goethe, and could for ever find
fresh beauties in " Wallensteiu," with
which she was equally familiar in its
eloquent original, and in Coleridge's
magnificent translation, or, as it may
truly be called, transfusion. Those
most conversant with her literary
tastes, will remember her almost ac-
tual, relation-like love for the charac-
ters of Max and Thekla, whom, like
many other ' beings of the mind,' she
had learned to consider as friends; and
her constant quotations of certain
passages from this noble tragedy,
which peculiarly accorded with her
own views and feelings. In the Stim-
mer der VoUcer in Lieder, of Herder,
she found a rich store of thoughts and
suggestions, and it was this work
which inspired her with the idea of
her own ' Lays of Many Lands.' She
also took great delight in the dreamy
beauties of Novalis and Tieck, and in
what had been gracefully characterised

by Mr. Chorley, as the 'moonlight
tenderness' of Oehlenschlager. Of
the works of the latter, her espec-
ial favorite was ' Correggio ; ' and
of Tieck, ^ SfernhakPs Wanderungen,^
Avhich she often made her out-of-doors
companion. It was always an especial
mark of her love for a book, and of her
considerins: it true to nature, and to
the best Avisdom of the heart, when she
promoted it to the list of those Avith
Avhich she Avould ' take SAveet counsel '
amidst the woods and fields."

After various delays, the " Vespers
of Palermo " was Avritten and accepted
for performance by Charles Kemble,
then manager of Covent Garden Thea-
tre. It Avas acted in December, 1823,
Young and Kemble taking leading
parts in the Count di Procida and hi&
son, and Miss F. H. Kelly, Constance,
the chief female character. Its first
performance j)roved anything but suc-
cessful. It doubtless lacked the neces-
sary condensed energy of language and
action for the stage ; but it might have
been carried through successfully, it
Avas thought by friendly critics, had it
not been for the ineflicieucy of the
leading actress. Kemble proposed to
substitute Miss Foote in her place, but
A^arious obstacles to the reproduction
of the piece interposed, and it was
quietly dropped, in London — to be
revived, however, a month or two la-
ter in Edinburgh, when the part of
the heroine Avas taken by Mrs. Henry
Siddons, Avith Vandenhofl^ and Calcraf t
in the chief male characters. Mrs.
Siddons made great exertions ; and,
Avith the aid of an Epilogue, AA'ritten by
Sir Walter Scott, the piece Avent off
triumphantly. Murray, the London

FELICIA DOEOTHEA HEMANS.

571

publisher, gave the author two hun-
dred guineas for the copyright of the
" Vespers of Palermo ;" and the same
year (1823) published, in another vol-
ume, her dramatic poem, "The Siege
of Valencia," " The Last Constantiue,"
and other poems.

Mrs. Hemaus was now contributing
to the " New Monthly Magazine," un-
der the editorship of Thomas Campbell,
the series of poems already alluded to
as suggested by her German reading,
■which were published in 1S27, with
the title, " Lays of Many Lands." The
design, she tells us, was that each
should be commemorative of some
national recollection, popular custom
or tradition. The suggestions of the
topics she found in her wide miscella-
neous reading, iai the notices of travel-
lers in various countries, in books of
history and biography, in old tradi-
tions and popular songs, taking some
picturesque incident, supplying its de-
tails and scenery, and coloring it with
the warm hues of sentiment and fancy.
It was a department of literary pro-
duction which she made her own, and
in which she had many imitators. In
all her writings of this kind, there was
a tender grace of feeling, a descrijjtive
talent of rare excellence, and frequently
a fine lyric enthusiasm, as in the little
])oc'm founded on a custom in ancient
Britain, mentioned in "The Cambrian
Anti(iuities," of proclaiming war by
sending through the land a Bended
Bow. Prefixed to the collection of
these poems, in the same volume, ap-
peared a narrative j^oem of some
length, entitled " The Forest Sanc-
tuary." It was suggested by some
passages in Blanco White's " Letters

from Spain," under the name of Don
Leucadio Doblado, and was intended
to describe the mental conflicts, as well
as outward sufferings, of a Spaniard, a
Protestant, flying from the religious
persecutions of his country, in the six-
teenth century, and taking refuge with
his child in a North American forest.
Mrs. Hemans was disposed to consider
this the best of her longer poems, an
estimate in which her biographer,
Chorley, is disposed to concur. " The
whole poem," says he, " whether in its
scenes of superstition — the Auto Da
Fe — the duuo;eon — the flio-ht, or in its
delineation of the mental conflicts of
its hero — or in its forest pictures of
the Free West, -^'hich ofter such a de-
licious repose to the mind, is full of
happy thoughts and turns of expres-
sion."

The volume which contained these
poems was followed, the next year, by
another, "The Records of Woman —
with other Poems," which, with the
" Forest Sanctuary," was made the
subject of a critique by Jeftrey in the
" Edinburgh Review," in which he ad-
mitted the author to a distinguished
])lace among the literary women of
England, commending her esjjecially
for " a singular felicity in the choice
and employment of her imagery, and
estaljlishiuo; a fine accord between the
world of sense and of soul, — a deli-
cate blending of our deep inward
emotions with their sjjlendid symbols
and emblems without." He ranked
her, in fine, as, " beyt)nd all compari-
son, the most touching and accomplish-
ed writer of occasional verses that our
literature has yet to lioast of." This
was indeed the forte of the authoress.

572

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.

The sliort fliglits of her muse are the
best and highest. While her longer
poems are seldom read, the brief im-
provements in verse from her pen of
some striking incident, or touching or
elevated tliouu'ht of heroic or domestic
life, are many of them "familiar as
household words." Her skill and fe-
licity in these compositions made her
one of the most popular contributors
of her day to the magazines and annu-
als, for she wrote when the latter were
in the ascendant, and some of her best
poems ap2>eared in their holiday vol-
umes. Heady and facile in execution,
with a sympathetic imagination, Avhich
never flagged in its exercise, she poured
out, month after month, during the
few remaining years of her life, a great
number of these delicate effusions.
" It may not," writes Jeffrey, speaking
of the general character of her liter-
ai-y powers, " be the best imaginal)le
poetry, and may not indicate the very
highest or most commanding genius ;
but it embraces a great deal of tliat
which gives the very best poetry its
chief power of pleasing; and would
strike us, perhaps, as more impassioned
and exalted, if it were not regulated
and harmonized by the most beautiful
taste. It is infinitely sweet, elegant
and tender — touching, perhaps, and
contemplative, rather than vehement
and overpowering; and not only fin-
ished throughout with an exquisite
delicacy, and even serenity of execu-
tion, but informed with a purity and
loftiness of feeling, and a certain
sober and humble tone of indulgence
and piety, which must satisfy all
judgments, and allay the apprehen-
sions of those who are most afraid

of the passionate exaggerations of
poetry."

xibout the time of her last-mention-
ed publication, in the autumn of 1828,
Mrs. Hemans, in consequence of new
family arrangements, removed from
Wales to establish herself with her
children in a plain cottage at Waver-
tree, near Liverpool. This brought
her within range of various visitors,
who came to express admiration of her
talents, while she kept up a corres-
pondence with Miss Mitford, Joanna
Baillie, Mary Howitt, Bernard Barton,
and other literary persons of distinc-
tion. She had already received much
notice from America, a collection of
her poems having passed through
several editions at Boston, under the
friendly dii'ection of Pi'ofessor Norton,
of Harvard, George Bancroft wrote
an article on her writings for the North
American Review, and her portrait
was painted by an American artist,
W. E. West, in her last year in Wales.
She always valued highly her Ameri-
can reputation ; and probably, from the
large circulation of her poems in the
newspapers, she was known to a
greater circle of readers in that coun-
try than in her own.

A visit, in 1829, to Mr. Hamilton,
the author of " Cyril Thornton," at his
residence at Chiefswood, near Abbots-
ford, gave Mrs. Hemans the opportu-
nity of making the personal acquaint-
ance of Sir Walter Scott, who showed
her many kindly attentions, entertain-
ing her for some days at his home, and
traversing with her the historic scenery
of his neighborhood. The whole scene
must have appeared to her like an ad-
venture in fairy-land, as the mighty

FELICIA DOEOTHEA HEMANS.

573

magician called up for her tale and
legend of the past. Her notices of
the visit, preserved in the Memoirs by
her sister, are of the highest interest.
" I have taken," she writes, " several
Ions: walks with him over moor and
hrae, and it is indeed delightful to see
him thus, and to hear him pour forth,
irom the fulness of his rich mind and
peoj)led memory, song and legend and
tale of old, until I could almost fancy
I heard the gathering-cry of some
chieftain of the hills, so completely
does his spirit carry me back to the
days of the slogan and the fire-cross."
One of tlie things, we are told,
which particularly struck her imagi-
nation, amongst the thousand relics at
Abbotsford, was the " sad, fearful pic-
ture " of Queen Mary in the dining-
room, representing her head, like John
the Baptist's, in a charger, and painted
the day after her execution. On the
way with Scott from Yarrow, whither
he had taken her, "we talked," says
she, " a good deal of trees. I asked
Sir Walter if he had not observed that
every tree gives out its own peculiar
sound to the wind. He said he had,
and suscsrested to me that something
might be done, by the union of music
and poetry, to imitate those voices of
ti'eea, civinir a different measure and
style to the oak, tlie pine, the willow,
etc. He mentioned a Highland air of
somewhat similar character, called
The Notes of the Sea Birds.' " In all
this, and more equally cluiracteristic
of these delightful interviews, we see
much of Sir Walter Scott in his genial
poetic nature, and much also of ]Mrs.
Ilemans in her f)wn.

K Scott was to her the great master

of romance, she was also fortunate in
her intercourse with another great
jjoetic intellect of the age, the philo-
so23hic Wordsworth. This acquaint-
anceship, which grew into an intimacy,
exercised an important influence on her
later writings. Family afflictions were
meanwhile chastening her life, always
marked by its gentleness and submis-
sion. In a gay mood she could always
surrender herself to an " Hour of Eo-
mance," as she entitles one of her
poems, and live over some old dreaiu of
chivalry ; but as the pressing interests
of life closed around her, she gave her-
self to more real thoujjh less ambiti-
ous topics. The poetry of domestic
life, as it apjiears in the excitement of
joy, the calm sufferance of affliction,
or the hope of hereafter, arrested her
thoucrhts. She felt that this came
home to the hearts of all; that, while
other themes might attract the fancy
or imagination, this was buried deep
in the soul, with an interest permanent
as our nature. She knew that other
associations of man would lose their
force — the storied castle perish with
the record of human glory — while
this remained a jjart of our common
humanity —

" Tliere may the bard's high themes be found
Wo die, we pass away :
But faith, lovo, pity — these are bound
To earth witliout decay.

The heart that burns, the cheek that glows,

The tear from hidden springs.
The tliorn and frlory of the rose —

These arc undyinj; things."

This change in the poetiy of Mrs.
Ilemans, caused by a devotion to real
life, may in no slight degree be at-
tributed to the study of Wordsworth.

51i

FELICIA DOEOTIIEA IIEMANS.

When she had once hecome acquainted
with his works, they were ever after
her chosen oracles. What she says, in
one of her letters, of the lake scenery, —
" My spirit is too much lulled by these
sweet scenes to breathe one word of
sword and spear until I have bid
"Winandermere farewell " — may be ex-
tended to the mighty genius of the
place. The poetry of Wordsworth
opened to her a new being. She had
before looked upon the world with an
eye to the fanciful and romantic ; she
now saw the simple and religious.
Her thoug'hts of the affections had
been always blended with the wo-
man's love of excitement, the interest
of battle and engagement, the knight-
ly banquet and the aged minstrel, the
tilt and tourney, the masquerade, and
all the ancient retinue of chivalry ;
now they were attempered to a kind-
lier feeling. Her harp had echoed to
notes of glory and adventure, it was
now responsive to the vibrations of
the soul. She became acquainted in
his pages with —

"The still sad music of humanity "

stealing gently fi'om the heart of every
human being, the simple as well as the
learned, the cottager and peasant alike
with the nobleman, the humblest with
the most elevated. Here she found
something like repose. The tempest
of the passions was stayed, the airy
visions of fancy were called home, and
she came to learn the calm of true po-
etry. In her own language, her earlier
works had been —

" Sad sweet fragments of a strain —
First notes of some yet struggling harmony,

By the strong rush, the crowding joy and pain
Of many inspirations met, and held
From its true sphere."

After this introduction Mrs. Hemans
became a devoted student of Words-
worth ; so that, at least during the later
years of her life, a single day never
passed without reference to his works.
It was indeed a source of pleasure to
her when she lived a summer at " The
Lakes," during part of the time an in-
mate at Rydal Mount. Her acquaint-
ance with the man did not detract
fi'om the idea of his writings. Her let-
ters of that period afford a testimony
of his worth by one whose life and ge-
nius had prepared her singularly to
appreciate it. She writes : " I am
charmed with Mr. Wordsworth * * *
'There is a daily beauty in his life'
which is in such lovely harmony with
his poetry, that I am thankful to have
witnessed and felt it. He gives me a
good deal of his society, reads to me,
walks with me, leads my ponj when
I ride, and I begin to talk with him
as with a sort of paternal friend. The
whole of this morning, he kindly pass-
ed in reading to me a great deal fi'om
Spenser, and afterwards his own ' Lao-
damia,' my favorite 'Tintern Abbey,'
and many of those noble sonnets which
you, like myself, enjoy so much. His
reading is very peculiar, but, to my
ear, delightful ; slow, solemn, earnest
in expression, more than any I have
eA^er heard ; when he reads or recites
in open air, his deep rich tones seem to
proceed from a spirit voice, and to be-
long to the religion of the place ; they
hai-monize so fitly with the thrilling
tones of woods and waterfalls."

Intimacy with the poetry of Words-

FELICIA DOEOTHEA HEMANS.

575

worth, doubtless led the way to the
cliaiiiie to a more serious character iu
Mrs. Ilemans' verse, whicli the severe
school of affliction afterwards matured.
The " Quarterly Review " of 1820, in a
notice of her jwems, says : "In our
o])iniou, all her poems are elegant and
pure in thought and language: her la-
ter poems are of higher promise, they
are vigorous, jiicturesque, and jiathet-
ic." There was yet a third stage to
which they afterwards attained — they
Lecame sublime and religious. It was
not till sickness had touched her frame,
and sorrow tamed the wildness of her
spirit, that slie reached the worthiest
eftbi'ts in song. As her heart was puri-
fied from the world, her mind was freed
also, and soared to a better element.
Its purpose was fixed, for it had found
an a})]n'opriate oTiject in the religious
sympathies of life. Not only the do-
mestic affections, but even tbe beauties
of nature, ever familiar to her verse,
were colored with a new aspect.

Returning to her earlier German
studies, she projected at this period a
series of papers on the literary produc-
tions of that country for the "New
Monthly Magazine," of which one only
was written. It is of interest as an
evidence of what she might have ac-
coiiiidished iu prose, in richness and
freedom of style, had she turned her
attention in that direction; and it has
a more especial value for its exhibi-
tion, so often ilbistrated in her own '
works, of the elements of poetical
thought and f(!eling. Choosing for
her subject the "Tasso" of Goethe,
she notic!es that work as a pic-
ture of the struggle between the
spirit of poetry and th(! spirit of the

world. " Why," slie asks, " is it that
this collision is almost invariably fa-
tal to a gentler and holier nature?"
* * * "\Y'e thus admit it essential to
his high office, that the chambers of
imagery in the heart of the poet must
be filled with materials moulded from
the sorrows, tbe affections, the fiery
trials and immortal lono-ino^s of the
human soul. Where love and faith
and anguishi meet and contend; where
the tones of prayer are wrung from
the suffering spirit, there lie his veins
of treasure ; there are the sweet waters
ready to flow from the stricken rock.
But he will not seek them through
the gaudy and hurrying masque of
artificial life ; he will not be the fet-
tered Samson to make sport for the
sons and daughters of fashion ; whilst
he shuns no brotherly communion
witb his kind, he will ever res(^rve to
his nature the jjower of self-commu-
nion, silent tours for

' The harvest of the quiet eye
That broods and sleeps on his own lieart ;'

and inviolate retreats in the depths of
his being — fountains lone and still,
upon which only the eye of heaveu
shines down in its hallowed serenity."
After living a little more than ten
years at Wavertree, Mrs. Ilemans
changed her residence to the city of
Dublin, where the remainder of her
days were passed. Her health Avas
now much broken, but slie continued
the constant exercise of her pen. In
addition to the collections of her
poems already enumerated, she pub-
lished, in 1S.'>0, a volume of "Songs
of the Affections,"- followed during
her residence in Dublin by " Hymns

576

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMAN"S.

for Childliood," " National Lyrics and
Sonirs for Music," and " Scenes and
Hymns of Life." The last was dedi-
cated to Wordswortli, and in many
respects may be regarded as its wri-
ter's best work. It ])ears the impress
of sorrow, alleviated by religious con-
solation, and is distinguished as well
by its fine literary execution, for tbe
author never flagged in devotion to
her art. Her latest poem, entitled a
"Sabbath Sonnet," was dictated dur-
ing her last illness, about a fortnight
only before her death. It breathes
the gentle affection, the sympathy for
others, the love of nature, and the
calm spirit of resignation which had
guided her life.

"How many blessed groups this hour are bend-
ing,
Through England's primrose-meadow paths
their way
Toward spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms
ascending,
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hal-

low'd day.
The halls, from old heroic ages gray,
Pour thoii- fair children forth ; and hamlets
low.
With whose thicli orchard blooms the soft
winds play,
Send out their inmates in <a happy flow,
Like a free vernal stream. I may not tread
With them those pathways — to the feverish
bed
Of sickness bound; yet, oh! my God! I bless
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath

fiird
My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings
. still'd
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness."

This was dictated on one of the
closing days of April, 18,35; on the
12th of May, she breathed her last,
leaving to the world the rich legacy in
her various writings of a spirit attuned
to all noble impulses in the love of na-

ture and of art — a soul formed for
friendship, and unwearied iu sympathy
with her race, divinely nurtured by
the inspirations of religion. There is
an unaffected eloquence iu her poems,
the growth of her ardent imagination
and generous susceptilnlities, which
imparts an interest to the simplest of
them. They are natural, original, clear,
and straightforward in expression,
earnest and animating. They frequent-
ly bring us to the wealth of other
climes, and of the literature of other
nations ; but the informirg s])irit is
that of the pure, gentle English lady,
whose ability is never more strikingly
shoAvn than in her investing the com-
mon incidents of life with the throng-
ing associations of her fancy and the
sweetest charms of feeling.

The remains of Mrs. Henians were
placed in a vault beneath St. Anne's
Church, Dublin, in the immediate
nei<>-hborhood of her residence in the
city. A small tal)let has been placed
above the spot, inscribed with her
name, her age, and the date of her
death, with a stanza of one of her
own poems : —

" Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Fair spirit, rest thee now!
E'en while with us thy footsteps trod,
His seal was on thy brow.

Dust to the narrow home beneath!

Soul to its place on high !
They that have seen thy look in death,

No more may fear to die. "

Another tablet was erected by her
brother in the Cathedral of St. Asaj)h,
by her old home in Wales : " In mem-
ory of Felicia Hemans, whose char
acter is best portrayed in her writ-
ings."

e,/^^;:^'^

ARTHUR, DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

IT was probably a]>ont l."335 that
two young gentlemen from Rut-
laudsbire, in England, named Walter
and Robert Cowley, or Colley, or
Coolley, migrated, to advance their
fortunes, to the kingdom of Ireland ;
and there, somehow or other, they
appear to have got such landed pos-
sessions as enabled them to educate
their descendants for the learned pro-
fessions and for the service of arms, as
we find several of that name, hitherto
unknown, cropping out here and there,
in subsequent years, in local history.
No antiquarian with whose works we
are acquainted, has ascertained with
whom Walter Cowley married ; and
the Duke of Wellington would have
given little encouragement to such in-
vestigations ; for he seems to have
been singularly indifferent as to the
history of his progenitors. We know,
however, that of Walter Cowley Avas
descended a great-granddaughter, who
wedded Garret Wesley, a gentleman
of ISfcath, descended from an English
family which came from Sussex in the
latter part of the fifteenth century,
and which seems to have thriven in

L'eland. There were no children bom
of this marriage, and Garret Wesley,
in default of issue, adopted the nephew
of his wife, one Richard Cowley, and
made him heir to his estates, on condi-
tion that he assumed the name and
arms of the Wesley family. That the
possessions thus acquired in 1728, by
Richard Cowley Wesley, were not in-
considerable, or that his political ser-
vices were of imjiortance, we may con-
clude, from the fact, that in 1747, he
was elevated from a seat in the Irish
House of Commons to a peerage, by
the title of Baron Moruington; but
there is reason to believe that his ac-
tivity and zeal as a Hanoverian, had
more to do with his honors than the
extent of his fortune; for his sou, also
named Garret, who succeeded him,
could not boast of any large property.
The second Baron ]\Iornin<rton dis-
jdayed the same political bias as his
father, and rendered similar services ;
so that, having strengthened his posi-
tion in I7r)9 by a marriage with Anne,
the daughter of Arthur Hill, Viscount
Dungannon, he also was advanced in
the peerage, and in 1760, was created
Earl of Moruington. Perhaps he was

in some dcirrcc imlebted to the music-

(077)

57S

AETHUK, DUKE OF WELLINGTOK

al ear of George III. for the advance-
meut, iuasiuuch as the earl was a com-
poser of no ordinary merit, and excell-
ed in the sj^ecies of composition which
was most pleasing to the king. In no
other way does he appear to have
ueuefited by the royal favor, as his
means were scarcely adequate to main-
tain the large family which grew up
around him in the style suited to their
position. Three sons had been born
to him ; when, on a day yet undeter-
mined, in 1769, Arthur Wesley was
brought into the world. A like un-
certainty also seems to exist regarding
the place of his birth, whether at Dan-
gan Castle, in the county of Meath, or
at Morniugton House, Dublin. The
register in St. Peter's Church, Dublin,
records his baptism on the 30th April,
1769; while his mother long after as-
serted tliat he was born on the 1st of
May. The Duke himself, when it be-
came a matter of interest, accepted the
latter date for the celebration of his
birth-day. Of his early years, com-
paratively little has been recorded.
He was not appreciated, it is said, by
his mother in his childhood. Accord-
Lag to his biographer, the Rev. G. R.
Gleig, she looked upon him as the
dunce of the family, and treated him
harshly, if not with marked neglect.
While he was quite young, he was
sent to an inferior pi-eparatory school
at Chelsea, in England, whence he was
transferred to Eton Colleo^e, where
he passed but a short time, without
success, as a scholar. His father being
now dead, he was taken by his mother
to Brussels in 1784 ; and the following
year, sent to the French military school
at Angers.

For several years he studied under
Pignerol, the great engineer; and in
March, 1787, shortly after his return
home, he became an undistinguished
ensign in the 73d regiment. His pro-
motion was rapid, for in less than a
year he became lieutenant in the 76th
regiment, from which he was moved
into the 41st regiment of foot. From
that regiment he exchanged into a
cavalry regiment, the 12th light dra-
goons, as a subaltern ; but he did not
long remain in that rank, for on the
30th June, 1791, he got his company
in the 58th regiment, and in 1792, he
changed his company of foot for a
troop in the 18th light dragoons, and
in another year or so obtained his
majority in the 33d regiment, to the
command of which, as lieutenant-colo-
nel, by purchase, in which he was aid-
ed by his brother, he attained in Sep-
tember, 1793.

Already aid-de-camp to the Marquis
of Camden, the Lord-Lieutenant, whose
court in Dublin was at that period
both brilliant and expensive, Arthur
Wesley, in 1790, on coming of age,
took his seat for the family borough
of Trim, and for three years danced at
court balls, flirted with the women,
drank and gambled with the men, and
voted with his party, as a lively young
military and aristocratic Whig mem-
ber of the Irish House of Commons
might have been expected to do. One
serious attachment fixed his affections.
Among the court beauties, Catherine
Pakenham, third daughter of the
Earl of Longford, was conspicuous.
Arthiu- Wesley sought her hand, but
Lady Longford would not consent to
bestow her daughter on the young sol-

AKTHUE, DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

579

dier, and Lieutenant-colouel Wesley
was obliged to make up his mind to
accompany his regiment on foreign
service, and to hope for more prosper-
ous times. He was, indeed, it is said,
indebted to the kindness of some Dub-
lin tradesmen for the means of leaving
the country, when the 33d regiment
was ordered to proceed as a portion of
Lord Moira's force to the Low Coun-
tries, to strengthen the army of the
Duke of York.

