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 THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 VIATOR; 
 
 OR, 
 
 A PEEP 
 
 INTO 
 
 MY NOTE BOOK. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 A. GRUMBLER'S 'MISCELLANEOUS THOUGHTS,' 8ic. 
 
 Books should to one of these four ends conduce, 
 For wisdom, piety, dehght, or use. — Denham. 
 
 'Tis in books the chief 
 Of all perfections to be plain and brief. — Butler. 
 
 BALTIMORE: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY PLASKITT & CUGLE. 
 
 MDCCCXLI.
 
 Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year one thousand 
 eight hundred and thirty-nino, by David Hoffman, in tlie Clerk's 
 Office, of Uie District of Maryland. 
 
 JOHN P. TOY, PRINTER.
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Epistle Dedicatory, 5 
 
 Address to my Readers, 9 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Note I. The London Crossings, ... 31 
 
 II. Christian Burial — on terms, . . 39 
 
 III. Seclusion from the World, . . 45 
 
 IV. The Young Inebriate, ... 55 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Note V. The Schoolmen, . ... 70 
 
 VI. E Pluribus Unum, ... 83 
 
 VII. The Philosophical Eater, ... 90 
 
 VIII. A Curious Proposition, , . . 109 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Note IX. St. Peter's Chair, at Rome, . .113 
 
 X. Was St. Peter ever at Rome? . 120 
 
 XI. Dr. Watson and the Stuart Papers, 136 
 
 XII. Taking Heaven by Storm, . . 143 

 
 iv CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Note XIII, The Travelling Etymologist, . 151 
 
 XIV. Benvenuto Cellini, . . . .165 
 
 XV. Public Cemeteries, ... 175 
 
 XVI. Events, how related to remote circum- 
 
 stances, 188 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Note XVII. Cathedralizing, .... 204 
 
 XVIII. An Olla-Podrida, . . . .225 
 
 XIX. Dreaming, 265 
 
 XX. Thoughts on a Play or two, . . 315 
 
 XXI. The Advantages of Impudence, . 343
 
 EPISTLE DEDICATORY. 
 
 To THOMAS D'OYLY, Esquire, 
 
 Sergeant-at-Law, Upper Harley street, London. 
 
 My Dear Sir: 
 
 I pray permission to dedicate this little 
 volume to you, with that high respect and sincerity 
 which your character inspires, and with that grate- 
 ful remembrance, which your many courtesies to- 
 wards me, make me delight to cherish. How 
 much, then, do I regret its unworthiness for the 
 occasion ! 
 
 It is the second of a series, now in course of 
 publication, on a great variety of topics, — the whole 
 being designed to be illustrative and somewhat 
 corrective, of what is called the New School, and 
 to portray the unhappy influences of the present
 
 vi EPISTLE DEDICATORY. 
 
 mania in literature over Men, Manners and Things^ 
 as they appear chiefly on this side of the broad 
 Atlantic — and also to recall readers to some retro-- 
 spect of by-gone days ; and finally, to contrast them 
 with that fashionable ultraism so prevalent here, and 
 which is no less obvious in our law, government, 
 morals, and religion, than it manifestly is in our 
 popular literature. 
 
 The tendency of the present age throughout the 
 world, but especially in my own country, is towards 
 innovation in every thing — which, though some- 
 times fraught with much good, has a hydra-headed 
 demon to contend with, in that spirit of ultraism 
 and of radicalism, which prompts men to think that 
 change must be improvement — but which the cau- 
 tious venerators of the literature, the law, and the 
 manners of the olden times, have so often to deplore, 
 mainly because men will not discriminate^-and, in 
 their eagerness for change, will root up the sturdy 
 oaks, with the noxious tares. 
 
 With your great and glorious and prosperous 
 country, I think I have more than a slight acquain- 
 tance. Your laws have been my devoted study, for 
 nearly thirty years. With your institutions, man- 
 ners, customs, and state of society, I have made 
 myself somewhat familiar, through the medium of 
 your varied and extensive literature and science —
 
 EPISTLE DEDICATORY. Vll 
 
 and also by a short residence in your lovely island, 
 where I received that generous and elegant hospi- 
 tality, which can never be forgotten by me. 
 
 The result of the whole is a solid conviction, 
 that the sterling character of the British nation 
 affords the brightest exemplar the world has yet 
 known of genuine civilization. 
 
 The Greeks and the Romans of Pagan times, 
 and many modern nations of Christendom, were 
 and are, also, doubtless civilized — and so are the 
 Chinese, and the Turks: but the truest, and most 
 infallible of all criterions of genuine civilization is, 
 when all things, in every ramification of life, are 
 in perfect keeping ; for, it is wuth nations as with 
 a family; — that family, however humble its means 
 may be, is the most civilized, in which every thing 
 is designedly in perfect order, and in admirable 
 keeping. 
 
 In England alone, of all ancient and modern 
 nations, do we find this rigid keeping in every 
 relation of life, in every order of society, in every 
 manifestation of their means, from the monarch and 
 wealthiest nobleman, to the poorest of the subjects. 
 Every man's cottage, or mansion, or palace, or 
 farm, or manor, seems as a mirror of his actual 
 condition — each and all in admirable keeping. The 
 peasant's cottage is never garish with the furniture
 
 Vm EPISTLE DEDICATORY. 
 
 of a mansion — nor that with the gorgeous display 
 of a palace ; but each seems to know exactly, and 
 to respect with care, its own defined periphery, and 
 those of others — and yet, with a perfect liberty and 
 ability in its proprietor, to transcend it, whenever 
 possessed of the requisite intelligence, morals, man- 
 ners, and means, for a more exalted station. But 
 this is a theme I must not now dwell upon, as it 
 may be the topic, in part, of a future volume. 
 
 I am, my dear sir. 
 
 With high regard. 
 
 Your most obedient servant, 
 
 DAVID HOFFMANI 
 
 Baltimore, September, 1839.
 
 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 
 
 1 CRAVE thy pardon, if I have counted without 
 mine host, in thus confidently anticipating thou 
 ^oilt read my book. Upon thy generosity I lately 
 cast my 'Miscellaneous Thoughts on Men, 
 Manners and Things,' and now venture to offer 
 thee another small volume, giving but a 'Peep 
 INTO MY Note Book !' Methinks, I hear many 
 of you say, 'thanks to Apollo, it is but a peep ! for 
 why should v/e be troubled with thy cogitations, 
 when the world is overrun with 'Thoughts' from 
 heads much wiser than thine ? witness those of 
 Solomon and of Bacon, or of Joe Miller and of 
 Lacon ! And, as for thy 'Notes,' they are but 
 ruminations belonging to the same genus, and we 
 hoped to have seen it made highly penal in the 
 critic's court, for thee and others, 
 
 'Unblest witli sense above their peers refin'd, 
 Who thus stand up dictators to mankind.' 
 
 and so egregiously molest the public with a dull 
 melange of notions !'
 
 10 ADDRESS TO MT READERS. 
 
 Softly, my exterminating, but truly small critics? 
 take thy pen, and essay to do better; and I promise 
 thee thou wilt find any book, after it is written^ 
 seemeth to be a much lighter matter, than when it 
 is yet to be created — for well hath the poet said, 
 'None but an author knows an author's cares ;' 
 