Colonel Wesley sailed with the 33d
regiment from Cork in June, 1794,
and, according to orders, occupied Os-
tend, which soon became untenable
owinij to the defeat and retirement of
the allies, so that the garrison was
compelled to embark and sail round
to Antwerp, whilst Lord Moira march-
ed with the main body of his troops,
pursued and harrassed by the French,
to join the Duke of York near Malines.
Scarcely had the 33d regiment reached
Antwerp, when the whole garrison of
the place was ordered out to reinforce
the Dutch under the Prince of Orange,
who had been driven from Fleurus l)y
the republicans; and there, although
not actively engaged, Arthur Wesley
saw, twenty-one years before his crown-
ing victory, the enemy whom he was
to meet so often, and at last to crush
decisively in the field of battle. The
inactivity of the French subsequently
gave the allies a respite of ncnvly two
months, and it was not till September
that the British troops in front of
Antwer]) Itegan to fall back toward
the nortli, foUoAved liy the enemy. In
an unsuccessful attack maile by A])er-
cromby ^vit]l the guards, and a consid-
erable force of Infantry on Bockstel,

Wesley displayed such energy in
checking the republicans, that he at-
tracted the attention of General Dun-
das, who soon afterwards procured for
him the command of a brigade, which
had the dilEcult task of covering the
rear of the retreating anny. In the
spring of 1795, the English army
crossed the Leek, and after a continu-
ous retreat, which has been likened to
the miserable flight from Moscow, re-
embarked for England. Such grim-
uess was there in that aspect of war,
that the resolute and gallant young
soldier, whose good conduct was al-
most the sole redeeming point of the
campaign, was nigh disgusted with
his profession. He was probably more
than disgusted with the presumptuous
inefficiency of the government, with
the utter incapacity of the generals,
and with the stupendous blunders and
mismanagement of the authorities.
Certain it is, at all events, that after
his return on the 25th June, 1795, he
wrote from Trim to Lord Camden,
asking him for a civil employment at
either the Irish Revenue or Treasury
Boards. " It certainly," he says, " is a
departure from the line I prefer, but 1
see the manner in which the military
offices are fUed; and I don't wish to
ask you for that which I know you
cannot give me." The favor was re-
fused, and he was compelled to remain
in the army. An attempt to send out
an e.\i)edition from Southamj)ton un-
der Admiral Christian, to act against
the French West Indies, in 1795, hav-
ing been rendered abortive by violent
storms. Colonel Wesley, whose regi-
ment had formed a portion of the
land-forces embarked for the pm-pose,

580

AKTHUR, DIJKE OF WELLINGTON.

had not long returned from shipboard
to his quarters at Poole, ere he receiv-
ed ordei's to proceed to India. His

state of health at the time appears to
have been by no means ro1)iist, for he
was not able to go out with the 33d;
but he followed and overtook it at the
Cape, and landed at Calcutta in Febru-
ary, 1797. Lord Mornington had ar-
rived in India as governor-general,
soon after his brother, bringing with
him experience of Indian affairs ac-
quired at the Board of Control under
Lord Melville, and qualities admirably
suited to insure success in the difficult
part he had to play. Colonel Wesley
(who was still and for a short time af-
terwards, known by this form of his
name, although his brother had just
adopted the spelling by which it is
better kno^vn, and called his fami-
ly Wellesley), had already been en-
gaged on an expedition which was in-
tended to act against the Spanish set-
tlement at Manilla, but which had not
proceeded further than Pulo Penang
'.re it was recalled by the governor of
Madras, now thoroughly alarmed by
the preparations of the hostile Tippoo
Sahib, the Sultan of Mysore.

In order to direct the operations
which appeared to be inevitable with
greater vigor, the governor - general
had come down to Madras ; and Well-
esley, who had been for some time at
Fort St. George without any active
employment, was placed in temj)orary
command of the force which the gov-
ernment was making ready to take
the field, and in the organization of
which he displayed great ability and
skill. Tippoo not only refused to
comply with ;he governor - general's

demand that he should exjdain why
he had despatched emissaries to the
French at Bourljon, but he repeated
the offence, and positively declined to
receive at his court any English am-
bassador, as a medium of communica-
tion between the two governments.
Whatever his intentions might have
been, he had done that v.'hich no Eu-
ropean power in India could brook
and live. The English forces were
prepared, and on 25th Februarj', 1799,
their march was directed on Mysore,
and proceeded slowly and laboriously
toward the position occupied by tbe
sultan.

With the promptitude wliich was
characteristic of his family, as com-
pared with the hesitation of other
Asiatic princes, Tippoo, turning to
the west, attacked the Bombay col-
umn under Stuart on 6th March, but
received a severe check at Sedaseer,
and was obliged to retrace his steps.
Somev/hat disheartened by the fail-
ure, but anxious to destroy the mesh-
es of the net which was closing round
him, he marched towards the east, and
threw himself between Seringajiatam
and the army of General Harris, who
on 27th March found himself in the
front of the enemy, who was posted
in a favorable position at Mallavelly.
Whilst the commander-in-chief, with
the right wing, was engaged with the
enemy. Colonel Wellesley was direct-
ed to execute a turning movement on
Tippoo's right. By the admirable
conduct of theii' leader, this wing, ad
vancing by echelon, forced its Avay
steadily through the cavalry of My-
sore ; till at length, by the aid of mur-
derous volleys of musketry, Wellesley

ARTHUR, DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

581

threw their right into such confusion,
that a cavalry charge quickly converted
discomfiture into a headlong rout. The
euemy, who left upwards of '2,000 on
the field, fell back on Seringapatam.
Harris increased his array to 35,000
men and 100 guns, and on 5th April
sat down before that famous fortress,
which was defended l)y 22,000 men
and 240 pieces of artillery. In order
to clear his front, the general directed
Baird to sweep a tope — a cultivated
grove which lay between his lines and
the walls of the place — which ^xas
done without opposition, but the
Mysoreans occupied it next day, and
Colonel Wellesley was ordered to re-
peat the o])eration, and to occu2)y the
position in a night attack. Wellesley
led on the 33d, a native regiment, to
the assault, whilst Shaw made a com-
bined attack on the flank. Their
troops were received with a severe
fire, became disordered in the dark,
and retired, leaving prisoners in the
hands of the enemy, who were put to
death with brutal cruelty by Tippoo
next day, and Wellesley himself, who
was hurt in the knee, had some difii-
culty iu finding his way back to camp,
when he went to the general with " a
good deal of agitation, to say he had
not carried the tope," in which, how-
ever, Shaw had established himself.
Next day the tope of Sultanpettah
was occupied ; but Wellesley came,
Le says, to " a determination never to
suffer an attack to be made by night
on an enemy who is prepared and
strongly posted, and whose posts have
not l)eon reconnoitred by daylight."
Established on the ground, lines were
rapidly traced, batteries erected, and

fire opened. On 2d May, one of the
principal magazines of the place ex-
ploded, and destroyed much of the
works, as well as of the moral power, of
the defenders ; and, on the 4th, Baird
led 2,500 British troojis and 1,800
natives to the breaches. In spite of a
desperate resistance, in which Tippoo
fought like a common soldier, the en-
trance to the town was efi'ected. Tip-
poo, twice wounded, and fighting like
a hero, was thrown down amid a heap
of dead and dying men. An English
soldier seeing the glitter of precious
stones on his sash, sought to pull it
fi-om his body, but Tippoo gathered
up all his strength, and raising him-
self on one hand, cut the soldier across
the knee. In an instant the Euro-
pean's musket was pressed to the
brow of the Sultan, who fell dead,
open - eyed, and glaring defiance,
amidst the corpses of his soldiers in
front of his palace-gate. Seringaj)a-
tam, with enormous treasure, estima-
ted at the value of £20,000,000 by one
of the prize-agents, fell into the hands
of the captors, never to leave them more.
A .scene of plunder and violence, in
which the soldiery, native and Euro-
pean, revelled in the wildest license
and excesses, was only terminated by
the active measures of Wellesley, who
was appointed commandant of the
place, and who restored order, as he
says himself, on the 5th May, " by the
greatest exertions, by lianging, flog-
ging, etc., iu the course of the day."
Ilis share of the plunder was £7,000
in money, and 3,000 ])agodas in pearls;
and he at once proposed to apply it to
pay his brother the sum he had ad-
vanced for the purchase of his lieuten-

583

AKTHUE. DFKE OF WELLTNGTOK

ant-colonelcy, hut Lord Mornington
generously refused. His appointment,
in its results, more than justified Lis
brother's partiality, and his powers of
administration, his diplomatic skill in
dealing with the armed chiefs of My-
sore who still held out, his moderation
in victory, were not less conspicuous
than the military qualities which had
already fixed on the youthful colonel
the eyes of India.

After a series of brilliant exertions
in the field, attended by the most im-
jjortant victories in the repression of
I'obljer hordes, and the conduct of the
war against the Mahrattas, the health
of Wellesley began to give way. He
obtained leave of absence ; and, quit-
ting the Deccan, arrived at Calcutta
in August ; but, ere he took his pas-
sage homcAvards, the Nizam gave the
Indian Government reason to believe
that it required a vigilant eye and a
firm hand in his territory, and Welles-
ley proceeded to Seringapatam by
the orders of the Governor - General.
There he was prostrated by fever; but,
in February, 1805, having restored the
district to comj^arative tranquility, and
having regained his health sufiiciently,
he was enabled to gratify his longing
for a larger field of service and his na-
tural ambition, as well as to get away
from the endless disj)utes which were
raised by the native courts as to the
true meaning of his treaties. As a
reward for his services, the kino; nomi-
uated him a supernumerary Knight of
the Bath ere he left India; and on
10th March, Major-General Sir Arthur
Wellesley left the continent where, as
executor of his brother's policy, and
as a soldier who caiTied out in the

field the plans in which he was part
adviser in the c;abinet, he had increas-
ed threefold the territories to which
in no equal period since their first
marvellous spring from the seat of the
trader to the throne of the monarch,
had the East India Company made
such vast increment.

When Wellesley arrived in England,
in September, 1805, the French were
marching once more to meet Europe
in arms ; and in November he sailed
as brigadier-general to Holland, with
Lord Cathcart's ill-advised expedition,
only to hear the echoes of the guns of
Austerlitz, which announced that the
effort to make a diversion was too late.
The safety of the English shores had
once more to be consulted, and Sir
Arthur Wellesley was appointed to
command the bria-ade at Hastino:s,
which he raised to a considerable de-
gree of efficiency. In April, 1806, he
married Lady Catherine Pakenham, his
old love when he was a gay young
aid-de-camp in the Irish court. She
had been attacked by small-pox imme-
diately after his departure for India,
and she wrote to tell him that her
beauty was gone, and that he was a
free man ; but Sir Arthur Wellesley,
the famous Indian soldier, had returned
to his country to claim the hand of his
betrothed, and her hand was freely
given. After a short interval of com
parative obscurity. Sir Arthur was re
turned to parliament, in time to con-
tribute materially, by his simple,
straightforward answers, and by his
knowledge of the facts, to the success-
ful defence of Lord Mornington,
against the charges brought by Mr.
Paul and Lord Folkestone of extrava-

AETHUE, DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

583

gance and coiTuption. Paul died by
his own Land, after a debauch in a
gaming-house, and Lord Folkestone's
inculpatory motion was defeated by a
consideraljle majority. When the
Portland administration was formed,
after the death of Mr. Fox, in 1806,
Sir Arthur Wellesley was selected to
fill the office of chief secretary in L"e-
land, under the Duke of Richmond,
and he was at once plunged into the
stormy jDolitics which were the result
of the agitation for Catholic emancipa-
tion ; but he had not been more than
a few months engaged in the strug-
gles in which his political ties and his
personal convictions made him a de-
cided partisan, ere he was called upon
to act once more in a militaiy capacity,
as general of a division of infantry
under Lord Cathcart, in the expedition
against Coj^enhagen.

Scarcely was the development of
this scheme of aggression against Den-
mark commenced, than it was met by
Napoleon with a ^'■contre-coup" in the
Peninsula. In September, 1807, he
prepared to take a signal vengeance
for the secret treaty in which the Por-
tuguese ambassador had joined the
representative of Russia and the Prince
of Peace, with the design of making
war on France the moment that she
could be attacked with impunity.
Junot crossed the Bidassoa, and the
Prince-Regent of Portugal endeav-
ored to obtain, by immediate conces-
sion of all the j)()ints demanded of
liim, the forbearance of Naj)oleon ; but
the latter had settled liis plans, and
was not to be propitiated, lie pur-
sued his gniut designs, and persevered
till the glorious storm of the Spanish

insurrection scattered his policy to the
winds. On November 12, Junot
marched from Salamanca, and eighteen
days afterwards entered Lisbon, which
the house of Braganza quitted without
a blow, and with full coffers. But,
although Napoleon might have been
right in the axiom, that a nation bru-
talized by the monks and the Inquisi-
tion could not be formidable, he was
wrong in supposing that Spain, after
many years of the worst form of gov-
ernment, and the most dea-radins: for-
mulas of religion, had utterly lost the
sacred fire of national life, and the
animating principle of the chivalry
which had roused her people to shake
off the yoke of invading races in times
gone by. The Portuguese established
a junta at Oporto, the first acts of
which were to solicit the aid of Eng-
land, and to make common cause with
the Spanish national leaders. Sir
Ai-thur Wellesley, who had been pro-
moted to the rank of Lieutenant-Gen-
eral, in April, 1808, in the following
July was sent to Spain, Avith a force
of 12,000 men. Having effected a
landing in Portugal, without opposi-
tion, on the 9th of August, he began
his march towards Lisbon, and on the
17th was attacked by Junot, at Vi-
meira. The French were repulsed, with
loss. After the ensuing Convention of
Cintra, Wellesley returned to his
duties in Ireland, and to his seat in
parliament. Then came the defeat of
Sir John Moore, and the vigorous
operations of Napoleon in the penin-
sula. The successes of the French
again brought Wellesley into the field.
On the call of the government, he at
once resigned the Irish secretai-yship,

r.s4

ARTHUE, DUKE OF WELLINGTOI^.

and his seat in Parliament; he hast-
ened the fla<;2:ins: movements of the
government, superintended every de-
tail, watched over every department
of the expedition as soon as he was
named to lead it ; and on his arrival in
Lis1)on, on the 22d of April, 1809, he
lost not a moment's time in taking
measures to avert the blow which was
impending over Portugal. Inspii'ed
l)y his arrival, remembering his pre-
vious successes, his vigor and military
qualities, the patriots at Lisbon took
heart, and seconded all his efforts to
put his troops in a state of efficiency,
Soult heard of the arrival of the Brit-
ish, under their young general, at the
very moment that he was in jierplexity
respecting the movements of the col-
umns intended to co-operate with him ;
but he was strongly posted at Oporto,
and his communications were open
with Ney. Having, after a little de-
lay, satisfied himself of the exact posi-
tion of the enemy, Wellesley adopted
the extraordinary resolution of attack-
ing Soult by leading his troops across
the Douro in face of the enemy. But,
in order to shake Soult's confidence, he
despatched Beresford with a strong
column, to manoeuvre against the
enemy's left, while he advanced upon
Oporto with 24,000 men. Soult was
prepared, as he conceived, against any
attempt of the kind ; but, in order to
ensure the safety of his corps, he de-
tached Loison, with 6,000 men, to
cover his retreat in case of accidents.
Then, removing the floating bridge,
sweeping all the boats over to his own
side of the river, he awaited the ad-
vance of the British, with the huge
wet-ditch of the Douro, nearly a thou-

sand feet broad, in his front. While
Soult was, it is said, enjoying from
his quarters the discomfiture of the
English, Sir Arthur, with his keen
coup (Poeil, on the 12 th of May, was
surveying the shores of the rapid
river. He perceived a stone building
on the other bank, at a point which a
bend in the course of the stream in
some measure screened from the obser-
vation of Soult. Could he occupy that
building, it would cover the passage
of his men till they were sufficient in
strength to hold their own ! How to
do that was the difficulty. But for-
tune was not unkind to one who knew
how to take advantage of her favor.
Among the reeds by the bank of the
river a little boat lay hid. Colonel
Waters, one of those men who are
sometimes found whenever a gallant
action of enormous imj)ortance is to be
done, was at hand, and he at once
crossed over in the boat to the other
side, " cut out " some large barks
di'awn up under the north shore, and
returning with them, afforded means
of transport for seventy or eighty men
across the Douro, for the immediate
occujjation of the coveted building.
Once established, Wellesley hurried
over men as fast as he could, and
brought up his artillery to cover their
landing. Soult, discovering the suc-
cess of this movement on his flank,
despatched battalion after battalion to
drive the intruders into the river ; but
the English soldiers were in occupa-
tion ; boats were found all along the
bank ; the British thi-ew themselves
over in masses, and were enabled to
make an offensive movement against
Oporto, and in the evening were mas-

AKTHUR, DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

585

ters of tlie place ; and Sir Arthur was,
it is affirmed, entertaining liis staff at
the very excellent dinner provided by
Soult's famous clief de cuisine for his
master. Soult, who suffered greatly
in his retreat, joined Ney with little
more than half his original force ;
while Wellesley was obliged to halt at
Oporto in order to get his army in
order for the next stroke, which he in-
tended to deal with a heavy hand.
There were no less than 250,000 French
in the Peninsula, but they were sjjlit
up into detachments and garrisons ; and
the larsjest force in the field consisted
of about 28,000 men, under Marshal
Victor, whom the ol)stinacy of Cuesta
saved from the blow Wellesley had
prepared for him, by turning his posi-
tion at Torre Mocha, and thus cutting
him off from Madrid. Soult, however,
had I'cceived the command of three
corps d^armee, and he prepared to
threaten Wellesley 's communication
with Lisl)on with one portion of his
force, while he held Beresford, and the
Spaniards, and Portuguese in check,
and vigorously besieged Ciudad Ro-
drigo and Almeida with the remain-
der. Under these cii'cunistances, Wel-
lesley would have to decide on pass-
ing the Tagus, and, having effected
his junction with Cuesta, to attack
Victor. If that course were undesira-
ble, he could open the road by Ciudad
Rodrigo and Almeida, with the aid of
the Pi)rtuguos(' and Spaniards, secur-
ing his iiank and rear; or, finally, he
could direct his course upon Madrid
at once. Altliough he had much diffi-
culty in providing muh's and trans-
j)ort, and considerable anxiety to con-
tend with on other accounts, Welles-
74

ley, who was scarcely aware of the
enormous concentration of the French
on the left of the Tagus, where !Ney
and Soult had effected a junction, re-
solved on the bold step of invading
Spain ; and, with that object, steps
were taken in time for the assemblage
of the army at Placencia.

Early in July, Wellesley, with
22,000 British, bea;an his march in the
direction of Madrid ; on the 8th he
stood fast at Placencia, and soon after-
wards joined the Spaniards, 56,000
strong, under the old, obstinate and
incompetent Cuesta, at Oropesa. Vic-
tor, meantime, had been reinforced by
all the troops which Joseph Bonaparte
could collect, and covered the capital ;
while large columns of French troops
were hastening down the valley of the
Tagus. On the 28th of July, after a
severe encounter on the preceding
evening, Joseph Bonaparte attacked
the allies at Talavera. The onslaughts
of the French were repulsed with great
slaughter, and they left 17 guns on the
field, as well as upwards of 7,000
killed and wounded.

The miserable infatuation of Cuesta,
the imbecility or criminal inactivity
of Venegas, the loss of the pass of
Banos, and the approach of Soult,
decided Sir Arthur, as the only
means of extricating his army fi"om
the difficulty out of which the victory
of Talavera had not taken it, to re-
treat again into Portugal ; and by some
ra])id, fortunate, and well arranged
combinations and marches, he fell
back on Merida, Badajoz, and Lisbon,
leaving the Spaniards to their late,
and regarding tln'm witli a disgust
and indignation which determined

586

AKTHUK, DUIvE OF WELLINGTON.

him never to trust British soldiers in
line with them again. He had been
taught, indeed, that, with such allies,
active offensive operations against the
powerful armies of France were, if
glorious in individual action, singular-
ly destitute of political success. The
Spanish army made an attempt to lib-
erate Madrid, Init they were speedily
tauffht to feel the value of their allies,
and their own inefficiency, for, on the
5th of November, Mortier, with a force
not one-half their strength, attacked
them at Ocana, and at one blow fairly
annihilated them, and swept them off
the face of the country; and on the
28th, Del Parques' corps shared the
same fate at the hands of Kellermann.
Wellesley thus permitted the Span-
iards to form an opinion of their own
value when unassisted, and was soon
exposed to their importunity, and to
the clamor of the press at home, in
consequence of his attitude.

Sir Arthur Wellesley was, neverthe-
less, created Baron Douro of Wellesley,
and Viscount Wellington of Talavera,
and of Wellington in the county of
Somerset ; but the government lent him
but lukewarm sujiport in his earnest
proposals for the effective prosecution
of the war, which was now assumins:
gigantic proportions. Furious with
anger on the receipt of the intelli-
gence that Joseph had been defeated
at Talavera, Napoleon directed that
nine corps, under the mo ;t famous mar-
shals and generals of France, should
be assembled in Spain, and at one
time had all but put himself at their
head; but he was prevented by the
preparations for his marriage, and for
the more stringent enforcement of the

great continental blockade. He fond-
ly believed that Massena would drive
the English into the sea ; and the open-
ing successes of the war, which gave
the French Ciudad Kodrigo and Al-
meida, as good bases of operations,
seemed to promise that fortune would
at last flee from other fields to light on
her once-favored but long-neglected
eagles. The campaign of 1810 open-
ed, indeed, under circumstances which
seemed to promise no good result.
Wellington beheld, with unc[uailing
eye, the storm which was gathering.
With all disposable reinforcements,
and vpitli the aid of Beresford's Portu-
guese, his whole force consisted of
about 120,000 men; of whom 40,000
were in reserve and in garrison. The
flower of the French army, under their
world-famed marshals, was before and
around him in more than twice his
greatest strength. His plans were
soon taken, and speedily acted upon.
Whilst the French were slowly ad-
vancing from the north, Wellington
having moved towards the Mon-
dego, was, with extraordinary en-
ergy, directing the construction of
the famous lines at Torres Vedras,
to which Massena's corps was pur
suing him. In vain Lord Welling
ton besought the Portuguese govern-
ment to stop the march of the enemy
by laying waste the country and de-
A'astating the crops. It was evident
that the French could depend on the
resources of the country whilst they
were in pursuit, and that if anything
were to be done in the way of depriv-
ing them of natural magazines, the
British army could alone be relied on
for the work. In order to show the

AKTIItJK, DUKE OF WELLINGTOK

587

enemy that it was not from disorgani-
zation, fear, or incapacity to cope with
him in the open field, Wellington re-
solved to make one stand in the face
of his foes, and give them a knock-
down blow ere he retired to his strong-
hold. Ere his arrangements were quite
complete for the defence of the position
h'jliad selected on the Sierra de Busaco,
he was confronted by Ney, with 40,000
men on the 25th of September; but
Massena, did not attack till the 27th,
and the delay gave the " Hindoo cap-
tain " the invaluable opportunity of
concentrating the whole of his troops,
and filling up the gaping blanks in the
line of his defence. The attack of the
French, gallantly delivered on a po-
sition so strong that even Ney and Ju-
not declared it ought not to be assailed,
and so far testified to the skill with
which it was chosen, was utterly de-
feated with great and disproportionate
loss. In one month Massena gave up
the game. Scarcely had his rear-guard
removed off the ground, than Wel-
lington issued from his lines and hung
upon him, perhaps with more caution
than enterprise, for every mile of his
masterly retreat.