 and I have seen simpletons when gazing even on 
 the Vatican Apollo, and the Venus of the Tribune, 
 who could think of nothing but of the extreme 
 labour of paring off, from the rude and massive 
 block, so much hard marble! Is it easier, think 
 ye, to write much, than little — on various topics, 
 concisely, than on one, fully ? Are not the dis- 
 tilled essences of more value, than the crude and 
 bulky simples from which, by 'chymic art,' they 
 have been extracted? Why then, are 'Thoughts' 
 and 'Notes' to be dealt with so ungenerously? 
 The quality, good Mr. Critic! — the quality, alone, 
 should be the question; and if my duodecimos, 
 (though they be royal,) give thee but terse thoughts, 
 and brief notes, wilt thou blame me for not spread- 
 ing these out iiUo wordy octavos, or into the still 
 more pretending quartos? By my modesty and 
 consideration, thou hast been spared the toil of 
 much reading, and likewise the dispensing from 
 thy purse so lavishly as thou wouldst have done. 
 Well hath Master Thomas Nash, of 'Lenten Stuff' 
 memory, said, 'every man can say bee to a battle- 
 dore — write in praise of virtue and the seven libe- 
 ral sciences — thrash corn out of the full sheaves — 
 and fetch water out of the Thames : but, out of 
 dry stubble, to make an after harvest, and a plenti-
 
 ADDRESS TO MV READERS. 11 
 
 ful crop without sowing; and to wring juice out 
 of a flint, is no every day work, and belongeth not 
 to one of a demure and mediocre getius.^ 
 
 And hence I saj'-, commend me to tiny volumes, 
 which treat de o?72fiibus, in the way of distilla- 
 tions, — rather than to the mis-shapen and garru- 
 lous ofispring of an unbridled pen. These last 
 may be, and often are in the form of many portly 
 volumes, but are equally often filled with the crude 
 vagaries, and mawkish fancies of inexhaustible, 
 never-ending tale-tellers; or, of the still more ex- 
 citing collectors of the marvels of an overgrown 
 metropolis ! From very many of these tales you 
 may extract a single moral, or a single deep, and 
 eloquently expressed thought, for, perhaps, every 
 hundred pages ; the residue being, perhaps, a con- 
 geries of namhij-jjambij common places; of jejune 
 dialogues, and of ill- collocated words and sen- 
 tences ! 
 
 And here again doth Master Nash express him- 
 self to my mind, when he saith, 'I had as lief 
 have no sun, as have it shine faintly — no fire, as a 
 smothering one of small coals — no clothes, rather 
 than wear linsey-woolsey.' And so, (taking this 
 figuratively,) do I say that, as to the sunshine, fire 
 and clothes, which our daily literature doth fur- 
 nish, I would dispense with them all, rather than, 
 as many are accustomed to do, keep pace in my 
 reading with the productions of the modern teem- 
 ful press ! and in my writwg with the taste of the 
 day ! But I do vehemently suspect there be a 
 goodly number who read and understand with
 
 12 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 
 
 more facility, when subjects are spread out unto 
 their widest dimensions, than when distilled and 
 concentrated into their ultimate elements. And 
 this may be, after all, the true secret which solves 
 the objection sometimes made, that thoughts and 
 notes are apt to be so very concise, and to have so 
 little of narrative or illustration, as necessarily to 
 be deficient iri life and interest. Sage critics ! the 
 authors of such productions must indeed, plead 
 guilty of the fact, but still, not guilty, as to the 
 matter really at issue, since they have made no 
 promise to give thee any thing approaching unto 
 tales or narratives ; so that, it would be quite as 
 reasonable in thee to complain of a, treatise of 
 algebra, for that it is not poetical, as for thee to 
 find fault with Thoughts and Notes, because they 
 are not modelled into the fashion of pleasing tales ! 
 And yet, in partial conformity to the spirit of 
 our times, I have done my poor endeavour, in the 
 previous little volume, as also in the present one, 
 to blend with the philosophy of thought, and with 
 condensation of style, such a measure of sprightli- 
 ness, and of dramatic interest, as might harmonize 
 with that species of production. And if it suits 
 not the taste of some centre-table litej-ati, I confess 
 it hath been made what it is, under, perhaps the 
 arrogant, hope of gradually improving their taste ! 
 The literature of the centre-table is quite suscep- 
 tible, and eminently worthy of improvement. It 
 silently exerts a more powerful influence on socie- 
 ty than, at first, may be imagined. Why should 
 novels, and poetry and the offerings of monthly
 
 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 13 
 
 scribblers, and the recherche articles of taste, and 
 magnificent engravings, (often, indeed, accompa- 
 nied by good matter, seldom carefully read, and 
 sometimes not even glanced at, the pictures, and 
 the binding being quite too splendid, and, there- 
 fore, too engrossing to invite unto study,) why, let 
 me repeat, should all these be permitted to occupy 
 the tables of our tlite, to the almost total exclusion 
 of works of a more thoughtful and instructive 
 character ? 
 