Before Wellington could venture
to proceed with offensive operations
against the French in Spain, it was
necessary for him to open his commu-
nications, and to free his rear and
flanks of the fortified i)laces which
attbi-ded to his enemy cover and sup-
port. Chief among these was Bada-
joz, which Soult had taken early in
his proceedings, and had strongly gar-
risoned. The French defended the
place with IjriHiant courage. Welling-
ton, twice repulsed from the breadies

of Badajoz, was compelled to raise the
siea;e on the 10th of June, and to turn
his arms against Ciudad Rodrigo on
the northern frontier, where, taking up
post in a strong position,'he established
a blockade of the ill-provisioned gar-
rison. The moment Marmout heard of
the danger of Rodrigo, he collected
60,000 men, and, in the month of Sep-
tember, threw a reinforcement and
abundance of provisions into the place,
in face of Wellington, whose blockade
was raised without the possiVtility of
his preventing it. Money, with equip-
ment and material of all kinds, were
sent fi-om England ; and while the
French, supposing that Wellington
could attempt nothing further for the
year, were retired to their winter
quarters, their indefatigable adver-
sary was laboring night and day to
accomplish the reduction of the fort-
ress they believed to be quite secure.
With the utmost secrecy he prepared
a bridge to throw across the Agueda,
on the opposite bank of which stands
Ciudad Eodrigo, and brought up the
deepened channel of the Douro the
siege-train which had been shipped at
Lisbon, so as to induce the enemy to
think it was meant for Cadiz. His
transport "vvas all in readiness. In the
second week in January, 1812, he
crossed the Agueda, and sat down be-
fore the astonished garrison of Rod-
rigo; and on the 10th, the place was
stormed, in s])ite of a very fierce re-
sistance, which cost man}- valuable
lives. Having secured his prize by
tliis brilliant feat, Wellington turned
his attention once more to the cajituro
of Badajoz.

Wellington's popularity again rose

588

AETHUR, DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

with fine weather. He was created
earl, and was voted £2,000 a year, in
England ; a grandee of the flirst-class,
and Duke of Ciudad Rodrigo in
Spain ; and Marquis of Torres Vedras
in Portugal, Avhere he was already
marshal, general, and Count of Vimi-
era. Relieved by the withdrawal of
the French from the valley of the
Tagus, he now proceeded to the in-
vestment of Badajoz. The resistance
was stern and desperate, but the
place fell, after one of the most bloody
assaults ever delivered, in proportion
to the men engaged, on the morning of
the 7th of April, the glory of the vic-
tors being tarnished by the excesses
of the troops, who for three days
revelled in every species of license,
notwithstanding the efforts of their
chief and of their officers. On the
17th of June, Wellington crossed
the Tormes and entered Sala-
manca, which Marmont evacuated
the previous evening, leaving ade-
quate garrisons in the forts, who
made a vigorous defence against the
English, and thereby enabled Mar-
mont to collect about 25,000 men,
wdth whom he attacked Wellington
on the 20th. On the 22d, he was re-
inforced by about 11,000 men, and re-
peated his demonstrations ; at last, on
the 2 2d of July, after much manoeuv-
ring and marching, sometimes within
musket-shot of each other, the two
armies met at Arapiles, near Sala-
manca — Marmont with 42,000 men
and seventy-four guns, Wellington
with 43,000 English, 3,500 Spaniards,
and sixty guns; and after a contest
which is described by M. Brialmont
as " brief and murderous," the French

were beaten at all points, and fairly
driven off the field, with the loss of
6,000 men, eleven guns, two eagles, and
six standards ; whilst the English lost
5,444 men, and were so far exhausted
that they could not enter on the pur-
suit of the routed enemy with the
vigor which might have been desired.
Madrid was now occupied for a
short time by the British, who were
however withdrawn upon the advance
of superior forces of the French — Wel-
lington, after an ineffectual attempt
upon Burgos, retiring to his lines of
defence in winter quarters. Taking
the opportunity of visiting the Cortes,
then sitting at Cadiz, he was received
with every mark of honor, was decor-
ated with the order of the Toison
d'Or, and was invested with j)owers,
which were practically uncontrolled,
over the Spanish troops. The Portu-
guese created him Duke of Vittoria.
The king of England elevated him to
the rank of marquis; and the parlia-
ment gave him a grant of £100,000,
with part of which he purchased the
estate of Wellington, which was sup-
posed to have belonged to the Colleys
in times gone by ; and he received
pennission to wear the crosses of St.
George, St. Andrew, and St. Patrick,
in augmentation of his arms. Re-
inforcements also were poured in from
England, and the tremendous disaster
which had befallen the arms of France
in the snows of Russia, animated the
country with the hope that the contest
in Spain could not long be protracted
by a chief, whose position would im-
pose on him the necessity of withdraw-
ing every soldier he could rally to hi a
standard to defend his ovra. frontiers.

AKTHUR, DUKE OF WELLmGTOK

589

The campaign of 1S13 was opened
by Wellington at the end of May,
with 200,000 men of all nations and
arms, and he knew how much was ex-
pected at his hands l)y the magnitude
of the favors coufeiTed on him, for he
was now a Knight of the Garter and
Colonel of the Blues. At the battle
of Vittoria, on the 21st of June, Wel-
lington gave a death-blow to the
French in Spain. The enemy lost
7,000 killed, wounded, and prisoners ;
151 guns, their military chests, their
plunder and baggage, and a spoil
which for some days disorganized the
victorious army. The Prince-Regent
sent to the conqueior the baton of an
English marshal, in return for the
staff of Jourdain, which was found
on the field. After an exciting cam-
paign in the Pyrenees, followed by
the engagement with Soult before
Toulouse, the ensuing March, the war
was at an end, and Wellington was at
liberty to return to England.

His sagacity, political knowledge,
and discrimination had been so re-
markably displayed in his manage-
ment of Spanish affairs, and in his
correspcmdence, that the ministry re-
quested him, the instant he arrived in
England, from the head of his army,
to proceed as the ambassador of Eng-
land to the court of France ; indeed,
as early as May -Ith, 1814, he had
gone up from Toulouse to Paris, and
liad made tiie acquaintance of some of
the most ivmarl\al)lc men in the cai)i-
tal. Scarcely had he repaired to his
l»ost, ere the state of affairs rccpiiied
his presence at Madrid, where the in-
Ihiciuc of lii.-j jH'rsoiial character, and
the found:. ess of liis judgment were

amply tested in composing the dis-
putes at that unhappy court, and in-
terposing between the follies and im-
becility of the monarch, and the angry
turbulence of his subjects. Having,
on his way back from Spain through
France, broken up his army at Toulouse
in a simple order of the day, the Duke
returned to England, where, if his
stern nature, rather contemptuous of
popularity, could have been satisfied
with the most enthusiastic reception, he
must have enjoyed complete content
ment. On the 2Sthof June, however, he
received those constitutional marks of
favor, to which he was not and could not
be indifferent. At one sitting he be-
came developed in the House of Lords
through all the stages of the peerage,
as baron, viscount, earl, and marquis,
to the highest title of honor ; and the
Duke of Wellington claimed, as Lord
Eldon said, on his first entrance to the
House, all the dignities which the
Crown could confer.

In August, the Duke, in proceeding
towards Paris to execute the functions
of ambassador at the court of France,
to which he had l)een appointed, took
occasion, in company with three engi-
neer officers, to examine the frontier
line of the Netherlands; and in the
course of his survey, he certainly
pointed out the position of Waterloo
as one which should be occujiied to
cover Brussels in case of a French in-
vasion. For five months Wellington
remained at Paris, every week of
^vliich was marked by some earnest
work, by honest and disregarded coun-
sels to France or Spain, and by unpro-
ductive attem})ts to insjiire the Bour-
bons with notions of moderation and

590

AETHUE, DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

forbearance. His duty clone, the Duke
of Wellino-ton Avas accredited to Vi-
enna as the representative of England
at the famous Congress.

On the Sth of March, the startling
news reached Vienna, that Napoleon
was marching upon Paris. On the
20th, the Bourbon was a fugitive, and
the (yorsiean sat once more on the
throne of France. But the Alliance
still lived. The name of Bonaparte
was a talisman to shake every legiti-
mist government to the foundation
and to reojjen the fountains of fear
and misery which had flowed over
every country of Europe. If Napo-
leon desired peace, he would have de-
sired it in vain. The Castlereaghs, the
Metternichs, the Nesselrodes of the day
had vowed eternal hostility to the
Empire — they could not recognise the
fact Eurojie has been forced to admit,
that the principles on which the Em-
pire was founded must exercise their
influence as long as France is a nation.
They were bent only on destroying
the eagle tliat had fluttered their dove-
cots from the Rhine to the Neva. They
determined to maintain the treaty of
Paris at every cost; and Wellington
deserves no great credit for predicting
that Naj^oleon must fall under the
cordial united efforts of the sovereigns
of Europe. Under the impulse of the
common terror, these sovereigns turned
their eyes on one man as their only
champion. The Duke of Wellington
was entreated to take the command
of the armies of England, the Nether-
lands, and Prussians in the Low Coun-
tries, which would be supported as
speedily as possible by the legions of
Austria and Eussia. He arrived in

Binissels on the Sth of April, and Avas
for some time in doubt whether he
should bes^in an offensive movement
upon France, or await the development
of the designs of his mighty antago-
nist. Naj)oleon anticipated the inva-
sion of France by marching at once
upon the Anglo-Prussian army in Bel-
gium by the line of the Sambre. Al-
though Wellington thought such an
offensive movement rather improbable,
he had by no means excluded it fi'om the
categoiy of possiliilities ; but it must
be acknowledged he did not act as if he
thought Napoleon would move in the
direction he actually took. It was
three o'clock on the 15th of June
when General Van Muffling informed
the Duke, as he was seated at table
with the Prince of Orange, that the
Fi'ench had attacked the Prussian out-
posts, and the whole army was imme
diately afterwards ordered to march
to its left.

As a strategical fight, Waterloo does
not rank very highly. The Duke had
no great opinion of it ; and Napoleon's
sole object seems to have been to over-
whelm the British and the allies by
brute force before the Prussians could
come up. The immediate results, in-
deed, were those which Wellington
claimed for this — "the first and last
of fields ! — king-making victory !"

His honors accumulated year by
year. Waterloo Bridge was opened
by the Prince Regent, with a salute
of 202 guns. Apsley House was built
for him at the cost of the nation by
Wyatt. The Hyde Park Achilles was
the result of a subscription made by
the ladies of England, in 1819-'21,
and it was erected in 1832, the same

ARTHUR, DUKE OF WELLIN'GTOK

591

year in wliicli tlie famous shield was
presented to liim by the city of Lon-
don. In 1818 he was made Master-
General of the Ordnance; in 1819 he
became Governor of Plymouth ; in
1820 Colonel of the Kifle Brigade;
and when he died, the Duke of
Wellino-ton was Field-Marehal in the
armies of England, Austria, Russia,
and Prussia. But with his honors his
popularity by no means increased.
There had been a riotous and disaffect-
ed spirit generated among the people ;
conspiracies were discovered ; Haheas
corpus was suspended ; open insurrec-
tions actually broke out ; Peterloo
Avas a hapless parody of civil war;
and the Six xYcts and Cato House
conspiracy were ominous signs of the
temper of the times. The French
revolution had strengthened the hands
of the so-called Tories so much, that
the early struggles for Catholic eman-
cipation and reform seemed Quixotic
and hopeless ; but the people were
gaining strength, and the conscious-
ness of their power gave an intemper-
ance to their language and their acts
which, after the struggle was over,
would have shocked them. For ten
years, Lord Liverpool's cabinet and
principles had governed without
change, and there was no sign of
relaxation of the old i)olicy till ]\Ir.
Canning became Colonial Secretary in
1822. The king was not liked; he
was believed to havt^ been treacherous
to his old liberal associations and
ft'iends, and to put his trust in a
policy of mere repression. The prose-
cution of the (juecn raised the out-
cry against the ministry to a storm,
and the Duke of Wellington, wIki,

as a cabinet minister, had agreed to
the measure, came in for a full share
of the public indignation. A cor-
dial feeling and mutual appreci-
ation existed between him and Sir
Robert Peel, who became Home Secre-
tary in 1822; but there was certainly
no cordiality on the Duke's part to-
wards George Canning; and when he
was appointed Premier, the Duke re-
signed his offices of Master-General of
Ordnance and Commander-in-Chief.
Nay, more, he moved the amendment
in the Lords to the bill sent up by
Canning and Huskisson as the first
instalment of the settlement of the
Corn-Law question. In four months
Mr. Canning, tortured by candid
friends, open enemies, lukewarm sup-
port, and vindictive opposition, had
died. Goderich's short ministry was
called into existence only to expire,
and the Duke on its dissolution was
sent for by the king, and requested to
undertake the task of forminjj a ^oy-
ernment. He had, only eight months
before, in answer to some hints that he
was agitating for the honor, declared
his conviction to the Lords that he
was quite unfit to be Premier, and he
now laid himself open to some ill-
natured remarks in consequence of his
accepting the jiost notwithstanding his
declaration. When Lord Jul in Russell
carried the repeal of the Test and Cor-
poration Acts in the House of Com-
mons by a majority of forty-four, the
Duke, to the astonishment of some of
his friends, the indignation of others,
and the joy of his enemies, accepted
the situation, and calmly made himself
master of it by carrying thi'se very
l)ills througli the Upper House, in

592

ARTHUE, DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

spite of the oppositiou of some of his
own colleagues, with whom, on the
representation of Mr. Canning, the
Duke could not entertain any cordial
or sympathetic relations.

For two years the Duke maintained
his position. At home and abroad
great questions presented themselves.
Surrounded by difficulties, and aggra-
vated by the fierce personal spirit
■which pervaded politics, the influence
of which led the Duke once more into
the field, and induced him to fight
a duel with Lord Wiuchilsea, times
not less stormy followed. The Duke
was an opponent of reform, when the
heart of the active majority of the
nation was set upon it. He proposed
to recognise Don Miguel, whilst he re-
sisted the Catholic claims, and the ad-
mission of the Jews into Parliament and
dissenters into the universities; and
his support gave firmness and resolu-
tion to the party with which he acted.
Although he found himself unable to
form a ministry, when requested to do
so in 1832, on the defeat of the gov-
ment by Lord Lyndhurst, he felt less
hesitation in monopolizing for the
time nearly all the offices of State, in
November, 1834, on the resignation of
Lord Melbourne, till Sir Eobert Peel
could return from Italy to constitute
a short-lived administration. On such
questions as Catholic emancipation,
the Reform Bill, the Corn-Laws, if
the Duke was the oracle of expedi-
ency, he, like oracles of old, sufPered
violence, and spoke on comjiulsion the
"logic of facts." By the advice of

the Duke, whom the Queen consulted
in any emergency, Sir Eobert Peel
was called in, with greater success, to
occupy the position of Prime-minister
in 1841. Her Majesty requested the
Duke to take the command of the
army, of which Lord Hill's ill-health
rendered him incai3al)le, and in that
office he continued till his death. His
active political life ceased. His
speeches were always listened to with
respect; his presence gave dignity to
the highest assembly in the world ;
his nation learned to be proud of him
with a pride in which there was rever-
ence ; he was the friend and counselor
of his sovereign. In his later days he
had some alarming illnesses ; but after
a time he was seen as usual ridins:
down from the Horse Guards to the
House, and his speeches appeared in
the pajjers at longer intervals. In
August, 1852, he went down to Wal-
mer Castle, where he expected some
guests, and on the 13th of Septeml)er,
he was engaged in preparing for their
reception with unusual activity and
energy. Next day he complained of
difficulty of breathing, which did not
yield to the medical means employed.
His illness increased ; he became
speechless and insensible ; ' and ere
the evening he had passed peacefully
away.

The Duke's remains, after " Ij'ing in
state " at Chelsea, were conveyed to
St. Paul's on the 18th of November,
and interred in the vaults with the
solemn dignity and pomp of a state
funeral decreed by Parliament.

THOMAS MOORE.

"/~\F my aucestors on the paternal
v^' side," wi'itcs Thomas Moore, in
a fragmentary postliunions autoliio-
graphyj " I know little or nothing,
having never, so far as I can recollect,
heard my father speak of his father or
mother, of their station in life, or of
anything at all connected vrith them.
My uncle. Garret Moore, was the only
member of my father's fiimily with
■whom I was ever pei'sonally acrpiain-
ted. Of the family of my mother, who
was born in the town of Wexford, and
whose maiden name was Codd, I can
speak more fully and satisfactorily;
and my old gouty grandfather, Tom
Codd, who lived in the corn market,
Wexford, is connected with some of
my earliest rememl>rances. Besides
being engaged in the provision trade,
he must also, I think (from my recol-
lection of the machinery) have had
something to do with weaving. But,
though tlius humble in his callinc:, he
brought up a large family repiital)ly,
and was always, as I have lu-ard, much
respected by his fellow-townsmen. It
was some time in the year 1778, that
Anastasia, the eldest daughter of
this Thomas Codd, l)ecame the wife of
my father, John Moure, and in the fol-
75

lowing year I came into the world.
My mother could not have been much
more than eighteen (if so old) at the
time of her marriage, and my father
Avas considerably her senior. Indeed,
I have frequently heard her say to him
in her laughing mood, ' You know,
Jack, you were an old bachelor when I
married you.' At this period, as 1
always understood, my father kept a
small lime store in Johnson's Court,
Grafton street, Dublin ; the same
court, by-the-way, where I afterAvards
went to school. On his marriage,
however, having received, I rather
think, some little money with my
mother, he set up business in Aungier
street. No. 12, at the corner of Little
Longford street ; and in that house,
on the 28th of May, 1779, 1 was born."
In this autobiography, Moore is par-
ticularly careful in recording the warm
atl'ectlon, assiduous attention and good
sense, mingled with her love, which
led his mother, during his earliest
yi'ars, to lose no opjtortunity of ])ro-
viding for his education, and, wliat
was of hardly less im})ortance, as it
l)rovcd in his case, than a knowledge
of the elements of learning, of forward-
ing iu various ways his intercourse

(.-)93)

59i

THOMAS MOOEE.

with society. Under these influences,
Moore entered upon life at the outset
as something of a prodigy ; in fact, he
became, in his very childhood, a " lion,"
the part he was so accustomed to play
in after years in the spheres of London
and Paris. Profiting more than might
have been expected from the instruc-
tions of his first schoolmaster, a wild,
odd, drunken fellow, who "was hardly
ever able to make his appearance in
the school before noon, when he would
generally whip the boys all round for
disturbing his slumbers," young Moore
was brought forward by his mother,
who encouraged in him a fondness for
recitation as " a sort of show child."
When he Avas scarce four years old, he
recited some satirical verses which had
just appeared at the expense of the
patriot Grattan. As soon as he was
old enough to encounter the crowd of
a large school, he was introduced to a
grammar-school in Dublin, kept by a
distinguished teacher, a Mr. Whyte,
who, some years before, had the fa-
mous Richard Brinsley Sheridan
among his pupils, and had been able
to discover .nothing to promise any
al)ility in that eminent Avit ; in fact,
had pronounced him, as he doubtless
seemed at the time, " a most incorrigi-
ble dunce." Young Moore appeared
to better advantage, flourishing iu the
school exhibitions, and especially in
the private theatrical performances, in
which the master was a zealous leader
and actor. This led to doojQ-rel verse-
making by the promising pupil, who
also early acquired some little knowl-
edge of music, with the aid of an " old
lumbering harpsichord," which had
been thi-own on his father's hands as

part payment of a debt from some
bankrupt customer. Having an agree-
aide voice and taste for singing, he was
brought forward to entertain the jovial
parties of the family, and gained some
applause iu the songs of Patrick in the
" Poor Soldier," in private theatricals.
At the age of eleven he recited an epi-
logue of his OAvn composition, at one
of these entertainments. In fact, his
accomplishments had so impressed
themselves upon his friends, that about
the beginning of the year 1792, an en-
thusiastic acquaintance, an author
and artist who had started a monthly
publication in Dublin, proposed to in-
sert in it a portrait of the juvenile
Moore among the public celebrities of
the time, an honor which his mother
had too much good sense to allow him
to accept, much, as he tells us, to her
son's disappointment. In the follow-
ing year a measure of Catholic emanci-
pation was passed, by which persons
of that faith Avere permitted to enter
the Dublin UniA^ersity, a privilege
which, strange as it uoav seems, had
been previously denied them. Both
the parents of Moore Ijeing Catholics,
this offered a neAV opportunity for the
advancement of tlieir son. His mother,
ahvays on the look-out for his promo-
tion, was anxious to carry out a long-
cherished scheme of bringing him up
to the profession of the laAV. Accord-
ingly, by the aid of a Latin usher
attached to Mr. Whyte's school, he was
pushed rajaidly forward in his classical
studies, and in the summer of 1794
became a student of Trinity College,
Dublin. His kind-hearted usher had
not only taught him Latin and Greek,
but infused in him, as he tells us, " a

THOMAS MOORE

595

thoroTigli and ardent passion for poor
Ireland's liberties, and a deep and cor-
dial hatred to tliose who were then
lording over and trampling her down."

It was about this time, in the year
1793, when Moore was at the age of
thirteen, that he first appeared in print
as the author of some verses in a Dub-
lin magazine, entitled the " Anthologia
Ilibernica." His pride, he says, on
seeing his own name in the first list of
subscribers, written out in full, " Mas-
ter Thomas Moore," was only surpassed
by finding himself recorded as one of
its " esteemed contributors." It was
in the pages of this magazine, he tells
lis, for the months of January and
February, 1793, that he first read,
being then a school-boy, Rogers's
" Pleasures of Memory," little dream-
ing, he adds, "that I should one day
become the intimate fi'iend of the
author ; and such an impression did it
then make upon me, that the particu-
lar type in which it is there printed,
and the very color of the paper, are
associated with every line of it in my
memory." It was in this work that he
published, as early as the beginning of
17'.i-4, a paraphrase of the fifth Ode of
" Anacreon."

In 1798 or 1799, Moore left the
University with the degree of Bache-
lor of Arts. His name had already
been entered at the Middle Temple,
London, whither he now went ostensi-
bly to engage in the study of the hnv.
This was too exacting a profession,
however, to secure much of his atten-
tion. Literature had already inspired
his thoughts, and he was then and
thenceforth devoted to her service.
He com])lied with the forms of initia-

tion at the Temple, somewhat strait-
ened in his narrow purse in paying the
fees, and set himself to obtain a pub-
lisher for his translation of Anacreon.
The letters which he carried, and his
social talents thus early developed,
paved the way for his success. This
manuscript of his work was favorably
noticed by Dr. Laurence, the friend of
Burke, he was himself entertained by
Lord Moira,Lady Donegal, and others,
met Peter Pindar in company, moved
in the best society, and secured nota-
l)le names for the subscription list to
his work, among others that of the
favorite of the Prince of "Wales, Mrs.
Fitzherbert. The work, when it ap-
peared in 1800, from the jjress of
Stockdale, was dedicated by permis-
sion to the Prince himself. It was
prefaced by a Greek ode, -vvi'itten by
the author. " This," he A\Tote to his
mother, " I hope, will astonish the
scoundrelly monks of Trinity, not one
of whom, I perceive, except the Pro-
vost and my tutor, have subscribed to
the work. Heaven knows, they ought
to rejoice at any thing like an eflfort
of literature coming out of their leaden
body."

Moore's reputation in London was
already made. At the age of twenty-
one he was a fashionable poet of the
day. His friends called him Anacreon
Moore, and the title stuck to him
through the gi'eater part of his career.
His small size and youthful apjx-ar-
ance — he was very boyish in look — -
added, no doubt, a piquancy to his
reception in social circles, where he
entertained the company with his
songs and lively conversation. He
soon turned his prosperity to account

596

THOMAS MOOEE.

by the piil)licatioii, iu 1801, of liis
secozul boolc, "The Poetical Works of
the late Thomas Little, Esq.," as he
entitled himself, in recognition of his
diminutive size. He was censured by
moralists for the warm coloring given
to many of the poems in this collec-
tion, Avhicli were chiefly amatory ; but
the fashionable world had no stones to
throw at hini ; his genius was admired ;
his popularity increased; Anacreon
appeared iu a new edition; dinners,
suppers and routs were endless ; there
was wanting apparently only a full
purse to make the earthly felicity
comj^lete, for the poor author often
felt the want of money in the midst of
the luxury with which he was sur-
rounded. Something, it began to be
w^hispered, would be done to better
the fortunes of the bard. His friend,
Lord Moira, who made him at home at
his country seat, Donington Park,
made influence for him, and he re-
ceived the government appointment
of Register to the Admiralty at the
Island of Bermuda.

Leaving England in the " Phaeton "
frigate, in Sej^tember, 1803, he arrived
at his place of destination by way of
Norfolk, Va., in January, 1804. He
had hardly been a week on the island,
when, spite of the romantic beauties
of the place, which seemed to him the
fitting abode of the nymphs and
graces, its white cottages assuming to
his enraptured gaze the colors and
proportions of Grecian temples and
Pentelic marble, he came to the con-
clusion that it was not worth his w^hile
to remain there. It is difficult to pic-
ture the luxury -loving pupil of Ana-
creon as a man of business, and his

biographers dismiss very hastily this
portion of his career ; but it appears,
from his letters written at the time,
that he did actually encounter some
slight employments in his oflSce as
admiralty clerk, examining witnesses,
skippers, mates and seamen, doubtless
smelling villainously of tar, in the case
of several ships on trial, and on one
occasion, which he records as positive-
ly shocking in such violent contrast
to the beauties of the road over which
he journeyed. " I was sent," he says,
" to swear a man to the truth of a
Dutch invowe he had translated."
Sacrifices like these might have been
borne a little longer, we are given to
understand, had the business been
sufiicient to bring in a larger amount
of fees ; but the admiralty courts were
too numerous for Bermuda to get any
considerable share of the s2:)oils; and
the uncertain prospect of a Avar with
Spain, which seems to have been
hoped for in the island, did not prom-
ise to make things much better. So
Moore sighed for Loudon, wrote pretty
musical verses descriptive of the
scenery, amorous " Odes to Nea," ele-
gant epistles in verse to his friends,
and, for the rest, solaced himself with
the hospitalities of the place, filling
himself with callipash aud Madeira at
grand turtle feasts, himself sujjplyiug
the whole orchestra at musical enter-
tainments.

So Moore managed to pass little
over two months of the winter of 1804
in Bermuda, when he set sail in the
" Boston " frigate for New York, wdth
the intention of seeino; something of the
United States on his way home to
England. Lie arrived iu the city early

THOMAS MOOEE.

597

in May, and after a few days left it in
the frigate which had broui^ht him
hither, sailing for Norfolk, with the
iuteutiou of leaving the vessel at that
place, making a hurried tour along the
seaboard, visiting Washington, Phila-
delphia, Niagara, and Canada, joining
the ship at Halifax on her way to
England. All of this he accomjilished.
Early in November, he is again upon
the deck of the " Boston," sailing from
Nova Scotia for old England.

He is again welcomed by the Prince
Regent, and enters on his old round of
gaieties in London society, meanwhile
getting into shape a new volume of
poetry covering his transatlantic expe-
riences and inspirations, which ajD-
2^eared in quarto in 180G, with the
title, " Epistles, Odes, and other Po-
ems." The book fell at once into the
hands of Jeffrey, who published a
trenchant review of it in the "Edin-
burgh," commenting unsparingly on
its weak points of amatory license,
and where the aiithor was not moved
to directness by his satiric petulance,
its vague and wordy dithyrambics.
A challenge of a most premptory
character, o-ivrino- the lie direct to the
reviewer, was concocted l>y Moore,
and sent by his friend Hume. Jeftrey
]-eplied by his friend Horner, and
]\I()ore, liaving borrowed a case of pis-
tols from William Spencer, his broth-
er poet, the parties met on a bright
summer morning, the 11th of August,
ison, at Chalk Farm, the noted duel-
ing ground in the vicinity of London.
It was their first introduction to one
.•mother. While the seconds, unused
tt) the business, were slowly, and, as it
proved, clumsily loading the ])i.stols,

the poet and his new acquaintance
were walking wp and down the field to-
gether ; and, coming in sight of the op-
erations, Jeffrey was somewhat grimly
entertained })y an Irish story which
Moore related of Billy Egan, a barris-
ter, who, once being out on a similar
occasion, and sauntering about while
the pistols were being prepared, his
antagonist, a fiery little fellow, called
out to him angrily to keep his ground.
" Don't make yourself unaisy, my dear
fellow," said Egan, " sure, isn't it bad
enough to take the dose, without being
by at the mixing up ?" In this pleas-
ant humor, the parties took their sta-
tions for the encounter. The seconds
retired, the pistols were raised, when
certain police officers rushed from be-
hind a hedge and knocked the hostile
weapons out of their hands, and con-
veyed the principals to Bow Street,
where they were bound over to keep
the peace. The information which led
to the arrest had been given at a din-
ner party the evening before, by Spen-
cer. Fashionable society could not
spare its favorite. As for Moore and
Jeffrey, unhappy as had been the man-
ner of their ac-(piaintance, they seem
to have been deliiihted with one an-
other when it was once formed. There
was an annoying sequel to the affair, in
the circumstance that on the examina-
tion of the pistols at the police office,
it was found that Jeffrey's pistol had
no bullet, it having, as was proved by
the re])ort of the seconds, evidently
fallen out while in the liands of the
officers. This gave rise to the report
that the whole was mere child's play,
the duel to be fought with leadless
bullets. A year or two later, when

fl98

THOMAS MOOEE.

Byron, another young poet, in his
turn smarting from tlie "Edinburgh
Review," was looking about for mate-
rial for his famous satire, " English
Banls and Scotch Reviewers," he in-
troduced this incident into his poem,
of which it formed one of the most
amusing and aggravating passages.

Moore had published a statement
immediately after the duel, giving the
true account of the matter of the l)ul-
lets, and was consequently led, when
Byron re-issued his version of the af-
foir in a second edition in 1810, to re-
sent the publication as giving the lie
to his own narrative of the transac-
tion. He addressed Byron, to whom
he Avas personally a stranger, on the
subject ; but the letter not being de-
livered by the friend to whom it was
entrusted, the noble author just set-
ting out on his foreign tour, Moore, on
his return, in 1811, re-opened a corres-
pondence ; which, while hinting strong-
ly at the duello in its courteous terms,
opened a door of easy escape. Byron
met the affair in the same complimen-
tary Pickwickian way, and the whole
thing ended in a very satisfactory man-
ner at the table of Rogers, the poet,
where Byron met thehost, Campbell,
the author of the " Pleasures of Hope,"
and ]\Ioore himself for the first time.
It was the beginning of the life-long
intimacy of Moore and Byron. As in
the quarrels of lovers, these prepara-
tions for the duello ended oddly
enough, in lioth cases, in warm and
lasting friendships.

After his return from America,
Moore held for a time his Bermuda
appointment, the duties of which
were discharged by a deputy, while

he was still looking to his friend Lord
Moira for further political i^atronage.
Meanwhile he ajipears to have been
quite at home for long periods at his
Lordship's residence, Donington Park,
enjoying its free quarters and availing
himself of its fine library, welcomed
by the owner w^hen he was present,
and master of the resources of the
place when he was absent. It was
Moore's good fortune ever to find a
patron and share in the social advant-
ages of the English aristocracy. Oificial
preferment was not at hand, however,
and though Moore expected for himself
a commissionship in Ireland, he suc-
ceeded only in obtaining the appoint-
ment of barrack master in Dublin for
his father. A surer resource he found
in the exertion of his own talents, the
favor of the public, and the steady re
ward of the booksellers. His associa
tion with James Power, the music sell
er, " a semi-musical, semi-literary con
nection," as it is descriljed by their com
mon friend, Thomas Crofton Croker, be
gan with thepul)lication of the first num
ber of what proved the most popular
and remunerative work of the author,
the " Irish Melodies," in 1807. It lasted
for twenty-seven years, during which
the poet received by contract an annual
payment of several hundred pounds
from the puldisher, with large advances,
as he stood in need, which grew into a
considerable debt on the part of the
author. The "Melodies" were pub-
lished in parts, at intervals, the work
being completed in its present form in
1834. Deriving their inspirations from
the Jiative music of his country, and
colored by the patriotic aspiration of
youth, they are the best and finest

THOMAS MOOEE.

599

representation of his sensibilities and
genius. They have been translated
into various languages, called forth
the talents of various artists for their
illustration, notaldy among them the
poet's fellow-countryman, Maclise, in
the sumptuous edition published by
the Longmans, and there are certainly
few English homes throughout the
world where their voice has not been
lieard.

The composition of the " Melodies,"
as we have seen, covered a long period
of time. The poet, meantime, was
working another vein of composition,
in a series of satirical epistles and oc
casional verses. " Corruption " and " In-
tolerance," two Poems " addressed to an
Englishman by an Irishman," appear-
ed anonymously from his pen in 1808,
followed the next year by " The Scep-
tic, a Philoso^jhical Satire." These at-
tempts in the stately Juvenalian style
of satire, as the author suljsequently
described them, met, he admits, with
but little success, never having at-
tained, till he included them in his
collected works, the honors of a second
edition. " I found," said he, " that
lighter foim of weapon, to which I af-
terwards betook myself, not only more
easy to wield, but, from its very light-
ness, ])erhaps, more sure to reach its
mark." The vein to which he alludes
was worked to great advantage in his
contriV)utions to the " Morning Chroni-
cle," and in the sjjortive, j)layful, yet
sufficiently pungent volume, " Inter-
cej)ted Letters ; or, The Twoj)enny
Post -Bag, by Thomas Brown, the
Younger," which he gave to the world
in 18l;5. Ill tliese gay epistk^s, the
satiie, which was mainly directed

against the Prince Regent, with an
occasional foray upon the lighter fol-
lies of fashionable drawing-rooms and
entertainments, was sheathed in humor,
and lost more than half its bitterness
in the exquisite vei^sification.

While these were Moore's public
literary employments, an episode in
his round of social entertainments led
to his marriage with a gentle lady,
whose quiet, unobtrusive domestic vir-
tures so long adorned the simple home
of the poet, where he often found
solace from the round of fashionable
gaieties to which he seems to have
been bound by a sort of professional
attachment, and which indeed came as
a necessary relief to his overcharged
literary exertions in his hours of pri-
vacy. The circumstances which led
to this marriage we find narrated in
an interesting sketch of the poet's ca-
reer, in the "Edinburgh Review."
" During one of Moore's Irish trips,"
says the writer, "he formed part of
that famed theatrical society which
figured on the Kilkenny boards ; the
male actors being amateurs, and the
female ones mostly, if not all, profes-
sional, having at their heads the ' star
of the hour, the celebrated Miss O'Neil.
Moore acted well, especially in comedy,
as we have been informed ])y one who
was fortunate enough to witness those
remarkal)le performances about the
year IS 10. Among other })arts, his
personation of ' Mungo ' in the agreea-
Ijle opera of 'Tlie Pail lock,' was, it is
said, eminently hajipy. Two sisters,
both extremely attractive in person, as
Avell as irrei)roacliable in conduct, also
formed a part of tliis ' corps,' acliug,
singing, and ever and anon dancing, to

coo

THOMAS MOORE.

the delight of their audience. With
one of these beauties, Moore fell des-
perately in love, and being regarded
favorably in return by Miss Elizabeth
Dyke, he a few months later united
himself in marriage with her, without,
it would seem, acquainting his parents
with his intention. The ceremony
took place at St. Martin's church, in
London, in March, 1811, and Mrs.
Thomas Moore was introduced to her
husband's London friends during the
same spring. By these she was cor-
dially received, although there was
but one opinion among them as to the
imprudence of the step in Moore's no-
toriously narrow circumstances."

In addition to the " Melodies," songs
and occasional satires which gave
protitable employment to Moore's pen
during the next few years, there is
to be mentioned an opera entitled
" M. P.; or, The Blue Stocking," which
was produced on the stage the year
of his marriage with moderate success.
It is not included in the standard edi-
tion of his works, though it contrib-
utes a few songs to the collection. It
was not long after this that Moore
turned his thoughts to the composi-
tion of a poem of some magnitude, in-
troducing Eastern scenes and ima-
gery. The notion commended itself to
the poet's luxurious imagination. He
applied himself diligently to the ne-
cessary courses of reading, studied all
the poetry, legendary and historical
literature of the region accessible in
the works of D'Herbelot, Sir William
Jones, the Oriental Collections and
Asiatic Eesearches, and especially the
works of travellers in the East, which
presented many curious traits of local

manners, and, out of the whole, in the
end produced the varied, composite
result entitled " Lalla Rookh." The
work was the labor of several years.
The idea of its preparation was first
conceived in 1813, with a view of en-
tering the field with a narrative poem
of suflicient leno-th to challencre a
share of the popularity enjoyed by the
" Lady of the Lake," and several oth-
er publications in quarto of Sir Wal-_
ter Scott. It was not, however, till
five years later that the poem, dedica-
ted to the poet Rogers, was published.
It then proved a gi-eat and immediate
success, passing rapidly through several
editions.

Immediately after the publication of
Lalla Rookh, Moore set out with his
friend Samuel Rogers, on a visit to
Paris, which he pronounced on his
arrival in a letter to his music pub-
lisher. Power, "the most delightful
world of a place I ever could have im-
agined," adding his intention, if he
could persuade his wife " Bessy " to
the measure, to take up his abode
there for two or three years. Return-
ing from this flying visit to his cottage
home at Hornsey, he found his child
Barbara mortally ill; and, after her
death, which shortly ensued, he took
up his abode at a new residence, which
he occupied for the remainder of his
life, Sloperton Cottage, an elegant and
comfortable rural aliode in the imme-
diate vicinity of Bowood, the seat of
his friend the Marquis of Lansdowne.
Here we find him at the beginning of
the following year, 1818, engaged upon
his next publication, the fruit of his
late French excursion, "The Fudge
Family in Paris," a production of the

THOMAS MOORE.

601

Humplirey Clinker type ; or, to follow
a poetical precedent, of Austey's de-
lightful picture of the society of the
celebrated watering-place, the "New
Bath Guide." Moore's letter-writing
faujily enjoy a similar vein of pleasan-
tly and agreeable lightness of versifi-
cation, as they exhibit the humors of
the observers, and the entertaining in-
cidents at Paris then, with a zest of
novelty newly reopened after the war
with Napoleon, to the English travel-
ling world. Nor, with the lighter
amusements of tlie place, does the poet
of freedom and patriotism forget the
graver political issues of the times, as
he utters an indignant protest against
the despotic Holy Alliance.

In the midst of the incense and ap-
plause so fairly earned by his recent
publications, which seemed to have
secured to the poet an unwonted
prosperity in the future, he was sud-
denly dismayed by the intelligence
tliat the deputy whom he had left in
his office at Bermuda, and for whose
acts he was personally responsible,
after keeping back what was due to
him, had absconded with the jjroceeds
of a sale of ship and cargo deposited in
his liands. Moore was summoned to
make good the loss, amounting, it was
claimed, to aliout six thousand pounds.
lie was offered assistance in this emer-
gency ])y various friends; but, with
his customary love of independence, he
2)i-eferred to rely on his own exertions
to extricate him from the embarrass-
ment. The effort at settlement cost
him much anxiety and trouble, the
unsettled claim hanging over him for a
long time l)efc>re he was finally freed
from the responsibility. Meanwhile
7G

he set vigorously to work upon his
first prose work of consequence, the
Life of Richard Briusley Sheridan ;
from the labor upon which he was
diverted by a second tour to the con-
tinent, accompanying, this time, his
friend Lord John Russell. Returning
from this tour, having established him-
self in Paris, in " a little fairy suite of
apartments, an entresol in the Rue
Chautereine, at two hundred and fifty
francs a month," he, on the 1st of Jan-
uary, 1820, conducts thither his wife
Bessy, whom he had gone to meet at
Calais. They are presently domiciled
in a cottage in the Champs Elysees, in
the Allee des Veuves, which, with the
exception of a short residence at
another house near Paris, for the next
year and a half becomes their home.
For a time the poet is engaged in an
attempt to get into shape his projected
Epistles from Italy, in which he pro-
posed to introduce his old machinery
of the Fudge Family. He also occu-
pies himself in his literary employ-
ments with the composition of new
numbers of the Irish Melodies, and new
studies, which result in due time in
"The Epicurean," and the poetic
fliijlits of " The Loves of the Ansjels."
There were several flying visits of
Moore to England, before he returned
with his wife to that country, in the
first of which, in September, 1821, he
went in disguise, providing himself,
by advice of the women, with a pair
of mustachios as a mode of conceal-
ment, and at the suggestion of Lord
John Russell, assuming the name, in
the Dover packet, and at the inn of
"Mr. Dyke." He was on this occasion
handsomel} entertained by the Duke

602

THOMAS MOOKE.

of Bedford, at AVobum, aud visited
his parents at Dublin. There were
various uegotiations going on mean-
while for the settlement of the Ber-
muda claims, which now resulted in
their reduction to one thousand
pounds, a sum which was chiefly made
up by a temporary loan by Lord Lans-
do\viie, immediately repaid by a draft
on Murray, an advance on the Byron
Memoirs, and the generous gift of two
hundred pounds from Lord John
Russell, the produce of his published
" Life of Lord Russell," a sum he had
set apart, as he alleged, for sacred pur-
poses ; and, " as he did not mean to
convert any part of it to the expenses
of daily life, so he hoped to hear no
more of it." This made the poet once
more a free man. London and the
great world of English society were
now again open to him, and after
some months further sojourn, with
occasional interrujitions of absence in
Paris, he took up his residence in the
Euii'lish cottaire, near Bowood.

His new publications in the year
1823, were "Fables for the Holy
Alliance," a sheet of satirical verses on
an old theme ; " Rhymes on the Road,"
the work already spoken of, embody-
ing his travelling experiences on his
Italian tour, and the "Loves of the
Angels," a poetical romance in which
he returned to the materials he had
di-awn upon in " Lalla Rookh." The
last-mentioned poem, or rather series
of poems, the author tells us, was
founded on the Eastern story of the
Angels Harut and Marut, and the
Ral)binical fictions of the lives of
Uzziel and Shaniehazai; the subject
presenting " an allegorical medium

through which might be shadowed out
the fall of the soul from its original
jnirity, the loss of light and happiness
which it suffers in pursuit of the
world's perishable pleasures, and the
punishments both from conscience and
divine justice, with which impunity,
pride and presumptuous inquiry into
the awful secrets of heaven are sure to
be visited." For the " Loves of the
Angels," the author received from his
pultlisher seven hundred pounds. The
" Memoirs of Captain Rock," display-
insc the author's views and feeliuQ^s on
Irish politics, appeared in 1824, fol-
lowed the next year by the " Life of
Sheridan," which, as we have seen, had
occupied him at intervals for several
years ; entertaining as a whole : a
work of much merit in a literary point
of view ; discussing with alnlity and
discretion matters of much difficulty,
presenting, perhaps, too favorable a
view of his hero's character, and ex-
hibiting too dark a picture of the
neglect into which he had falleji at
the last.

Moore's next work, "The Epicu-
rean," founded on the Egyptian stud-
ies which he had pursued in Paris
with many advantages and much dili-
gence, with the assistance of Denon
and others, was originally designed to
be written in verse. Its first concep-
tion, subsequently somewhat modified,
is related in a passage of the poet's
journal, dated July 25th, 1820. —
" Began my Egyptian poem, and -vvi'ote
about thirteen or fourteen lines of it.
The story to be told in letters from a
young Epicurean philosopher, who, in
the second century of the Christian
era, goes to Egypt for the purpose of

THOMAS MOOEE.

603

discovering the elixir of immortality,
which is supposed to be one of the
secrets of the Egyptian priests. Dur-
ing the Festival on the Nile, he meets
Avith a beautiful maiden, the daughter
of one of the priests lately dead. She
enters the catacombs, and disappears.
He hovers around the spot, and at last
finds the well and secret passages, etc.,
by which those who are initiated enter.
He sees this maiden in one of those
theatrical spectacles which formed a
part of the subterranean Elysium of
the Pyramids — finds opportunities of
conversing with her — their intercoiu'se
in this mysterious region described.
They are discovered, and he is thrown
into those subterranean prisons, where
thej^ who violate the rules of Initiation
are confined. He is liberated from
thence l>y the young maiden, and, talc-
ing flight together, they reach some
beautiful region, where they linger, for
a time, delighted, and she is near be-
coming a victim to his arts ; but, taking
alarm, she flies and seeks refuge with
a Christian monk, in the Thebaid, to
whom her mother, who was secretly a
Christian, had consigned her in dying.
The struggles of her love with her
religion. A persecution of the Chris-
tians takes place, and she is seized
(chiefly through the unintentional
means of her lover) and suffers martyr-
dom. The scene of lier mart}Tdom
described in a letter from the Solitary
of the Tliel)aid, and the attempt made
by the young i)liilosoj)li(!r to rescue
her. He is carried oft" from thence to
the cell of the Solitary. His letters
fi'om that retreat, after lie lias become
a Christian, devotint; his thouixhts en-
tirely to repentance and the recollec-

tion of the beloved saint who had
gone before him. — If I don't make
something out of all this, the deuce is
in't."

According to this plan, as the au-
thor further infoiTus us in his preface
to the work, the events of the story
were to be told in Letters or Episto-
lary Poems, addressed by the philoso-
pher to a young Athenian friend ; but,
for greater variety, as well as conven-
ience, he afterwards distributed the
task of narration among the chief per-
sonages of the tale. The great difii-
culty, however, of managing in rhyme
the minor details of a story, so as to be
clear without growing prosaic, and
still more, the diffuse length to which
he saw narration in verse would ex-
tend, deterred him from following this
plan any further ; and he then com-
menced the tale anew in its present
prose shape. Of the poems written
for the first experiment, a few speci-
mens were introduced into the prose
story. The remainder were thrown
aside and remained neglected for many
years after, till the author's friend, Mr.
Macrone, the London puljlisher, calling
u])on him for some new poem or story,
to be illustrated by Turner the artist ;
unable to gratify this wish, it was pro-
j)osed to pul)lish such an illustrated
edition of the " Epicurean," the copy-
right of which was still in the hands
of the author. To add to the bulk of
the A\ork, which was hardly sufficient
for the pulilisliers pur])ose, Moore re-
vived the original poems, and issued
tliom with the tale, witli the title,
" Alcipliron." The whole thus ap-
peared Avith four l)rilliant designs by
Turner in is;59. In his preface to tliis

work, the author says : " In the letters
of Aloiphrou will be found, heighten-
ed only by a freer use of poetic color-
ing, nearly the same detail of events,
feelings and scenery which occupy the
earlier part of the prose narrative ; but
the letter of the hypocritical high
priest, whatever else its claim to at-
tention, will be found, both in matter
and form, new to the reader." Several
separate publications, " Odes on Cash,
Corn, Catholics, etc.," 1829; "Even-
ings in Greece," the same year ; " The
Summer Fete," 1832 ; " The Fudges in
England," a sequel to "The Fudge
Family in Paris," severally partaking
of the characteristics of Moore's previ-
ous volumes, with a large number of
minor poems, satirical or sentimental,
complete the series of his poetcal
works.

In 1830 appeared his best-known
biographical work, the "Letters and
Journals of Lord Byron, with Notices
of his Life." For this work, he re-
ceived fi-om Murray four thousand
guineas. It is essentially composed of
the letters of Byron, very many of
them being addressed to the editor,
Moore having been for a long period
Byron's constant correspondent; its
interest, therefore, lies mainly in the
writings of Byron himself. This re-
lieved the author from what would at
the time have been a most inconven-
ient, if not impracticable task, the con-
struction of a perfect biography. In-
deed, after all the attempts, such a
work yet remains to be written. But
Moore had a large stock of novel ma-
terials to communicate to the public,
and his liook was consequently seized
upon with avidity.

There remains to be mentioned, to
complete the list of Moore's publica-
tions, another biographical woi'k, " The
Life and Death of Lord Edward Fitz-
gerald," a narrative of the Irish Eebel-
lion ; " Travels of an Irish gentleman
in search of a Religion," a learned de-
fence of Roman Catholicism ; and a
" History of Ireland," written for
Lardner's " Cabinet Cyclopaedia ;"
which appeared in 1835. " Alciphron,"
the poem already spoken of, was his
latest work in 1839. In 1835, under
the administration of Lord Melbourne,
a pension of three hundred pounds a
year was granted him by the Queen.

The last years of Moore's life were
clouded by loss of memory and utter
helplessness. His published " Diary "
closes with an entry in Maj, 1847.
He was then alone in the world with
his wife, the sole survivor of his family,
His father died in 1825 ; his mother in
1832 ; not one sui'vived of his five
children. " Yet," says his biographer.
Earl Russell, " he preserved his inter-
est about his friends ; and when I saw
him for the last time, on the 20th of
December, 1849, he spoke rationally,
agreeably and kindly on all those sub-
jects which were the topics of our con-
versation. But the death of his sister
Ellen, and of his two sons, seem to
have saddened his heart and in his last
years obscured his intellect.

Moore, having nearly comj^leted his
seventy-third year, expired calmly and
without pain on the 20th of February,
1852. His wife survived this event
thirteen years. Both, with three of
their children, lie buried in the church-
yard of Bromham, in the vicinity of
the poet's cottage.

^^^^

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY

THIS amiable lady, whose contri-
butions to American literature
extended over a period of half a cen-
tury, and who combined in her writ-
ings much of the talent and dispositions
of Hannah More and Mrs. Hemans, was
born at Norwich, Connecticut, on the
first of September, 1791, The family
from which she sprang was of the good
old New England stock. Her grand-
father, on the paternal side, a native of
Scotland, emigrated to America in
eai'ly life, and married a Miss Mary
Walbridge. He was a soldier in the
old French war in the Colonial Era;
and, returning from the campaign of
1700, contracted the small-pox, and
died l>efore he reached home. He left
a son eight years old, Ezekiel Hunt-
ley, born at Frankfort, in the vicinity
of Norwich, in 1752, who, in his early
manhood, bore his part with his fel-
low patriots in Connecticut, in tlie
military work of the Revolution, and,
at its close, married Sophia Went-
worth. Of tliis parentage, our author-
ess was born. Her childhood was
passed very happily under the most
favorable cinnnnstances for her men-
tal and moral developinent. At the
time of her birtli, and fur many years

after, she resided with her parents oc
the wealthy estate of Madame Lathrop,
the widow of Dr. Daniel Lathrop, and
the daughter of the Hon. John Talcott,
who had been, for a number of years,
governor of the State. Mr. Huntley,
early in life, had become a member
of the family of Dr. Lathrop, who,
finding the medical profession, to
which he had been educated, press-
ing too severely upon his sensibilities,
aliandoned it for mercantile pursuits,
which brought him a large fortune.
Huntley was brought up as one of his
clerks ; and, on his death, was employ-
ed by the widow in the management
of her estate. In the autobiographic
work, published after her death, enti-
tled " Letters and Life," Mrs, Sigour-
ney dwells fondly on the associations
of her early years, passed in the ample,
well- furnished Lathrop family man-
sion, in which the Huntleys lived with
the estimable, aged widow proprietor
in a perfectly independent manner — a
description which may be referred to as
a specimen of Mrs. Sigourney's culti-
vated prose style; and })articu]ar]y
for its exliibition of her unatfccted na-
tural sympathies, which, throughout

her life, found the utmost deligiit in

^0^I5)

606

LTDIA mmTLET SIGOUENET.

common familiar objects. Indeed, we
know not where tbe art of pleasing
and being pleased is better taught
than in her writings. Ranging at will
in her childhood over this charming
domain, her earlier enjoyments were
drawn from the life and beauty of
nature, The flowers and fi'uits were
to her a passion, as she watched their
growth, and looked upward to the
l>enificence of the Almighty giver.
The domestic animals about the place
were taken to her heart as friends.
She delighted to minister to their wel-
fare, and wreathed her affections so
kindly with their mute appeals, tha-
she could never afterwards witness
their discomfort or oppression without
feeling " an almost morbid distress."
A large black horse " of mild temper-
ament," was an especial favorite ; but
pussy, upon the whole, seems to have
awakened the greatest interest and
regard. " I studied cat-nature," says
she, " like a philosopher."

Nor with these accessories of the
mansion, is to be forgotten its large
rambling old-fashioned garret, a capa-
cious lumber-room and museum, with
memorials scattered around, of the
past fortunes of the family, notably
the relics of her father's military career
in the Revolution, a collection of
twisted powder-horns, a brass-hilted
sword, and cumbrous pistols, with a
long - barreled gun, which the little
Lydia, in her active young imagina-
tion, invested with life, " talking with
each about Bunker Hill, and York-
town, and Washington, till I half fan-
cied I had listened to the war-thunder
of battle ; and looked upon the god-
like form of the Pater Patriae." Here,

too, was an old-fashioned, heavy carv-
ed buffet, a condemned article of fur-
niture, whose curved shelves afforded
an excellent opportunity for the dis-
play of the child's dolls " according tc
their degrees of aristocracy." There
were immense trunks, too, in that gar-
ret. " Untold treasures I supposed
them to contain ; but rummaging was
in those days forbidden to children.
One of them was open and empty, and
lined with sheets of printed hymns.
I stretched myself within its walls and
jDerused those hymns, being able to
read at three years old. Afterwards,
I grieve to say, that I made use of
that hiding-place for a more question-
al)le purpose. Finding a borrowed
copy of the ' Mysteries of Udolpho '
in the house, and perceiving that it
was sequestrated from childish hands,
I watched for intervals when it might
be abstracted unobserved, and, taking
refuge in my trunk, like the cynic
in his tub, revelled among the tragic
scenes of Mrs. RatclifPe ; finding, how-
ever, no terror so formidal)le as an ap-
proaching footstep, when, hiding the
volume, I leaped lightly fi'om my cav-
ernous study. It was the first surrep-
titious satisfaction, and not partaken
without remorse. Yet the fascination
of that fearful fiction-book seemed to
me too strong to be resisted."

In the midst of this charming idyl-
lic life of the old New England farm-
house, the education of the child, no-
ticeable for her precocity, though not
oppressed by it, grew apace. At home
she enjoyad the best moral training in
the influence and example of those
about her. Her religious impressions
were encouraged and confirmed with-

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

607

out austerity, leaving upon lier charac-
ter the permanent mark of a natural
unaffected piety, true to its convic-
tions and spontaneous in the expres-
sion of them, simply Lecause they
were natural and an inseparal)le por-
tion of her life. Her tastes and habits
all tended to simplicity ; and good
healtli of body and soul led to con-
tentment. She had an excellent onuide
to her first studies, in her venerable
friend, Madame Lathrop, who surviv-
ed through her period of girlhood, a
genuine lady of the old school, amiable
and dignified, and familiar with the
Englisli literature of her day. As she
grew up, a succession of competent
teachers introduced her to various
branches of knowledge. Reading, as
we have seen, at three years old, she
became such a proficient, that at the
age of eight, she actually planned and
commenced a novel in the epistolary
style, with the scene partly laid in
Italy — a thing of the least conse-
quence, of course, if it had been finish-
ed, but noticable enough in connextion
witli her after-literary career. Among
her instructors, was one of that unfail-
ing supply in America in those days
from Trinity College, Dublin. This
Irish preceptor was strong in mathe-
matics, and indiued his pupil with a
love of the science, so that she became
enthusiastic in the study, and was al-
ways thankful for it as a valuable dis-
cipline of lier powers. Yale College
furnished another beneficent teacher
in Pelatiah PeiTit, who taught the
Greek and Latin classics to a select
class of twenty-five, and who after-
wards became distinguished as a mer-
chant and j)hihmthropist in New York.

She afterwards learnt history and
mental philosophy, and took so kind-
ly to Latin as to employ herself in
translations from the ^neid. French,
and even a considerable knowledge of
Hebrew, were added to her early ac-
complishments, as she entered with
the full ardor of her imagination into
the story of Jonah, the lyrical beauty
of which she expressed in a happy
rhythmical translation. And all this
was accomplished at the age of four-
teen.

There is quite a remarkably diary
of her composition, preserved in the
" Letters " which she Avrote at this time,
giving an account of a little journey
to Hartford. The occasion of this
Jaunt is noticealde for its indication
of the girl's susceptible nature. The
death of her veneral)le " benefactress,"
as she always loved to call Mrs. Lath-
rop, so preyed upon her spirits as se-
riously to affect her health. Though
her friend had departed full of years,
at the age of eighty-eight, and had, of
course, for some time required much
anxious attention, the kind Lydia had
never felt the burden, but had cheer-
fully humored her ways and smoothed
the pillow of declining life. " I could
not understand," she writes, " why any
should say that patience was tried by
the mind's brokenness. To me it was
a fresh delight to tell her the same
thing many times, if she required it.
Sometimes, when restlessness oppressed
her, she called me to come within her
curtains, and sing the simple melodies
that she had early taught me. This 1
did in low, soothing tones, joining my
clicck to hers, when she was com-
forted, and sle])t, holding often my

608

LYDIA HimTLET SIGOUENEY.

hand long in her own." Lydia was
with her when she died, and felt her
loss like that of a mother. Seeing' her
health so visibly affected after this
event, her parents called in a physi-
cian, Dr. Philemon Tracy, a man in
advance of his time, for he had more
faith in studying the constitution of
his patients and putting them under
conditions where natu7"e might exert
her powers to the best advantage for
recovery, than in any administration
of drugs. For the cure of the child
torn with spasms, he simply recom-
mended that she should he clothed in
soft red flannel, and sent on a visit to
Mrs. Latlu-op's relations in Hartford.
The cure was perfect, the novelty and
interest of the scene to which she was
introduced, and the kindness of her
friends, in a fortnight fully brought
about her recovery. The family by
which she was received, was that of
the Wadsworths, who concentrated
within their circle the best qualities
and resources of that high-minded,
truly hospitable period. Colonel Jer-
emiah Wadsworth, the nephew of Mrs.
Lathrop, was no longer living, but his
widow, with two of his sisters, lived in
the family mansion, and in their con-
versation vividly brought before their
young guest the recent glories of the
house, when it had been visited by
Washington and other notables of the
Revolution, Lafayette, De Grasse, Roch-
embeau, Greene, Putnam, and the rest,
with the wily Talleyrand in exile.
Under such influences, Hartford, past
and present, was thoroughly learnt
and understood by the youthful
visitor. A year or two before, she
had begun a journal; and she had

now much to her that was memorable
to record in it. We can hardly real-
ize, while reading the portions of it in
the "Letters," that it was written
by a girl of fourteen — for it is as well
penned and with much the same talent
at description, as that siibsequently giv-
en to the world in the New England
Travels by the great President Dwight
himself. But Mrs. Sigourney appears
always to have had an old head on
young shoulders. So she describes
places and scenes with fidelity and
unaffected admiration ; and, not con-
tent with excellent prose, runs over in
very creditable blank verse, in apos-
trophes to the great historic shrine of
the place, the venerable Charter-Oak.
This was WTitten in the autumn of
1805. Fifty years afterwards, when
the tree was prostrated in a storm, she
wrote a dirge in commemoration of
its fall.

Returning with restored health to
Norwich, she finds her j^arents about
to remove from the old Lathrop man-
sion, to a neighboring home of their
own, a farm-house with a spacious gar-
den, and appointments, which had been
to her so great a delight in childhood.
She entered heartily into the new life,
sharing its burdens of industry and
economy cheerfully ; for the family
lived in a greatly independent way,
much helping themselves. The daugh-
ter and only child Lydia, was well
qualified to assist wherever her ser-
vices might be required. The litera-
ture and love of poetry which she had
acquired, were not at the expense of
humbler accomplishments. Expert
with the needle, from the ag^e of
eight, as she tells us, "I had been

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURKEY.

609

promoted to the office of shirt-maker
for my father. I now adventured up-
on his vests, cutting to pieces an ohl
one as a pattern. For a hall in the
second story, which was carpetless, I
cut squares of flannel, al.'out the size
of the compartments in a marble pave-
ment, and sewed on each a pattern of
flowers and leaves cut from broad-
cloth, of api^ropriate colors. The eftect
of the whole was that of rich, raised
embroidery. "With the true New Eng-
land spirit of turning fragments to
good account, I constructed of the
pieces which were too small for the
carjjet, a gay counterpane for a little
bed, used when we had children
among our nightly guests. I also
braided white chip, and fine split-
straw, for the large and very pretty
hats which Avere then in vogue." The
industrious Lydia also furnished her
father with stockings of her own knit-
ting, an exclusive privilege of her own;
and, with the aid of a tenant weaver
on the premises, spun for him an en-
tire suit of clothes of the choicest
wool. She was also greatly busied
with him in his agricultural and horti-
ciiltural pursuits, in planting and cul-
tivating. Industry and happiness in
cheerful employment ruled the hour
in the Connecticut homestead, which,
so great have been the changes and
departures from it, looking back ujion
it now, seems hardly a possibility of
the present century. Tliere wore
amusements, too, and accomplish-
ments, in abundance. With a due
observance of the Sabbath, there was
no Puritan austerity in the household
to exclude dancing and the innocent
gaieties of social intercourse. Music
77

came with the singing-school, and a
soldierly Frenchman taught dancing
with the stiflF graces and inflexible
exactness of a military drill-sergeant.
Among other acquisitions in this
youthful period, were a great deal of
painting and drawing, of which lit-
tle came, while a great good resulted
from acquaintance with books, and
especially the poets. There was one
excellent practice, in the pursuit of
literature, well worthy of revival
at any time. " Committing passages
fi'om the poets to memory was a sys-
tematic exercise. Cowper and Gold-
smith were among the first chosen for
that purpose. The melody of the lat-
ter won both the ear and heart ; and
' The Deserted Village,' or ' The Travel-
ler,' were voicelessly repeated, after
retiring at night, if sleep,

' Like parting summer's lingering bloom de-
layed. '

With the earnest perusal of Shakes-
peare and Thomson, was interspersed
that of the German poets, Klopstock
and Kotzebue, and also some of the
modern travelers and ancient histori-
ans. Among the latter Avas Josephus,
whose study did not, on the whole
produce any great satisfaction. I found
myself more attracted T)y the histori-
ans of the Mother Land, still, with im-
maturity of taste, prefering the con-
ciseness of Goldsmith to the discursive
and classic Hume. A reading society
of a few yourg people was commenced,
and sustained with various fluctua-
tions, where the prescribed course was
the history of our own country, with a
garnish of the pt)cins of Walter Scott.
Attached to this circle were some fine

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOUHKEY.

readers, among whom I recollect, witli
unalloyed pleasure, the perfect enunci-
ation and emphasis of a lady, who
afterwards, as the wife of the Rev.
Samuel Nott, went out with our first
band of missionaries to Asia."

But we must not linger over pass-
ages like these, though nothing can
give so true and vivid an impression
of the author's life ; of those mental
habits and training, and those cheerful
A-irtues which have rendered the auth-
oress the delight of all who knew her
or her writings. It is another very
noticeable thing in her early career,
that this young lady was inspired
from her very childhood with a love of
teaching, usually rather a repulsive
idea to juvenile people. In her earli-
est years, she tells us, " the doll-genus
were not at all essential to my happi-
ness. They were of the most conse-
quence when, marshalled in the char-
acter of pupils, I installed myself as
their teadierr As she grew older, she
pursued the idea with a passionate at-
tachment. When she was about the
age of eighteen, she seriously set about
its accomplishment. " My father,"
says she, "marvelled at my jjrefer-
ence, but not more than I at his pro-
posal to fit up one of our pleasantest
apartments for my chosen purpose.
With what exultation I welcomed a
new, long desk and benches, neatly
made of fair, white wood ! To these
I proceeded to add an hour-glass, and
a few other articles of convenience
and adornment. My active imagina-
tion peopled the room with attentive
scholars, and I meditated the opening
address, which, I trusted, would win
their hearts, and the rules which were

to reo-ulate their conduct. Without
delay I set forth to obtain those per-
sonages, bearing a prospectus, very
beautifully written, of an extensive
course of English studies, with in-
struction in needlework. My slight
knowledge of the world induced me
to offer it courageously to ladies in
their parlors, or fathers in their stores,
who had daughters of an age adapted
to my course. I did not anticipate
the difliculty of one, at so early an
age, suddenly installing herself in a
position of that nature, especially
among her own people. Day after
day I returned from my walk of so-
licitation without a name on my cata-
logue. Yet with every morning came
fresh zeal to persevere. At length,
wearied with fi'uitless pedestrian ex-
cursions, and still more depressing
refusals, I opened my school with two
sweet little girls of eleven and nine
years old. Consolatory was it to my
chastened vanity that they were of the
highest and most wealthy families
among us. Cousins were they, both
bearing the aristocratic name of La-
throp. Very happy was I with these
plastic and lovely beings. Six hours
of five days in the week, besides three
on Satxirday, did I sedulously devote
to them, questioning, simplifying, il-
lustrating, and impressing various de
partmeuts of knowledge, as though a
larger class were auditors. A young
lady from Massachusetts, of the name
of Bliss, being in town for a short
time, also joined us during that inter-
val, to pursue drawing, and painting
in water-colors. At the close of our
term, or quarter, as it was then called,
was an elaborate examination in all

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURXEY.

611

the studies, with wliicli the iuvited
guests signified their entire approba-
tion."

Tliere was nothing very profitable
in all this, thouoh the forms were com-
plied with in so exemplary a manner.
Not discouraged, however, Miss Hunt-
ly was prepared to make another at-
tempt. It was deliberately planned,
for she associated with herself a favor-
ite companion of a like way of think-
ing, her friend, Miss Nancy Maria
Hyde, who also wished to render some
assistance to her father, who had suf-
fered a reverse of fortune; and the
t\vo proceeded together to enter a
seminary at Hartford, where thej"
might gain instruction in some of the
ornamental branches of female educa-
tion, as drawing, painting in water-
colors, embroidery, and the like. The
design was carried out, and cm their
return, after a short absence, they
opened together a school at Norvdch,
which was successful from the start —
so much was accomplished by the
prestige of a little foreign education.
Being six months the older of the
two, the responsibility of opening the
school -with prayer, which, though
something unusual in those days, had
been plaimed by Miss Huntley, de-
volved upon her.

The school was, in its way, a model
one, extensive in its course of study,
and thorough, with esjiecial attention
to a good handwriting. Those who
have seen specimens of Mrs. Sigour-
ney's manuscript, will remcml)er its
distinctness and regularity — an index
of her mind and cliaracter. There was
also jrood attention to useful needle-
work — a very important tiling, too,

ministering equally to the usefulness
and happiness of those who are skil-
ful in it. Soon the school so grew in
numbers, that larger accommodations
Avere required for it, and a new build-
ing was taken. This prospered also ;
but teaching was but slightly remun-
erated in those days, the price for the
quarter's tuition being but three dol-
lars, so that there could be no great
pecuniary gain. A better prospect,
however, was opened on a visit of
Miss Huntley to Hartford, when Mi-.
Daniel Wadsworth proposed that, re-
siding in the family mansion, she
should take charge of a select num-
ber of young ladies, the children of
his friends. She accepted the offer;
the new home, so rich and liberal in
all goodness and advantages, was en-
tered, and the school was opened, and
continued there for five years. The
conclusion of this period brought her
to the age of twenty-eight, when an
entire change in her life occurred, con-
sequent upon her marriage to IMr.
Charles Sigourney, a highly educated
and accomplished gentleman of min-
"■led Huiruenot and Scottish descent,
who had been educated in England,
and brought up to business afiEaii's,
and at the time of this union was
established in Hartford, a wealthy
hardware merchant. He was a wid-
ower, with a son and two daughters,
all three in their childliood. Being
attached to the Protestant Episcopal
Church, his new wife joined him in
attendance upon its services, and be-
came one of its most honored mem-
bers. They resided together for eigh-
teen years, at a beautiful rural resi-
dence overlooking Hartford, A%hich,

612

LTDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

owing to the loss of property by her
Inisbaud, was then exchanged for a
simpler residence, a small but pic-
turesque cottage within the limits of
the city, where Mrs. Sigourney passed
the remainder of her life. A son and
daughter were born to her in her first
residence. The former was taken from
her while a student in college, at the
age of nineteen ; and about four years
after, his father followed him to the
grave by a sudden stroke of apoplexy,
at the age of seventy-six. The daugh-
ter was married the year after to the
Rev. F. T. Russell, a clergyman of the
Episcopal Church.

Leaving for the moment these no-
tices of her more j)urely domestic life,
we have now to trace her public liter-
ary career. This began in her twenty-
fourth year, with the publication in
1815 of a volume entitled "Moral
Pieces in Prose and Verse," a collec-
tion largely reflecting her tastes and
habits of mind as a teacher, the prose
essays being introduced with the ex-
planation that they had been addi'ess-
ed to " a number of ladies under her
care." The occasional verses exhibited
facility of execution. A religious tone
pervaded the whole. The l)ook \^as
prepared at the suggestion of the
writer's kind friend and patron, Mr.
Daniel Wadsworth, who gathered sub-
scriptions for it, and saw it fairly
through the press. It Avas well re-
ceived, and gave that encouragement
to the author which led her to a con-
stant employment of her talents in
literary production. The death of her
friend and fellow-teacher. Miss Hyde,
the following year, was the occasion
of her next appearance before the pub-

lic, with a biography of that lady pi'e
fixed to a selection from her writings.
Of her next publication, in 1819, she
gives the following account. " Tlie
Square Table, was the first literary
production after my marriage, written
by snatches while I was becoming ini-
tiated into the science of housekeeji-
ing, with the shell of the school-mis-
tress still on my head. It was miscel-
laneous, and in reply to "Arthur's
Round Table," a somewhat satirical
work which had recently appeared.
So strict was its incognita, that I had
great amusement in hearing its merits
discussed, and its authority inquired
after in the circles where I visited. It
was issued in pamphlet form, but not
long continued, as I found the mysteiy
on which its existence depended in
danger of being unravelled."

In 1822 Mrs. Sigom'ney published a
poem in five cantos, entitled, "Traits
of the Aborigines of America," written
before her marriage, and stimulated by
her interest in a Mohegan tribe of In-
dians, who then resided but a few
miles from her home at Norwich. This
book, she tells us, " was singularly un-
popular ; there existing in the commu-
nity no reciprocity with the subject."
With her characteristic benevolence,
Mrs. Sigourney was always inclined to
take a favorable view of the Indian
character, and attribute much of their
misfortunes to the injustice which they
received at the hands of the govern-
ment and their white brethren. Her
imagination was attracted to their old
mode of living in their ancient occu-
pancy of the country, and she delight-
ed to trace the relies of their history
in the names which they had given to

many natural features of the land.
She gave expression to this feeling in
one of the most admii-ed of her subse-
quent poems.

Ye say they all have passed away,

That noble race and brave,
That their light canoes have vanished

From off the crested wave ;
That mid the forests where they roamed

There rings no hunter's shout;
But their name is on your waters,

Ye may not wash it out.

Nearly twenty years afterwards, we
find Mrs. Sigouruey returning to these
themes, in her poem of " Pocahontas,"
stimulated by her having visited the
ruins of the churcli at Jamestown,
where the Indian princess received the
rite of baptism, a subject commemora-
ted in some of her best lines, as she
pictured the devotion of the early
settlers.

In 1824 Mrs. Sigourncy pul)lished a
volume of much interest, a " Sketch of
Connecticut, Forty Years Since," a
valuable contribution to the social
history of the preceding age, tracing
primitive habits and traditions, with
some intermingling of fiction, the
scene Ijcing laid among the wild and
beautiful regions of her native place,
and the ol)Ject of its constniction
being, as she tells us, "to embalm the
memory and virtues of an ancient lady,
my first and most loved benefactress."
This, of course, was Madame Lathrop.
"It was meant," she adds, "to l)e an
offering of gratitude to her ^vhose in-
fluence, like a golden thread, had run
through the whole woof of my life.
Her relatives, as if by a heritable
affection, continued to brighten its
course and coloring; and, through
their deeds of kindness, she, being

dead, yet spake. Truly and devoutly
would I apostrojjhize her, whose hal-
lowed hand wrought among the ele-
ments of my being :

' If some faint love of goodness glow in me.
Pure spirit 1 1 first caught that flame from thee.' "

The poems of Mrs. Sigoiu'ney, of
which a first collection appeared in
1829, followed by numerous others in
the next thirty years, may be generally
classed in tlie rank of occasional
verses, inspired by some emotional
feeling, or suggested, as was frequent-
ly the case, by some object appealing
to her sympathy or imagination in her
travels. Her journeys in her early
married life were frequent, to Virginia,
through New York to Niagara,
Canada, into Pennsylvania, and in
summer to the coast scenery of the
New England States. Her visits to
all of these places may be traced in
her poems. A special gathering of
her compositions of this kind was
made by her in 1845, in the volume of
mingled poetry and prose entitled
"Scenes in My Native Land." It
beorins and ends with Niao-ara, a theme
which has thus far ))affled the attempts
of poets. The numerous descriptions
of the book are marked by their sim-
plicity and fidelity. There is no
straining for effect ; all is truthfully
and pLainly narrated as it meets her
eye. In 1840 slie took a more extend-
ed tour, crossing tlie Athmtic and
visiting many interesting scenes in
England, Scotland and France. Her
volume entitled " Pleasant Memories
of Pleasant Lands," gives an account
of these jouiiieys, in which her faculty
of receiving j)leasure from every

614

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOUENEY.

worthy object is, as in all her writings,
distinctly noticeable.

Another class of Mrs. Sigourney's
writings are simply moral and didac-
tic prose compositions, of a religious
bearing, illustrating the lessons of
every-day life, somewhat in the man-
ner of the essays of Hannah More, as
the "Letters to Young Ladies," and to
" Mothers," which have passed through
various editions from the press of the
Messrs. Harper ; books full of kindly,
practical suggestions ; virtuous with-
out being ascetic; teaching how the
dancjers and disacjreeable incidents of
life may be overcome ; how tastes and
tempers may be regulated ; the soul
instructed ; time gracefully employed,
and life be made more honorable and
happy. The list of Mrs. Sigourney's
publications, as enumerated by her-
self, reaches no less than fifty-sis ; some
of them new collections of previous
Nvxitings ; none without some attrac-
tive quality or benevolent purpose.
In the production of these works the
life of the amiable author seemed to be
extended. Living quietly at her home
in Hartford, surrounded by aflFectiou-
ate and admiring friends, tributes
came to her from the Eng-lish readino;
public in Great Britain and America,
solacing her with the consolation that
her life had not been spent in vain ;
and when the end came, after more
than twenty years of widowhood, it
found her ripe in fame as in age. The
single talent given her was well em-
ployed. Her last poem, a fragment
entitled " The Valedictory," a portion
of a projected longer work to be called

" The Sei^tuagenarian " was written by
her less than four weeks before her
death. It is very characteristic of her
cheerful, beneficent, untroubled life.

Here is my Valedictory. I biing
A basket of dried fruits — autumnal leaves,
And mosses, pressed from ocean's sunless tides.
I strew them votive at your feet, sweet friends,
Who've listened to me long — with grateful

thanks,
For favoring smiles, that have sustained and

cheered
All weariness.

I never wrote for fame — ■
The payment seemed not to be worth the toil ;
But wheresoe'er the kind affections sought
To mix themselves by mnsic with the mind.
That was my inspiration and delight.

And you, for many a lustrum, have not
frowned
Upon my lingering strain. Patient you 've been.
Even as the charity that never fails ;
And pouring o'er my heart the gentlest tides
Of love and commendation. So I take
These tender memories to my pillowed turf,
Blessing you for them when I breathe no more.

Heaven's peace be with you all !

Farewell I Farewell !

And with like thoughts of peace and
good will, in love with all noble
things to the last, soothed by the
kindness of all aliout her, still think-
ing how she might do good to others ;
recalling in one of her last hours a
verse from her own early translation
of the Hebrew prophet — " In the
fainting away of my life, I will think
upon Jehovah, and He shall send forth
strength for me from His Holy Tem-
ple," — consoled by the ministers of
the church of her aftections, this gentle
lady passed away from earth, at her
home in Hartford, on the 10th of June,
1865.

f'i'n i/ie ijri^i7uUpi2<na>tf fy Otiafpet

ANDREW JACKSON.

ANDREW JACKSON was of Ir-
ish parentage. His father, of
the same name, belonged to a Protes-
tant family in humble life which had
been long settled at Carrickfergus, in
the north of Ireland, whence he brought
his wife and two children to America,
in 1765. They were landed at Charles-
ton, South Carolina, and proceeded at
once to the upper region of the coun-
try, on the Catawba, known as the
Waxhaw settlement. They came as
poor emigrants to share the labors of
their fi'ieuds and countrymen who
were settled in the district. Andrew
Jackson, the elder, began his toilsome
work in clearing the land on his plot at
Twelve Mile Creek, a branch of the
Catawba, in what is now known as
Union County, North Carolina, but
had l)arely established himself by two
years' labor when he died, leaving his
widow to seek a refuge with her
Inother-in-law in the neighl)orhood.
A few days after her husband's death,
on the ir)th March, 17('>7, she brought
forth a third son, Andrew, of w hdsr life
we are about to give an account. Tlie
father having left littU', if any, means
of support for Ills family, the mother
found a permanent home with another

brother-in-law named Crawford, who
resided on a farm just over the
border in South Carolina. There the
boyhood of Jackson was passed in the
pursuits incident to youth, in frontier
agricultural life. His ph}sical powers
were developed by healthy sports and
exercise, and his mind received some
culture in the humble rudiments of
education in the limited schooling of
the region. It is probable that some-
thinof better was intended for him
than for most of the boys in his posi-
tion, since we hear of his being at an
Academy at Charlotte, and of his mo-
ther's design to prepare him for the
calling of a Presbyterian clergyman.
Such, indeed, might well have Ijeen liis
prospects, for he had a natiu'e capable
of the service, had not the war of the
Kevolution, now breaking out afresh
in tlie Soutli, carried hiui in quite a
different direction.

In 1779 came the invasion of South
Carolina, the ruthless expedition of Pro-
vost along the seaboard preceding the
arrixal of Clinton, and the fall of
Charleston. The latter event occurred
in May of the following year, and
Cornwallis was free to carry out his
plan for the subjug.-.tion of the couu

(615)

616

ANDEEW JACKSON.

try. Sending Tarleton before him,
the very month of the surrender of
the city, the war of devastation was
carried to the border of the State, the
very home of Jackson. The action at
the Waxhaws was one of the bloodiest
in a series of bloody campaigns, which
ended with only the final termination
of hostilities. It was a massacre rath-
er than a battle, as American blood
was poured forth like water. The
manffled bodies of the wounded were
brought into the church of the settle-
ment, where the mother of the young
Jackson, then a boy of thirteen, with
himself and brother — he had but one
now, Hugh having joined the patriots
and fallen in the affair at Stono — at-
tended the sick and dying. That
" gory bed " of war, consecrated by
the spot where his father had wor-
shipped, and near which he reposed
in lasting sleep, summoned the boy to
his baptism of blood. He was not
the one to shrink from the encounter.
We accordingly find him on hand at
Sumter's attack, in the following Au-
gust, on the enemy's post at Hanging
Eock, accompanying Major Davies'
North Carolina troop to the fight,
though he does not appear to have en-
gaged in the l^attle. A few days after,
Gates was defeated at Camden, and
Mrs. Jackson and her children fled be-
fore the storm of war to a refuge in the
northern part of the district. The es-
cape was but temporary, for, on her
return in the spring, her boys were en-
tangled, as they could not well fail
to be in that region, in the desultory,
seldom long intermitted partizan war-
fare which afliicted the Carolinas. In
the preparation for one of the frequent

skirmishes between Whig and Tory,
the two brothers were surprised, es
caped in flight, were betrayed and
captured. It was on this occasion
that the scene, often narrated, occur-
red, of the indignity offered by the
British officer, met by the spirited re-
sistance of the youth. Andrew was
ordered by the officer, in no gentle tone,
to clean his boots. He refused per-
emptorily, pleading his rights as a
prisoner of war, an argument which
brought down a rejoinder in a sword-
thrust on the head and arm raised for
protection, the marks of which the old
hero bore to his last day. A similar
wound, at the same time, for a like
offence, was the cause of his brother's
death. Their imprisonment at Camden
was most cruel ; severely woiinded,
without medicine or care, with Ijut
little food, exposed to contagion, they
were brought forth by their mother,
who followed them and managed their
exchange. Few scenes of war can be
fancied, more truly heroic and jiitiful
than the picture j^resented by Mr.
Parton, in his faithful biography of
this earnest, afflicted, patriotic mother
receiving her boys from the dungeon,
" astonished and horrified " at their
worn, wasted appearance. The elder
was so ill as not to be able to sit on
horseback without help, and there
was no place for them in those troub-
led times but their distant home. It
was forty miles away. Two horses,
with difficulty we may suppose, were
procured. " One she rode herself.
Robert was placed on the other, and
held in his seat by the returning pris-
oners, to whom his devoted mother
had just given liberty. Behind the

ANDKEW JACKSON.

617

sad procession, poor Andrew dragged
liis weak and weary limbs, bareheaded,
barefooted, without a jacket." Before
the long journey "waa thus painfully
accomplished, " a chilly, drenching,
merciless rain" set in, to add to its
hardships. Two days after, Robert
died, and Andrew was, happily, per-
haps, insensible to the event in the de-
lirium of the small-i)0x, which he had
contracted in prison. What will not
woman undertake of heroic charity?
This mother of Andrew Jackson had
no sooner seen her surviving boy re-
covered by her care, than she set off
Avith two Cither matrons, on foot, tra-
versing the long distance to Charles-
ton to carry aid and consolation to
her nephews and friends immured in
the deadly prison-ships in the harbor.
She accomplished her eri-and, l)ut died
almost in its execution, foiling ill of the
ship fever at the house of a relative in
the vicinity of the city. Thus sank
into her martyr's grave, this woman,
woi'thy to be the mother of a hero,
leaving her son Andrew, " liefore
reaching his fifteenth birth-day, an
orphan ; a sick and sorrowful orphan,
a homeless and dependent orphan, an
orphan of the Kevolutiou."

The youth remained witli one of the
Crawfords till a quarrel witli an
American commissary in the house —
tliis lad of spirit woul.l take indignity
neither fi-om friend or foe — drove him
to another relative, whose son beins
in the saddler's trade, led him to some
six montlis' eniraifement in this mechtv
nical pursuit. This Avas followed by a
somewhat eager enlistment in the wild
youthful sports or dissipations of the
day, such as cockiighting, racing and
78

gambling, which might have wTecked
a less resolute victim ; but his strength
to get out of this dangerous current was
hajjpily superior to the force which im-
pelled him into it, and he escaped. He
even took to study and became a school-
master, not over comj)etent in some re-
spects, but fully capable of imparting
what he had learnt in the rude old
field schools of the time. We doubt
not he put energy into the vocables,
as the row of urchins stood l)efore him,
and energy, like the orator's action, is
more than books to a schoolmaster.

A year or tAvo spent in this Avay,
not Avithout some pecuniary profit,
put him on the track of the laAV, for
Avhich there is ahvays an opening in
the business arising from the unset-
tled land titles of a new country, to
say nothing of those personal strifes
and traditions ^Avliich folloAV man
Avherever he goes. The youth — he
was yet hardly eighteen — accordingly
offered himself to the most eminent
counsel in the region — that is, Avithin
a hundred miles or so — alighting at
the law office of Sir. Spence McCay, a
man of note at Salisbury, North Caro
lina. There he passed 1785 and the
folloAving year, studying probably
more than he has credit for, his repu-
tation as a gay young fellow of the
town being better remembered, as is
natural, tlian his ordinary ofHce rou-
tine. He had also the legal instruc
tions of an old Avarrior of the Kevolu-
tiou, brave Colonel Stokes, a good
lawyer and mixture of the soldier and
civilian, Avho must have been quite to
AndrcAV Jackson's taste. Thus forti-
fied, Avith the moderate amount of
learning due his profession in those

618

ANDEEW JACKSOK

(3.ays, he was licensed and began the
practice of the law.

His biographer, Mr. Parton, pleased
with having brought him thus far suc-
cessfully on the stage of life, stops to
contemplate his subject at full length.
His points may be thus summed up :
" A tall fellow, six feet and an inch in
his stochings ; slender, but graceful ;
far fi-om handsome, with a long, thin,
fair face, a high and narrow forehead,
abundant reddish-sandy hair, falling
low over it — hair not yet elevated to
the bristling aspect of later days —
eyes of a deep blue, brilliant when
aroused, a bold rider, a capital shot."

As for the moral qualities which he
adds to these physical traits, the pru-
dence associated vnth courage and
"that omnipotent something which
we call a jiresence," which faithful
Kent saw in his old discrowned mon-
arch Lear, as an appeal to service and
named " authority," — it is time enough
to make these reflections when the man
shall have proved them by his actions.
He will have opportunity enough.

After getting his " law," the young
advocate took a turn in the miscella-
neous pursuits of the West, as a store-
keeper at Martinsville, in Guildford
County, keeping up his connection
with his profession, it is reported, by
performing the executive duties of a
constable. He has now reached the
age of twenty-one, when he may be
said fairly to have entered upon his
career, as he received the appointment
of solicitor or public prosecutor in the
western district of North Carolina, the
present Tennessee. This carried him
to Nashville, then a perilous journey
through an unsettled country, filled

with hostile Indians. He arrived at
this seat of his future home, whence
his country was so often to summon
him in her hour of need, in October,
1788, and entered at once vigorously
on the practice of his profession, which
was very much an off-hand, extempore
affair, requiring activity and resolution
more than learning, especially in the
main duties of his office as collector of
debts. A large extent of country was
to be traversed in his circuits of the
wilderness, on which it was quite as
important to be a good woodman as a
well-informed jurist. Indeed, there
was more fear of the Indian than of
the Opposite Counsel. Jackson had
the confidence of the mercantile com-
munity behind him, -and discharged
his duties so efficiently, and withal
was so provident of the future which
his keen eye foresaw, that he prosper-
ed in his fortunes, and in a few years
became a considerable landed proprie-
tor.

In 1791 an event occurred which
became subsequently a matter of fre-
quent discussion, and which certainly
required some explanation. Andrew
Jackson married at Natchez, on the
Mississippi, Mrs. Robards, at the time
not fully divorced from her husband,
though both Jackson and the lady be-
lieved the divorce had been pronounced.
The error, after the sifting which the
affair received when it became a ground
of party attack, and the blazing light
of a Presidential canvass was thrown
upon it, is easily accounted for. The
cirumstances of the case may be thus
briefly narrated : A Colonel Donel-
sou, one of the founders of Nashville,
brought with him to that settlement,

A:NDREW JACKSON.

619

not many years before, his daughter
Rachel, who, at the time of Jackson's
arrival, was married to a Mr. Robards,
of Kentucky. The young " solicitor "
found the pair living v'ith the lady's
mother, Mrs. Donelson, in whose house
Jackson Ijecame an inmate. Robards
appears to have been of jealous tem-
perament, and moreover of unsettled
habits of living. At any rate, he had
his home apart fi-om his wife, and we
presently find him, in the sQcond win-
ter after Jackson's arrival, appl3'ing as
a Keutuckian, to the Virginia legisla-
ture, for a divorce. He procured an
order for the preliminary proceedings,
which were understood, or rather mis-
understood by the people of Tennes-
see, as an authoritative separation.
With this view of the matter, as the
explanation is given, the man'iage
took place. The divorce was legally
completed in 1793. When Jackson
then learnt the true state of the case,
he had the marriage ceremony per-
formed a second time. Durina; the
whole of the affair from the begin-
ning, though he acted as a friend of
the lady, he appears to have conduc-
ted himself toward her with the great-
est propriety. Indeed, a certain innate
sense of delicacy and pure chivalrous
feeling toward woman, was always a
distinctive trait of his character. It
was constantly noticed by those most
intimate with liim, as a remarkable
chai-actcristic, in a man roughly tak-
ing his share in the wikl pursuits and
dissipations of the day. He was no
doubt early an admirer of the lady,
whose gay, sj)irite(l qualities ai\d ad-
venturous pioneer life were likely to
fascinate such a man, and made no

secret of his contempt for the husband,
threatening on one occasion, when he
was pestered by his jealousies, to cut
out his ears. The story of his mai-
riage was of course variously interpre-
ted, but he allowed no doubtful inti-
mations of the matter in his presence.
It was a duel or war to the knife when
any hesitation on that subject was
brousrht to his hearins:.

The region into which Jackson had
emigrated, having passed through its
territorial period, when the solicitor
became atttorney-general, reached its
majority in a State name and govern-
ment of its own in 1796. He was
one of the delegates to the convention
at Kuoxville, which fonued the consti-
tution of Tennessee, and one of the two
members of each county, to whom was
intrusted the drafting of that instru
ment. When the State was admitted
into the Union, Andi'ew Jackson was
chosen its first, and, at that time, only
representative to Congress. He took
his seat at the beyinniuoj of the session,
at the close of the year, and was con-
sequently present to receive the last
opening message of George Washing-
ton, it being usual in those days for
the President to meet both houses to-
gether at the commencement of their
sitting, and deliver his speech in per-
son — what is now the President's mes-
sage. In like manner, according to the
usage of the English Parliament, a re-
j)ly ^vas ])rc])ared and voti^d u])on ])y
each house, which was carried in per-
son by the members to the President's
mansion. The reply, in this instance,
pro])osed in the House of Representa-
tives liy the Federalist committee, was
1 thought too full an indorsement of the

620

ANDEEW JACKSOK.

policy of the administration, and met
with some opposition from the Repub-
lican minority, Andrew Jackson ap-
pearing as one of twelve, l)y the side
of Edward Livingston, and William B.
Giles, of Virginia, voting against it.
He did not speak on the question, and
his vote may be regarded simply as an
indication of his party sentiments,
though, had he been an ardent admirer
of Washington, he might, spite of his
Tennessee jjolitics, have voted with
Gallatin for the original address. That
he did not, does not imply necessarily
any disaffection to Washington; but
there was j)robably little of personal
feeling in the matter to be looked for
from him. The independent life of
the South and West had never leaned,
as the heart of the Eastern and Atlan-
tic regions, upon the right arm of
Washington. The only question upon
which he spoke during the session was
in favor of assuming certain expenses
incui-red in an Indian expedition in his
adopted State; and the resolution
which he advocated was adopted. His
votes are recorded in favor of appro-
priations for the navy, and against the
black mail paid to Algiers. His suc-
cess in the Indian bill was well calcu-
lated to please his constituents, and he
was accordingly returned the next
year to the Senate. It was the first
session of the new administration, and
all that is told of his appearance on the
floor is the remark of Jefferson in his
old age to Daniel Webster, that he
had often seen him, fi-om his Vice-
President's chair, attempt to speak,
and " as often choke with rage." Mr.
Parton adds to this recollection the
bare fact that he made the acquaint-

ance of Duane of the " Aurora," Aaron
Burr and Edward Livingston. He re-
tired before the end of the session, and
resigned his seat. Private affairs call-
ed him home ; but he coiild not have
been well adapted to senatorial life, or
he did not like the position, else he
would have managed to retain it. It
was an honor not to be thrown away
lightly by an ambitious young man.

We next behold him chosen by the
legislature a Judge of the Supreme
Court of Tennessee^a post, one would
think, of severer requisitions than that
of United States senator, since a mem-
ber of a legislative body may give a
silent vote or be relieved of an onei'ous
committee, while the occupant of the
bench is continually called upon to ex-
ercise the best faculties of the mind.
It is to Jackson's credit that he held
the position for six years, during which,
as population flowed into the State and
interests became more involved, the re-
quisitions of the office must have been
continually becoming more exacting.
Its duties carried him to the chief
towns of the State, where he was ex-
posed to the observation of better read
lawyers than himself. As no record
was kept of his decisions, we have to
infer the manner in which he acquit-
ted himself from what we know his
qualifications. He no doubt made
himself intelligible enough on simjile
questions, and decided courageously
and honestly what he understood ;
but in any nice matter he must have
been at fault from want of skill in
statement, if we may judge of his tal-
ents in this respect by his printed cor-
respondence, which is ill spelt, uugram-
matical, and confused.

AJSDEEW JACKSON.

621

His personal energy, liowever, doubt-
less Lelped him on occasion, as in the
famous incident of his arrest of Russell
Bean. This strong villain, infuriated
by his personal wrongs, was at war
with society, and bade defiance to jus-
tice. It was necessary that he should
be brought before the court where
Jackson presided, but it was pro-
nounced impossilde to arrest him.
The sheriff and his posse had alike
failed, when the difficulty was solved
by the most extraordinary edict which
ever issued from the l)ench. "Sum-
mon me," said the judge to the law
officer. It Avas done and the arrest
was made. It is curious to read of a
judge of the Supreme Court planning
duels and rough personal encounter
with the governor of the State, as we
do of Judge Jackson in his quarrel
with Governor Sevier. No stronger
evidence could be afforded of the im-
perfect social condition of the country.
It was a rude, unfinished time, when
life was passed in a fierce personal
contest for supremacy, and wrongs
real and imaginaiy were righted at
sight l)y the ])istol. This period of
Jackson's career, including the ten
years foUoAving the retirement from
the bench, are filled with prodigious
strife and altercation. The dueling
pistols are always in sight, and dreary
are the details of -VATCtched personal
quarrels preliminary to their use.

Tlie first of these encounters in which
Jackson was a principal, occurred as
early as 1795, when he was engaged
in court and challenged the opposite
counsel on the spot for some scathing
remark, writing his message on the
blank leaf of a law l)ook. Shots were

exchanged before the parties slept.
The most prominent of Jackson's al-
tercations, however, was his duel with
Dickinson, a meeting noted among nar-
ratives of its class for the equality of
the combat, and the fierce hostility of
the parties. It was fought in 180G, on
the banks of Red River in Kentucky.
Charles Dickinson was a thriving young
lawyer of Nashville, who had used some
invidious exjiressions regarding Mrs.
Jackson. These were apologized for
and overlooked, when a rouudaljout
quarrel arose out of the terms of a
horse race, which, after involving Jack-
son in a caning of one of the parties,
and his fi-iend Coffee in a duel with
auotlier, ended in bringing the former
in direct collision with Dickinson. A
duel was arranged. The principals
were to be twenty-foiir feet apart, and
take their time to fire after the word
was given. Both were excellent shots,
and Dickinson, in particular, was sure
of his man. So certain was Jackson of
being struck, that he made up his
mind to let his antagonist have the
first fire, a deliberate conclusion of
sreat courage and resolution, based
on a very nice calculation. He knew
that his antagonist would be quicker
than himself at any rate, and that if
they fired together his own shot would
prol;)ably be lost in consequence of the
stroke he nuist undoubtedly receive
ti'om the coming bullet. He conse-
(piently received the fire, and was hit
as he expected to l)e. The l)all, aimed
at liis heart, l)roke a rib and grazed
the breast-bone. His shoes were filling
with blood as he raised his i)istol, took
deliberate aim, readjusted the trigger
as it stopped at half cock, and shot hia

622

ANDREW JACKSON.

adversary througli the body. Dickin-
son fell, to bleed to death in a long
day of agony. Jackson desired his
own wound to be concealed, that his
opponent might not have the gratifica-
tion of kuowius: that he had hit him
at all. Such was the courage and such
the revenge of the man.

After leaving the judgeship, Jack-
son — he was now called General Jack-
son, having been chosen by the field
officers major-general of the State mili-
tia in 1801, gaining the distinction
by a single vote — employed himself
on his plantation, the Hermitage, near
Nashville, and the storekeepiug in
which he had been more or less ensraged
since his arrival in the country. In
partnership with his relative, Coffee,
he was a large exchanger of the goods
of the West for the native produce,
which he shipped to New Orleans ;
and it was for his opportunities of
aiding him in procuring provisions, as
well as for his general influence, that
Colonel Burr cultivated his acquaint-
ance in his western schemes in 1805,
and the following year. General Jack-
son, at first fascinated by the man, who
stood well with the people of the
country as a republican, introduced
him into society and entertained him
at his house ; but when suspicion was
excited by his measures, he was guard-
ed in his intercourse, and stood clearly
forth on any issue which might arise,
involving the preservation of the in-
tegrity of the Union. On that point
no friendship could bribe him. Ac-
cordingly he offered his services to
President Jefferson, and, receiving or-
ders to hold his command in readiness,
there was great military bustle of the

major-general in Nashville, raising and
reviewing companies, to interrupt the
alarming pi'oceedings of Colonel Burr
on the Ohio. When it was found
there was nothing formidable to arrest,
Jackson's feelino- of reojard for Burr
revived, he acquitted him of any trea-
sonable intent, and resolutely took his
part during the trial at Richmond.

On the breaking out of the war with
England, in 1812, General Jackson was
one of the first to tender his services to
the President. He called together
twenty -five hundred volunteers and
placed them at the disposal of the
Government. The proffer was accept-
ed, and in December, Jackson was set
in motion at the head of two thousand
men to join General Wilkinson, then
in command at New Orleans. The
season was unusually cold and incle-
ment ; but the trooj)s, the best mei; of
the State, came together with alacrity,
and by the middle of February were
at Natchez, on the Mississippi. Jack-
son's friend and relative, Colonel Cof-
fee, led a mounted regiment overland,
while the rest descended the river.
Colonel Thomas H. Benton also ap-
pears on the scene as General Jackson's
aid. At Natchez, the party was ar-
rested by an order from Wilkinson,
and remained in inaction for a month,
when a missive came from the War
Department disbanding the force.
Thus was nipped in the bud the
ardent longing of the general, and the
promise of one of the finest bodies of
men ever raised in the country. Jack-
son, taking the responsibility, resolved
that they should not be dismissed till,
as in duty bound, he had returned them
home. He accordingly led them back

AI^DEEW JACKSON.

623

by land, and so solicitous was he for
their welfare by the way, so jealous of
their rights, carelessly invaded by the
government, that his popularity with
the men was unbounded. The fiery
duellist, " sudden and quick in quar-
rel," gained by his patient kindness
and endurance on that march, the en-
dearing appellation, destined to be of
world-wide fame—" Old Hickory."

He had taken, as we have said, the
responsibility in Ijringing home the
troops. This involved an assumjjtion
of their del)ts by the way, for it was
not certain, though to be presumed,
that the government would honor his
drafts for the expenses of transporta-
tion. It did not. The paper was pro-
tested and returned upon his hands.
In tliis strait, Colonel Benton, going to
Washinf^ton, undertook the mauas5;e-
ment of the affair, and by a politic ap-
peal to the fears of the administration,
lest it should lose the vote of the State,
secured the payment. As he was about
returning to Nashville, warmed by this
act of friendship, he received word
from his brother that General Jackson
had acted as second in a duel to that
brother's adversary — a most ungracious
act, as it appeared, at a moment when
the claims of gratitude sliould have
been uppermost. The explanation was
thatCarroll, who received the challenge,
was unfairly assuiled, and appealed, as a
friend, to the generosity of Jackson to
protect him. Making a duel very much
as an everyday affair, the latter proba-
bly thought little of the a1)sent Benton.
The meeting came off, and Jesse Ben-
ton was wounded. An angry letter
was written to Jackson l)y liis brother,
who came on to Nashville, venting his

'\\Tath in the most denunciatory terms
— for Benton's vocabulary of aTmse,
though not more condensed, was more
richly furnished with exjjletives than
that of his general. This coming to
the hearing of Jackson, he swore his
big oath, " by the Eternal, that he
would horsewhip Tom Benton the first
time he met him." The Bentons knew
the man, did not despise the threat, but
waited armed for the onset. It came
oft' one day at the door of the City Ho-
tel in Nashville. There were several
persons actors and victims in the affair.
These are the items of the miserable
business. The two Bentons are in the
doorway as Jackson and his friend Co-
lonel Coffee approach. Jackson, with
a word of warning to Benton, brandish-
es his riding- whip; the Colonel fum-
bles for a jjistol ; the Geueral presents
his own, and at the instant receives in
his arm and shoulder a slug and bullet
from the barrel of Jesse Benton, who
stands behind. Jackson is thus dropped,
weltering in his blood with a desperate
wound. Coffee thereupon thinking
Tom Benton's pistol had done the
work, takes aim at him, misses fire, and
is making for his victim with the butt
end, when an opportune cellar stair-
way opens to the retreating Colonel,
who is precipitated to the bottinu.
Meanwhile Stokely Hays arrives, intent
on plunging the sword, which he drew
from his cane, into the body of Jesse
lienton. He deals the thrust with unc-
tion, but striking a button, its force
is lost and the weapon shivered. A
struggle on the floor then ensues be-
tween the parties, the fatal dagger of
Hays being raised to transfix his wound-
ed victim, whiin it is intercepted by

C24

ANDEEW JACKSOK

a bystander, and the murderous and
bloody work is over. Sucli was the
famous Benton feud. It Lxid Jackson
ingloriously up for several weeks, and
drove Colonel Benton to Missouri.
There was a long interval of mutual
hostile feeling, to be succeeded by a
devoted friendship of no ordinary in-
tensity.

This Benton affray took place on
the 4th of September, 1813. A few
days before, on the 30th of August, oc-
curred the massacre by the Creek In-
dians of the garrison and inhalntants
at Fort Mimms, a frontier post in the
southern part of Alabama. A large
number of neighboring settlers, anxious
for theii" safety, had taken refuge with-
in the stockade. The assailants took
it by surprise, and though the defend-
ers fought with courage, but few of its
inhabitants escaped the terrible car-
nage. The Indians were led by a re-
doubtable chieftain, named Weathers-
ford, the son of a white man and a Se-
minole mothei", a leader of sagacity,
of great bravery and heroism, and
of no ordinary magnanimity. He was
unable, however, to arrest, as he would,
the fiendish atrocities committed at
the fort. Women and children were
sacrificed in the horiible ragre for slaua:h-
ter, and the bloody deed was aggrava-
ted by the most indecent niutilations.
A cry was spread through the South-
west similar to that raised in our own
day in India, at the Sepoy brutalities.
Vengeance was demanded alike for
safety and retribution. On the 18th
of September, the news had reached
Nashville, four hundred miles distant,
and General Jackson was called into
consultation as he sat, utterly disabled

with his Benton wounds, in his sick-
room. It was resolved that a large
body of volunteers should be sum-
moned, and, ill as he was, he promised
to take command of them when they
were collected. Still suffering severely,
before they were ready to move he
joined them at Fayetteville, the place
of meeting. He arrived in camj) the
seventh of Octol)er, and began his
work of organizing the conijiauies.
Everything was to be done in drill and
preparation for the advance into a wil-
derness where no su^jplies were to be
had ; yet in four days, a report having
reached him that the enemy were ap-
proaching, he led his troops, about a
thousand men, an afternoon march of
thirty-two miles in six hours to Hunts-
ville. The Indians, however, were not
yet at hand, and joining Colonel Coffee,
whom he had sent forward with a cav-
alry command, on the banks of the
Tennessee, he was reluctantly com-
pelled to wait there too long a time for
his imjDatience, till something could be
done in providing stores, in which the
army was lamentably deficient. A
post was established on the river,
named Fort Deposit, whence Jackson,
still inadequately provided, set out, on
the twenty-fifth of the month, on his
southwai'd march, and carried his force
to an encampment at Ten Islands,
on the Coosa River. There Coffee
was detached to attack a body of In-
dians at their town of Talluschatches.
He performed the service with equal
skill and gallantry; and though the
Creeks, as they did throughout the
war, fought with extraordinary valor,
urged on by religious fanaticism, he
gained a brilliant victory. One of the

ANDREW JACKSON.

625

incident.s of the bloody field was tlie
accidental slaughter of an Indian mo-
ther clasping her infant to her breast.
The child was carried to Jackson, who
had it tenderly cared for, and finally
taken to his home. The boy, named
Lincoyer, was brought up at the Her-
mitage, and suitably provided for by
the general.

The next adventure of the campaign
was an expedition led by Jackson him-
self to relieve a camp of fi-iendly In-
dians at Talladega, invested by a large
band of hostile Creeks. The very
night on which he received the message
asking aid, brought by a runner who
had escaped from the beleaguered fort
in disguise, he started with a force of
two thousand men, eight hundred of
whom were mounted, and in a long
day's march through the wilderness
traversed the intervening distance,
some thirty miles, to the neighborhood
of the fort. The dawn of the next
morning saw him approaching the ene-
my — a thousand picked warriors. Dis-
posing the infantry in three lines, he
placed the cavalry on the extreme
wings, to advance in a curve and in-
close the foe in a circle. A guard was
sent forward to challenge an euo;age-
ment. The Indians received its fire
and foll()W(!d in pursuit, when the front
line was ordered up to the combat.
There was some misunderstanding, antl
a portion of the militia composing it
retreated, when tlie general promjitly
supplied their place ])y dismounting a
corps of cavalry kept as a reserve.
The militia then rallied, the fire became
general, and the enemy were repulsed
in every direction. They were pursued
by the cavalry and slaughtered in great
71)

numbers, two hundred and ninety
being left dead on the field and many
more bore the marks of the engagement.
The American loss was fifteen killed
and eighty-five wounded. The friendly
Creeks came forth from the fort to
thank theii* deliverers, and share with
them their small supply of food.

This was emphatically, contrary to all
the rules of war, a hungry campaign.
On his return to his camp, to which,
having been fortified, the name Fort
Strother was given, Jackson found the
sujiplies ^s'hich he had urgently demand-
ed, and which he so much needed, not
yet arrived. His j^rivate stores, which
had been bought and forwarded at his
expense, were exhausted to relieve the
wants of his men. He himself, with
his olficers, subsisted on unseasoned
tripe, like the poor and joroud Spanish
grandee in the Adventure of Lazarillo
de Tormes, eulogizing the horse's foot,
maintaining that he liked nothing bet-
ter. The story is told of a starving
soldier approaching him at this time
with a request for food. " I will give
you," said the general, " what I have,"
and with that he drew from his pocket
a few acorns, " my best and only fare."
Food, food, was the constant cry of
Jackson in his messages to the rulers
in the adjoining States. It was long
in coming, and in the meanwhile the
commander, eager to follow iip his suc-
cesses and close the war, was con-
denuied to remain in inactivity — the
hardest trial for a man of his tem})er.
Scant subsistence and the hardships
common to all encampment3 brought
discontent. The men longed to be at
home, aTid symptoms of revolt began
I to ap])ear. The militia actually com-

G26

ANDREW JACKSOK

menced their march backward; but
they had reckoned without their leader.
On starting they found the volunteers
drawn up to oppose their progress, and
abandoned their design. Such was the
force of Jackson's authority in the
camp, that when these volunteers, who
were in reality disappointed that the
movement did not succeed, attempted
in their turn to escape, they were in
like manner met by the militia. The
occasion required all Jackson's ingenu-
ity and resolution, and both were freely
expended. His iron will had to yield
something in the way of compromise.
Ai^ijealing to his men, he secured a
band of the most impressible to remain
at Fort Strother, while he led the rest
in quest of provisions toward Fort De-
posit. The understanding was that
they were to return with him when
food was obtained. They had not
gone far when they met a drove of cat-
tle on their way to the camp. A feast
was enjoyed on the spot ; but the men
were still intent on going homeward.
Nearly the whole brigade was ready
for motion, when Jackson who had
ordered their return, was informed of
their intention. His resolution was
taken on the instant. He summoned
his staff, and gave the command to fire
on the mutineers if they attempted to
proceed. One company, already on
the way, was thus turned back, when,
going forth alone among the men, he
found the movement likely to become
general. There was no choice in his
mind but resistance at the peril of his
life, for the men once gone, the whole
campaign was at an end. Seizing a
musket, he rested the barrel on the
neck of his horse — he was unable, fi'om

his wound, to use his left arm — and
threatened to shoot the first who should
attemjjt to advance. An intimation of
this kind from Jackson was never to be
despised. The men knew it, and re-
turned to their post. They yielded to
the energy of a superior mind, but
they were not content. Their next
resource was, an assertion of the termi-
nation of their year's enlistment, which
they said would expire on the tenth of
December ; but here they were met by
the astute lawyer, who reminded them
that they were pledged to serve one
year out of two, and that the year
must be an actual service in the field
of three hundred and sixty-five days.
The argument, however, failed to con-
vince, and as the day approached, the
men were more resolute for their de-
parture. They addressed a courteous
letter to their commander, to which he
replied in an earnest expostulatory ad-
di'ess. " I know not," he said, " what
scenes will be exhibited on the tenth
instant, nor what consequences are
to flow from them here or elsewhere ;
but as I shall have the consciousness
that they are not imputable to any mis-
conduct of mine, I trust I shall have
the firmness not to shrink from a dis-
charge of my duty." The appeal was
not heeded, and on the evening of the
ninth the signs of mutiny were not to
be mistaken. The general took his
measures accordingly. He ordered all
officers and soldiers to their duty, and
stationed the artillery company with
their two pieces in front and rear, while
he posted the militia on an eminence
in advance. He himself rode along
the line and addressed the men, in
their companies, Avith great earnestness.

ANDKEW JACKSON.

627

He talked of the disgrace their conduct
would bring upon themselves, their
families and counti-y ; that they would
succeed only by passing ov^er his dead
body : while he held out to them the
prospect of reinforcements. " I am
too," he said, " in daily expectation of
receiving information whether you may
be discharged or not ; until then, you
must not and shall not retire. I have
done with entreaty ; it has been used
long enough. I will attempt it no
more. You must now determine whe-
ther you will go, or peaceably remain ;
if you still persist in your determina-
tion to move forcil)ly off, the point be-
tween us shall soon be decided." There
was hesitation. He demanded a posi-
tive answer. Again a slight delay.
The artillerist was ordered to prepare
the match. The word of surrender
passed along the line, and a second
time the rebellious volunteers suc-
cumbed to the will of their master.
These, it should be stated, were the
very men, the original company, whom
Jackson had carried to Natchez, and
for whose welfare on their return he
had pledged his property. But in vain
he reminded them of the fact, and ap-
pealed to their sense of generosity to
remain in the service. He gave them
finally the choice to proceed to Tennes-
see or remain witli him. They chose
the former, and he let them go.

The men he had left with him were
enlisted for short periods, or so under-
stood it. There was little to build
upon for the campaign, and he was
even advised Ijy the Governor of Ten-
nessee, to al)andou the prosecution of
the war, at least for the present, t)r till
the administration at Washington

should provide better means for carry-
ing it on. This was not ad\'ice, des-
perate as appeared the situation, to he
accepted l)y Jackson. His reply was
eminently characteristic — charged with
a determined self-reliance which he
sought to infuse into his corresjiondent.
" Take the responsibility " is written
all over it. The governor had said
that his power ceased ^vith the call for
troops. " Widely different," replies
Jackson, " is my opinion. Yovi are to
see that they come when they are
called. Of what avail is it,'" he urges
with an earnestness savoring of sar-
casm, " to give an order if it be never
executed, and may be disobeyed with
impunity ? Is it by empty mandates
that we can hope to conquer our ene-
mies and save our defenceless frontiers
from butchery and devastation? Be-
lieve me, my valued fi-iend, there are
times when it is highly criminal to
shrink from responsibility, or scruple
aljout the exercise of our powers.
There are times when we must disre-
gard punctilious etiquette and think
only of serving our country." He also
presented, in like forcible terms, the
injurious effects of abandoning the
fi'ontiers to the mercy of the savage.
The governor took the advice to heart,
pointedly as it was given ; he ordered
a fresh force of twenty-five hundred
militia into the field, and seconded
General Jackson's call upon General
Cocke for the troops of East Tennessee.
]\Ieantime, however, Jackson's force at
Fort Strother was reduced to a mini
mum ; the militia, enlisted for slioi-1
terms, would go, and there was great
dilliculty in getting new recruits on to
, supply their places. The brave Cofiee

628

ANDEEW JACKSOK

foiled to reenlist his old regiment of
cavalry. There was a strange want of
alacrity through the early period of
this war, in raising and disciplining
the militia. With a proper force at
his command, duly equipped and sup-
plied, Jackson would have brought
the savages to terms in a month. As
it was, nearly a year elapsed ; but the
fighting period, when he was once
ready to move, was of short duration.
While he was waiting for the new
Tennessee enlistments, he determined
to nave one brush with the enemy with
such troops as he had. He according-
ly set in motion his little force of eight
hundred raw recruits on the fifteenth
of January, on an excursion into the
Indian territory. At Talladega he was
joined by between two and three hun-
dred friendly Cherokees and Creeks,
with whom he advanced against the
foe, who were assembled on the banks
of the Tallaj)oosa, near Emuckfau. He
reached their neighborhood on the
night of the twenty-first, and prepared
his camp for an attack before morning.
The Indians came, as was expected,
about dawn ; were repulsed, and when
daylight aftbrded the opportunity,
were pursued with slaughter. There
was another sharp conflict about the
middle of the day, which ended in a
victory for the Americans, at some cost
to the conquerors, who, ill-prepared to
keep the field, moved back toward the
fort. Euotochopco Creek was reached
and crossed by a part of the force,
when the Indians fell upon the rear
guard, who turned and fled ; the artil-
lery, however, still left on that side of
the river, gave the savages a warm re-
ception, when they were pursued by

the cavalry, which had recrossed the
stream.

By this time the countiy was roused
to some adequate support of its gene-
ral in the field. At the end of Febru-
ary, Jackson was reinforced by the ar-
rival at Fort Strother of a force from
East and West Tennessee of aT>out five
thousand men. By the middle of the
next month he was in motion, terribly
in earnest for a short and summary ex-
tirpation of the savages. The execu-
tion of John Woods, a Tennessee
youth who had shown some insubordi-
nation in camp, was a prelude to the
approaching temj)est. The commander
thought it necessary to the unity and
integrity of the service. Fortunately
for the purposes of this new invasion,
the chief warriors of the nation assem-
bled themselves at a place convenient
enough for defence, but where defeat
was ruin. It was at Tohopeka, an In
dian name for the horse-shoe bend of
the Tallapoosa, an area of a huudi'ed
acres inclosed by the deep waters of
the river, and protected at its junction
with the land by a heavy breastwork
of logs pierced for musketry and skill-
fully arranged for defence. Within
this inclosure, at the time of Jackson's
arrival,on the twenty-seventh of March,
with less than three thousand men, in-
cluding a regiment of regulars under
Colonel Williams, were assembled some
eight or nine hundred warriors of the
Creeks. The plan of attack was thus
arranged. Sending General Coffee to
the ojiposite side of the river to effect
a diversion in that quarter, Jackson
himself directed the assault on the
works at the neck. He had two field
pieces, which were advantageously

ANDREW JACKSON.

629

planted on a neighboring eminence.
His main reliance, however, was at
close quarters with his musketry. On
the river side General Coffee succeeded
in inclosing the bend and cutting off
escape by the canoes, which he cap-
tured by the aid of his fi-iendly In-
dians, and used as a means of landing
in the rear of the enemy's position.
This success was the signal for the as-
sault in front. Rea;ulars and volun-
teers, eager for the contest, advanced
boldly up. Reaching the rampart, the
struggle was for the ])ort-holes,through
which to fire, musket meeting musket
in the close encounter. " Many of the
enemy's balls," says Eaton, " were
welded between the muskets and bay-
onets of our soldiers. Major Montgo-
mery, of Williams's regiment, led the
way on the rampart, and fell dead sum-
moning his men to follow. Others
succeeded, and the fort was taken. In
vain was the fight kej^t up within, from
the shelter of the fallen trees, and
equally hopeless was the attempt at
escape by the river. No quarter was
asked, and none given, for none would
be received. Women and children
were the only prisoners. It was a des-
perate slaughter. Nearly the whole
l)an(l of Indians perished, selling their
lives as dearly as jiossible. The Amer-
ican loss was fifty-tive killed and aliuut
thrice the number wounded ; but the
Cherokee dead were to be counted by
hundreds. Having struck this fearful
Idow, Jackson retired to Fort Williams,
whicli he had built on his march, and
issued, as was his wont — he Avas quite
eijual to Najxdeon in this respect — an
inspiriting adilrcss to his troops. If
the words are not always his, the sen-

timent, as his biographer suggests, is
ever Jacksonian. Somebody or other
was always found to give expression to
his ardent ejaculations, Avhich need
only the broad theatre of a Euro2:)ean
battlefield to vie with the thrilling
manifestoes of Bonaparte. " The fiends
of the Tallapoosa ■« ill no longer mur-
der our women and children, or disturb
the quiet of our borders. Their mid-
night flambeaux will no more illumine
their council-house, or shine upon the
victim of their infernal orgies." The
gratifying event was nearer even than
the general anticipated. He looked
for a further struggle, but the spirit of
the nation was broken. Advancing
southward, he joined the troops from
the south at the junction of the Coosa
and Tallapoosa, the " Holy Ground "
of the Indians, where he received their
offers of submission. The brave chief-
tain, Weathersford, voluntarily surren-
dered himself. A portion of the In-
dians fled to Florida. Those who
were left were ordered to the northern
parts of Alabama, Fort Jackson being
established at the confluence of the
rivers to cut oft" their communication
with foreiirn enemies on the seaboard.
The war had originally grown out of
the first English successes and the
movements of Tecumseh on the north-
ern frontier, and was assisted by Span-
ish sympathy on the Gulf

Jackson was now at liberty to return
to Nasliville with the troops who had
shared his victories. lie liud of course
a triumphant reception in Tennessee,
and his services were rewarded at
Washington by the appointment of
major-general in the army of the Uni-
ted States, the resignation of General

630

ANDREW JACKSON.

Harrison at tlie moment placing this
high honor at the disposal of the gov-
ernment. It was an honor well de-
served, earned by long and patient ser-
vice iinder no ordinary difficulties —
difficulties inherent to the position,
aggravated by the delays of others,
and some, formidable enough to most
men, which he carried with him
bound up in his own frame. We so
naturally associate health and Ijodily
vigor with brilliant military achieve-
ments that it requires an effort of the
mind to figure Jackson as he really
was in these campaigns. We have
seen him carrying his arm in a sling,
unable to handle a musket when he
confronted his retiring army ; but that
was a slight inconvenience of his
wound compared with the gnawing
disease which was preying upon his
system. " Chronic diarrhoea," says his
biographer, " was the form which his
complaint assumed. The slightest im-
prudence in eating or drinking brought
on an attack, during which he suffered
intensely. While the paroxysm lasted
he could obtain relief only by sitting
on a chair with his chest against the
back of it and his arms dansrling; for-
ward. In this position he was some-
times compelled to remain for hours.
It often happened that he was seized
with the familiar pain v/hile on the
march through the woods at the head
of the troops. In the absence of other
means of relief he would have a sap-
ling half severed and bent over, upon
which he would hang with his arms
downward, till the agony subsided."

In July, General Jackson was again
at the South, on the Alabama, presid-
ing at the Treaty Conference with the

Indians. The terms he proposed were
thought hard, but he was inexorable
in requiring them. The treaty of Fort
Jackson, siofued on the tenth of An-
gust, stripped the Creeks of more than
half of their possessions, confining
them to a region least inconvenient to
the peaceful enjoyment of the neigh-
boring States. " As a national mark
of gratitude," the friendly Creeks be-
stowed upon General Jackson and his
associate in the treaty. Colonel Haw-
kins, three miles square of land to
each, with a request that the United
States Government would ratify the
gift ; but this, though recommended to
Congress by President Madison, was
never carried into effect.

While the treaty was still under ne-
gotiation, Jackson was intent on the
next movement of the war, which he
foresaw would carry him to the shores
of the Gulf. He knew the sympathy
of the Spaniards in Florida with the
English, and was prepared for the de-
signs of the latter against the southern
country. Having obtained informa-
tion that British muskets were distri-
buted among the Indians, and that
English troops had been landed in
Florida, he applied to the Secretary of
War, General Armstrong, for permis
sion to call out the militia and reduce
Pensacola at once. The matter was
left to the discretion of the commander,
but the letter conferring the authority
did not reach him for six months. In
the mean time he felt compelled to take
the management of the war into his
own hands. Fully aware of the im-
pending struggle, he was in corres-
pondence with Governor Claiborne of
Louisiana, putting him on his guard,

ANDREW JACKSON.

C31

and with Maurequez, the Spanish gov-
ernor of Pensacola, calling him to a
strict account for his tampering with
the enemy. To be nearer the scene of
O])eratious, he removed, immediately
after the conclusion of the treaty, to
Mobile, where he could gain the ear-
liest intelligence of the movements of
tlie British. Learning there, in Sep-
tember, of a threatened visit of the fleet,
under the orders of Colonel Nichols,
to Mobile, he called loudly upon the
governors of the adjoining States for
aid, and gave the word to his adjutant,
Colonel Butler, in Tennessee, to enlist
and l)ring on his forces. They respond-
ed eagerly to the call, for the name of
Jackson was now identified Avith glory
and victory, which they were ambitious
to share. His old friend, General Cof-
fee, was their leader. Before they ar-
rived, the fort at the mouth of the bay
was put in a state of defence under
the command of Major Lawrence, of
the United States infantiy. In the
afternoon of the fifteenth of Septem-
ber, it was his fortune to maintain the
post against a bombardment l)y the
British fleet of Captain Percy, which
recalls both the attack and success of
the defenders at Fort Sullivan, in the
war of the Revolution. What Moul-
trie and his brave men did cm that day
in repelling the assault of Sir Peter
Parker and his ships, was now done by
Lawrence at Fort Bowyer. " Don't
give up the fort " was his motto, as
" Don't give up the ship " had been
uttered by his namesake on the " dy-
ing deck " of the Chesapeake, the year
before. The fort was not given u]).
Percy's flagship, the Hermes, was de-
stroyed, and tlie remainder of his com-

mand returned, seriously injured, to
Pensacola.

General Jackson rejoiced in this
victory at Mol^ile, and waited only the
arrival of his forces to cany the war
home to the British in Florida. At
the end of October, General Cofl^ee ar-
rived with twenty-eight hundred men
on the IMobile River, where Jackson
joined him, and, mustering his forces to
the number of three thousand, marched
on the third of November against Pen-
sacola. Owing to the difficulty of
obtaining forage on the way, the cav-
alry was dismounted. The troops had
rations for eight days. On his arrival
before the town, being desirous as far
as possible of presenting his move-
ments in a peaceful light. General Jack-
son sent a messenger forward to de-
maud possession of the forts, to be held
by the United States " until Spain, by
by furnishing a sufficient force, might
be able to protect the province and
preserve unimpaired her neutral char-
acter." On approaching the fort the
bearer of the flag was fired on and
compelled to retire. Aware of the
delicacy of his self-imposed undertak-
ing, before proceeding to extremities
he sent a second message to the gover-
nor, by a Spanish corjioral who had
been captured on his route. This time,
word was brought back that the gov-
ernor was ready to listen to his propo-
sals, lie accordingly sent INIajor Piere
a second time with his demands. A
council was held, and they were re-
ftised. Nothing was then left but to
]iroceed. The town was gained by a
simple stratagem. Arranging a por-
tion of his troops as if to advance di-
rectly on his road, he drew the British

632

AIs'DEEW JACKSOK

sliipping to a position on that side,
when, by a rapid march, he suddenly-
presented his main force on the other.
ITe consequently entered the town be-
fore the movement coidd be met. A
street fight ensued, and a barrier was
taken, when the governor appeared
with a flag of truce. General Jackson
met him and demanded the surrender
of the military defences, which was
conceded. Some delay, however, oc-
curi'ed, which ended in the delivery of
the fortifications, of the town, and the
blowing up of the fort at the mouth
of the harbor. Having accomplished
this feat, the British fleet sailed away
before morning. Whither were they
bound ? To Fort Bowyer and Mobile
in all probability, and thither Jack-
son, leaving the Spanish governor on
friendly terms behind him, hastened
his steps. Tarrying a few days for the
British, who did not come, he took
his departure for New Orleans, with
his staff, and in a journey of nine days
reached the city on the first of De-
cember.

If ever the force of a sine^le will,
the safety which may be provided for
an imperilled people by the confidence
of one strong right arm, were fully il-
lustrated, it would seem to be in the
military drama which was enacted in
this and the following month on the
banks of the Mississij^pi. Andrew
Jackson was the chief actor. Louisia-
na had brave men in her midst, numer-
ous in proportion to her mixed j^opula-
tion and still unsettled condition; but
whom had she, at once Avith experience
and authority, to summon on the in-
stant out of the discordant materials a
band strong enough for her preserva-

tion ? At the time of General Jack-
son's arrival a large fleet of the enemy
was hovering on the coast, amply pro-
vided with every resource of naval and
military art, bearing a host of the ve-
teran troops of England, experienced
in the bloody contests under Welling-
ton — an expedition compared with
which the best means of defence at
hand for the inhabitants of New Or-
leans resembled the resistance of the
reeds on the river bank to Behemoth.
It was the genius of Andrew Jackson
which made those reeds a rampart of
iron. He infused his indomitable cour-
age and resolution in the whole mass
of citizens. A few troops of hunters, a
handful of militia, a band of smugglers,
a company of negroes, a group of peace-
ful citizens, stiffened under his inspira-
tion into an army. Without Jackson,
irresolution, divided counsels, and sur-
render, might, with little reproach to
the inhabitants, under the circumstan-
ces, have been the history of one fatal
fortnight. With Jackson all was union,
confidence and victory.

The instant of his arrival he set
about the work of organization, re-
viewing the military companies of the
city, selecting his staff, personally ex-
amining the approaches from the sea
and arranging means of defence. He
was determined that the first step of
the enemy on landing should be resis-
ted. Tliis was the inspiration of the
military movements which followed,
and the secret of his success. He did
not get behind intrenchments and wait
for the foe to come up, but determined
to go forth and meet him on the way.
He was not there so much to defend
New Orleans, as to attack an army of

ANDREW JACKSOK

633

insolent intruders and drive them into
the sea. They might be thousands, and
his force might be only hundreds ; but
he knew of Ijut one resolve, to fight to
the uttermost, and he pursued the
resolution as if he were revenging a
personal insult.

Events came rajiidly on, as was an-
ticij^ated, and attack was made from
the fleet upon the gunboats on Lake
Borgne. They were gallantly defend-
ed, but compelled to surrender. This
action took place on the fourteenth of
December. Now was the time, if ever,
to meet the invading host. The spirit
of Jackson rose, if possible, yet higher
with the occasion. Well knowing that
not a man in the city could be spared,
and the inefficiency, in such emergen-
cies, of the civil authority, he resolved
to take the whole power in his own
hands. On the sixteenth, he proclaim-
ed martial law. Its effect was to con-
centrate e\'ery energy of the people
with a single aim to their deliverance.
Two days after, a review was held of
the State militia, the volunteer com-
panies, and the battalion of free men
of color, when a stirring address was
read, penned by the general's secretary,
Edward Livingston — a little smoother
than " Old Hickory's " bulletins in the
Alabama wilderness, but not at all
uncertain. The Tennessee, Mississippi,
and Kentucky recruits had not yet ar-
rived ; l)Ut they were on their way,
straining every nerve in forced marches
to meet the coming danger. Had the
Britisli moved with the same energy,
the city might have fallen to them. It
was not till the twenty-first, a week af-
ter their victory on the lake, that they
began their advance, and pushed a
80

portion of their force through the
swamps, reaching a plantation on the
river bank, six miles below the city,
on the forenoon of the twenty-third.
It was past mid-day when the word
was brought to Jackson of their an-i-
val, and within three hours a force of
some two thousand men was on the
way to meet them. No attack was
expected by the enemy that night ;
theii" comi-ades were below in numbers,
and they anticipated an easy advance
to the city the next morning. They
little knew the commander with whom
they had to deal. That very night
they must be assailed in their position.
Intrusting an important portion of his
command to General CofEee, who was
on hand with his brave Tennesseans,
charged with surrounding the enemy
on the land side, Jackson himself took
position in front on the road, while the
Carolina, a war schooner, dropped
down on the river opposite the British
station. Her cannonade, at half-past
seven, throwing a deadly shower of
grape-shot into the encampment, was
the signal for the commencement of
this night struggle. It was a fearful
contest in the darkness, frequently of
hand-to-hand individual prowess, par-
ticularly where Coftee's riflemen were
employed. The forces actually engaged
are estimated on the part of the Brit-
ish, including a reinforcement which
they received, at more than twenty-
three hundred ; about fifteen hundred
Americans took part in the fight. The
result, after an engagement of nearly
two hours, was a loss to the latter of
twenty-four killed, and one hundred
and eighty-nine wounded and missing.
The British loss was much lai-ger, sus-

es-i

ANDEEW JACKSON.

taiuing as they did the additional fire
of the schooner.

Before daylight, Jackson took up his
position at a canal two miles distant
from the camp of the enemy, and con-
sequently within four of the city. The
canal was deepened into a trench, and
the earth thrown back formed an em-
bankment, which was assisted by the
famous cotton bales, a device that
proved of much less value than has
been generally supposed. A fortnight
was yet to elapse before the final and
conclusive engagement. Its main inci-
dents were the arrival of General Sir
Edward Pakenham, the commander-in-
chief, with General Gibbs, in the
British camp, on the twenty-fifth, bring-
ing reinforcements from Europe ; the
occupation by the Americans of a po-
sition on the opposite side of the river
protecting their camp ; the destruction
of the " Carolina" by red-hot shot on the
twenty - seventh ; an advance of the
British, with fearful preparation of
artillery, to storm the works the fol-
lowing day, which was defeated by the
Louisiana sloop advantageously posted
in the river, and the fii'e from the
American batteries, which were every
day gaining strength of men and muni-
tions ; the renewal of the attack with
like ill success on the first of January ;
the simultaneous accession to the Ame-
rican force of over two thousand Ken-
tucky riflemen, mostly without rifles ;
a corresponding addition to the enemy
on the sixth, and a general accumula-
tion of resources on both sides, in pre-
paration for the final encounter. On
the eighth of January, a last attempt
was made on the American front, which
extended about a mile in a straight line

from the river along the canal into the
wood. The plan of attack, which was
well conceived, was to take possession
of the American work upon the oppo-
site bank of the river, turn its guns
upon Camp Jackson, and, under cover
of this diversion, scale the embankment,
and gain possession of the battery.
The first was defeated by the want of
means, and loss of time in getting the
necessary troops across the river ; the
main attack, owing to some neglect,
was inadequately sujiplied with scaling
ladders, and the troops were marched
up to slaughter from the murderous fire
of the artillerymen and riflemen fi-om
behind the embankment. Throughout
the whole series of engagements, the
American batteries, mounting twelve
guns of various calibre, were most skil-
fully served. The loss on that day of
death was to the defenders but eight
killed and thirteen wounded ; that of
the assailants in killed, wounded, and
missing, exceeded, in their oflttcial re-
turns, two thousand. A monument in
Westminster Abbey attests the regret
of the British public for the death of the
commander-in-chief, a hero of the Pen-
insular war, the lamented Pakenham.

Ten days after, having endured var-
ious hardships in the meantime, the
British army, under the direction of
General Lambert, took its departure.
On the twenty-first, Jackson broke up
his camp with an address to his troojDS,
and returned to New Orleans in tri-
umph. On the twenty-thii'd, at his
request, a Te Deura was celebrated at
the cathedral, when he was received at
the door, in a pleasant ceremonial, by a
group of young ladies, representing the
States of the Union.

ANDREW JACKSON.

635

The conduct of Jackson throughout
the month of peril, whilst the enemy
WHS on the land, was such as to secure
him the highest fame as a commander.
He had not been called upon to make
any extensive manoeuvres in the field,
but he had taken his dispositions on
new ground with a rapid and profound
calculation of the resources at hand.
His emjiloyment of Lafitte and his men
of Barrataria, the smugglers whom he
had denounced from Mobile as " hellish
banditti," is proof of the sagacity with
which he accommodated himself to cir-
cumstances, and his superiority to pre-
judice. They had a character to gain,
and turned their wild exjierience of
gunnery to most profitable account at
his battery. His personal exertions
and influence may be said to have won
the field ; and it should be remembered
in what broken health he passed his
sleepless nights, and days of constant
anxiety.

The departure of the British did not
relax the vigilance of the energetic
Jackson. Like the English Strafford,
his motto was " thorough," as the good
people of New Orleans learnt before
this affair was at an end. He did not
abate, in the least, his strict military
rule, till the last possible occasion for
its exercise had gone by. It was con-
tinued when the enemy had left, and
through days and A\'eeks, when as-
surance of the peace news was estab-
lished to every mind but his own. He
chose to have certainty, and the " rigor
of the game." In the midst of the
ovations and thanksgivings, in the first
nicmonts of exultation, he signed the
death warrant of six mutineers, de-
serters, who, as long before as Septem-

ber, had construed a service of the old
legal term of three months as a release
from their six months' engagement;
and the severe order was executed at
Mobile. In a like sjjirit of military
exactitude, New Orleans being still
held under martial law, to the chafing
of the citizens, he silenced a newspaper
editor who had published a premature,
incorrect bulletin of peace; banished
the French citizens who were disposed
to take refuge from his jurisdiction in
their nationality ; arrested an impor-
tant personage, M. Louaillier, a mem-
ber of the Legislature, who argued the
question in print ; and when Judge
Hall, of the United States Court,
granted a writ of habeas corpus, to
bring the affair to a judicial investiga-
tion, he was promptly seized and im-
prisoned along with the petitioner.
The last affair occurred on the fifth of
March. A week later, the official news
of the peace treaty was received from
"Washington, and the iron grasp of the
general at length relaxed its hold of
the city. The civil authority succeeded
to the military, when wounded Justice
asserted its power, in turn, by summon-
ing the victorious general to her bar,
to answer for his recent contempt of
court. He was unwilling to be entan-
gled in legal pleadings, and cheerfully
paid the imposed fine of one thousand
dollars. He was as ready in submit-
ting to the civil authority now that the
war was over, as he had been decided
in exacting its obedience when the
safety of the State seemed to him the
chief consideration. Thirty years
after, the amount of the fine, ])nnci-
pal and interest was repaid him by
Congress.

636

ANDEEW JAOKSON.

The reception of the victorious de-
fender of New Orleans, on his return to
Nashville, and subsequent visit, in au-
tumn, to the seat of government, was
a continual ovation. On his route, at
Lynchburgh, in Virginia, he was met
by the venerable- Thomas Jefferson,
who toasted him at a banquet of citi-
zens. The administration, organizing
anew the military defence of the coun-
try, created him major-general of the
southern division of the army, the
whole force being arranged in two de-
partments, of w,hich the northern was
assigned to General Brown.

It was not long before the name of
Jackson was again to fill the public
ear, and impart its terrors alike to the
enemy and to his own government.
The speck of war arose in Florida,
which, what with runaway negroes,
hostile Indians, filibustering adventur-
ers, and the imbecility of the Spanish
rule, became a constant source of irrita-
tion to the adjoining American States.
There were various warlike prelimina-
ries, and at last, towards the end of
1817, a mui'derous attack by the Semi-
noles upon a United States boat's crew
ascending the Appalachicola. General
Jackson was called into the field,
charged with the suppression of the
war. Eager for the service, he sprang
to the work, and conducted it in his
own fashion, " taking the responsibili-
ty" throughout, summoning volunteers
to accompany him fi-om Tennessee Avith-
out the formality of the civil authority,
advancing rapidly into Florida after
his arrival at the frontier, capturing the
Spanish fort of St. Mark's, and push-
ing thence to the Suwanee. General
MTntosh, the half-breed who accompa-

nied his march, performed feats ol
valor in the destruction of the Semi-
noles. At the former of these places, a
trader from New Providence, a Scotch-
man named Arbuthnot, a superior
member of his class, and a pacific man,
fell into his hands ; and in the latter, a
vagrant English military adventurer,
one Ambrister. Both of these men
were held under arrest, charged with
complicity with the Indian aggressions,
and though entirely irresponsible to
the American commander of this mili-
tary raid, v^ere summarily tried under
his order by a court-martial on Spanish
territory, at St. Mark's, found guilty,
and executed by his order on the spot.
He even refused to receive the recon-
sideration of the court of its sentence
of Ambrister, substituting stripes and
imprisonment for death. Ambrister
was shot, and Arbuthnot hung from
the yard-arm of his own vessel in the
harbor. During the remainder of Jack-
son's life, these names rang through
the country with a fearful emphasis in
the strife of parties. Of the many
difficulties in the way of his eulogists,
this is, perhaps, the most considerable.
His own explanation, that he was per-
forming a simple act of justice, would
seem, with his previous execution of
the six mutineers, to rest u23on a par-
tial study of the testimony; but this
responsibility should of course be di-
vided with the members of his court-
martial. The chief remaining events
of the campaign were an angry corres-
pondence with the governor of Georgia,
in respect to an encroachment on hia
authority in ordering an attack on an
Indian village, and the caj)ture of Pen-
sacola, in which he left a garrison.

ANDREW JACKSON.

C37

Reckoning-day with tlie government
was next in order. The debate in Con-
gress on the Florida transactions was
long and animated, Henry Clay bear-
ing a conspicuous part in the opposi-
tion. The resolutions of censure were
lost by a large majority in the House.
The failure to convict was a virtual vote
of thanks. Fortified by the result, the
general, who had been in Washington
during the debate, made a triumphal
visit to Philadelphia and New York.
At the latter place he was presented
with the freedom of the city in a gold
box, which, a topic for one of the poets
of the " Croakers " at the time, has be-
come a matter of interest since, in the
discussion growing out of a provision
of the General's will. He left the gift
to the bravest of the New York officers
in the next war. It was finally be-
stowed, in 1850, upon General Ward
B. Burnett, the colonel of a New York
reofiment distincruished in the Mexican
war. The original presentation took
place at the City Hall, in February,
1819.

The protracted negotiations with
S2:)ain for the purchase of Florida being
now brought to an end by the acquisi-
tion of the country, General Jackson
was appointed by President Monroe
the first governor of the Territory. He
was present at the formal cession at
Pensacola, on the 17th of July, 1821,
and entered upon his new duties with
his usual vigor — a vigor in one in-
stance, at least, humorously dispropor-
tioned to the scene, in a notable dis-
pute with the Spanish govcrinnent, in
the course of w hich theie was a fresh
imbroglio with a United States judge,
and the foreign functionary was ludi-

crously locked up in the calaboose —
all about the delivery of certain unim-
portant papers. On a question of au-
thority, it was Jackson's habit to go
straightforward, without looking to
see what important modifying circum-
stances there might be to the right or
left. It was a military trait which
served him very well on important oc-
casions in war, and subsequently in
one great struggle, that of the Bank,
in peace; but in smaller mixed mat-
ters, it might easily lead him astray.
For this Don Callava's comedy, we
miist refer the reader to Mr. Barton's
full and entertaining narrative — not
the most imposing, but certainly not
the least instructive portion of his
book. The Florida governorship was
not suited to the demands of Jackson's
nature; his powers were too limited
and restricted ; the irritation of the
Spanish quarrel was not calculated to
lighten his disease, and Mrs. Jackson
was at his side to plead the superior
claims of home. Thither, after a few
months' absence, lie returned, doubt-
less greatly to the relief of the Secre-
tary of State, Mr. Adams, who said at
the time to a friend, " he dreaded the
arrival of a mail from Florida, not
knowing what General Jackson might
do next." The remainder of General
Jackson's life may be regarded as
chiefly political ; it is rather as a man
of action in ])olitics, than as a theoreti-
cal statesman, in any sense, that he is
to be considered.

It is not at all surprising that such a
man should be sunnnoned to the Pre-
sidency. He was nominated by the
legislature of his own State in 1823,
which sent him again to the Senate.

638

Al^DEEW JACKSOI^.

and he was highest on the list of the
candidates voted for the following
year — he had ninety-nine out of two
hundi'ed and sixty-one votes — when
the election was carried into the House
of Representatives, and Adams was
chosen by the influence of Henry Clay.
At the next election, he was borne tri-
umphantly into the office, receiving
more than double the number of votes
of his antagonist, Mr. Adams. The
vote was one hundred and seventy-
eight to eighty-three. At the election
of 1832, the third time Jackson's popu-
larity was tested in this way, the vote
stood for Clay forty-nine, for Jackson
two hundred and thirty-nine.

The record of these eight years of
his Presidential service, from 1829 to
1837, is the modern history of the
democratic party, of the exertions of
its most distinguished representatives,
of the establishment of its most che-
rished principles — its anti-bank creed,
in the overthrow of the national bank,
and origination of the sub-treasury
system, which went into operation with
his successor — the reduction of the
tariff — the opposition to internal im-
provements — the payment of the na-
tional debt. In addition to the settle-
ments of these long agitated questions,
his administration was signalized by
the removal of the Cherokees from
Georgia, and the Creeks fi-om Florida ;
while its foreign policy was candid and
vigorous, bringing to a satisfactory
adjustment the outstanding claims on
France and other nations, and main-
taining friendly relations Avith England.
In all these measures, his energetic hand
was felt, but particularly was his pecu-
liar character manifested in his veto of

1832, and general conduct of the bank
question, the collection of the French
indemnity, and his enforcement of the
national authority in South Carolina.
The censure of the Senate on the
28th March, 1834, for his removal of the
deposits of the public money from the
bank as " an assumption of authority
and power not conferred by the Consti-
tution and laws, but in derogation of
both " — a censure supported by the ex-
traordinary coalition of Calhoun, Clay
and Webster, measures the extent of
the opposition his course encountered
in Congress ; while the Expunging Re-
solution of 1837, blotted out that con-
demnation, and indicated the reception
and progress of his opinions with the
several States in the brief interim. The
personal attack made upon him in
1835, by a poor lunatic at the door of
the Capitol, — " a diseased mind acted
upon by a general outcry against a pub-
lic man,"* — may show the sentiment
with which a large portion of the press
and a considerable j)opular party habit-
ually treated him.

The love of Andrew Jackson for
the Union deserves at this time more
than a passing mention. It was em-
phatically the creed of his head and
heart. He had no toleration for those
who sought to weaken this great in-
stinct of nationality. No sojjhism
could divert his understandino; from
the plainest obligations of duty to his
whole country. He saw as clearly as
the subtlest logician in the Senate
the inevitable tendencies of any argu-
ment which would impair the alle-
giance of the people of the States
to the central authority. He could

* Benton's "Thirty Years' View," I. 523.

AiTOREW JACKSON.

639

not make such a speech as Weh-
ster delivered on the suV)ject, l)ut he
knew as well as Webster the abyss
into which nullification would plunge
its advocates. His vigorous policy-
saved his own generation the trials to
which ours has been subjected. Had
his spirit still ruled at the proper mo-
ment in the national administration,
we too might have been spared the un-
told evils of a gio-antic rebellion. It is
remarkable that it was predicted by
him — not in its extent, for his patriot-
ism and the ardor of his temperament
would not have allowed him to imagine
a defection so wide-spread, or so lar
mentable a lack of energy in giving
encouragement to its growth — but in
its motive and pretences. When nulli-
fication was laid at rest, his keen in-
sight saw that the rebellious spirit
which gave the doctrine birth was not
extinguished. He pronounced the tar-
iff only the pretext of factious and
malignant distui'bers of the public
peace, "who would involve their coun-
tiy in a civil war and all the evils in
its train, that they might reign and
ride on its whirlwinds, and direct the
storm." Disunion and a southern con-
federacy, and not the tariff, he said,
were the real objects of the conspira-
tors, adding, with singular agacity,
" the next pretext will be the negro or
the slavery question."*

Eight years of honoraT)le repose re-
mained to the victor in so many battles
military and political, after his retrre-
ment from the Presidency. They were
passed in his seat near Nashville, the
lionic of his happy married life, but no

* Ijotter to the Rev. Andrew J. Crawford.
Wiishiiigton, May 1, 1833.

longer cheered by the warm-hearted,
sincere, devout sharer of his many
trials. That excellent wife had been
taken from him on the eve of his first
occupation of the Presidential chair,
and her memory only was left, with its
inviting lessons of piety, to temper the
passions of the true-hearted old man as
he resio-ned himself to relisj-iou and the
cares of another and better world. He
had early adopted, as his own son, a
nephew of his wife, and the child grew
up, always fondly cherished by him,
bore his name, and inherited his estate.
" The Hermitage," the seat of a liberal
hospitality, never lacked intimates dear
to him. He had the good heart of Dr.
Johnson in taking to his home and at-
tachino; to himself friends who greAV
strong again in his manly confidence.
Thus, in the enjoyment of a tranquil
old age, looking back upon a career
which belonged to history, he met the
increasing infirmities of ill-health with
pious equanimity, a member of the
Presbyterian Church, where his wife
had so fondly worshijjped — life slowly
ebbing from him in the progress of his
dropsical complaint — till one summer
day, the eighth of June, 1845, the child
of the Revolution, an old man of sev-
enty-eight, closed his eyes in lasting
repose at his beloved Hermitage.

Few of the eminent men of America,
whose acts are recorded in these pages,
entered upon the public stage so early
and continued on it so late, as the sub-
ject of this sketch. To no one but him-
self was it reserved to bridge over so
completely the era of the Kevolution
with the latest phase of political lite in
our day. The youth who had suffered
wounds and imprisonment at the hands

640

ANDKEW JACKSON.

of a British officer in the war of Inde-
pendence, was destined long after, when
a whole generation had left the stage,
to close a second war with that j^ower-
ful nation by a triumphant victory;
and when the fresh memory of that
had passed away, and men were read-
ing the record in history, the same hero,
raised to the highest honor of the State,
was to stand forth, not simply Presi-
dent of the United States, but the ac-
tive representative of a new order of
politics, reaping a new harvest of favor
in civil administration, which would
throw his military glory into the shade.
Nor was this all. These comprehen-
sive associations, much as they include,
leave out of view an entirely distinct
phase of the wondei*fnl career of this
extraordinary man. A rude pioneer
of the wilderness, he opened the path-
way of civilization to his countrymen,
and by his valor in a series of bloody
Indian wars, made the terrors of that
formidable race a matter of tradition
in lands which he lived to see bloom-
ing with culture and refinement. A

hero in his boyhood, when Greene was
leading his southern army to the relief
of the Carolinas, he was in Congress the
first representative of a new State, when
Washington was President ; and when
the successors of that chieftain, Adams
and Jefferson, had at length disappear-
ed from the earthly scene in extreme old
age, he, a man more of the future than
the past, sat in the same great seat of
authority, with an influence not inferior
to theirs. Surrounded by these circum-
stances, in the rapid development of
national life, in the infancy and prog-
ress of the country, if he had been a
common man he would have acquired
distinction from his position ; but it
was his character to form circumstances
as well as profit by them. There are
few cases in all history where, under
adverse conditions, the man was so
master of fortune. The simplest recital
of his life carries with it an air almost
of romance; his success mocked the
wisdom of his contemporaries, and will
tax the best powers of the future his-
torians of America in its analysis.

university of California ^^^^^

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