 To elevate the standard of popular literature, and 
 especially of that daily and hourly family reading, 
 which is taken up at such intervals of comparative 
 leisure as are snatched from the more urgent and 
 regular occupations of life, it would seem to be 
 essential that the works should be, not only en- 
 tirely moral, but that the topics should be various 
 and concisely treated, the learning a distillation of 
 thought treasured up from extensive reading, the 
 style animated and smooth, and the mechanical 
 execution of the volumes sufficiently good to be 
 pleasing, without the least distraction, either of 
 mind or purse. Illustrative and splendid engrav- 
 ings should be either very sparingly indulged in, 
 or be found in distinct volumes; and, indeed, 
 would be more appropriately placed on the shelves 
 of the library, for occasional consultation, since all 
 experience reveals the fact that, when they are 
 combined with the volumes on a parlour table, 
 they are extremely apt to seduce the mind from the 
 more solid matter, and to content the butterfly- 
 lookers into books, with knowledge gained picto- 
 2*
 
 14 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 
 
 rialli/, and without mental exertion, rather than 
 with that which may be acquired typographically , 
 but at the expense of some thought ! True it is, 
 this mode suits the erratic rapidity of our age; 
 but still the artist must be very clever, if he can 
 convey much instruction, unassisted by the letter- 
 press. 
 
 This is no slander of the fair sex, nor is it ut- 
 tered to the disparagement of the numerous class 
 of petit maitre admirers of the beautiful books, so 
 garishly displayed on these tables ; for with truth 
 may it be said, not one tithe of the reading con- 
 tained in these highly embellished and illustrated 
 volumes, ever meets so much as the passing notice 
 of those even, who most commune with them; 
 and until this table-library be nearly divorced from 
 such attractions, the hope is vain that the frag- 
 ments of our time will be profitably improved ; 
 and this is the more to be regretted, as the casual 
 moments thus unprofitably occupied, will insensi- 
 bly influence and fashion the mind to a still greater 
 disregard of solid reading — so that the more exten- 
 sive library of the family, or even of the office, 
 becomes gradually less inviting, than if no centre- 
 table, with its diverse and ever-changing accom- 
 paniments, had ever been introduced ! How much 
 the mind, especially when young and untrained, 
 may be injuriously affected by such apparently 
 trivial influences, can only be known to those who 
 have closely observed the matter. 
 
 The literature of the reading-table ought to 
 have produced a most salutary effect ; but it is
 
 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 15 
 
 my firm conviction that there is far less useful 
 reading, and even less of genuine taste, since its 
 introduction, than when the old-fashioned, select 
 family library used to be resorted to ; whereas, if 
 the literature of this table were rendered somewhat 
 more solid, and if the hook-hinder were not per- 
 mitted thus vauntingly to domineer over the author ^ 
 the larger library would be oftener resorted to ; and 
 works of fine taste, and of elegant fancy — splendid 
 engravings and beautiful illustrations, would be 
 coveted and studied, not as the source of mere 
 visual gratification, but of high intellectual im- 
 provement. 
 
 Methinks I hear Papilla, when reading the 
 above, exclaim, 'is not this the most inordinate 
 vanity imaginable? — the Goth would actually expel 
 from our tables the 'Book of Beauty,' — the 
 'Gems of Beauty,' the 'Flowers of Loveli- 
 ness,' and all of the splendid 'Annuals,' and 
 'Keepsakes !' and give us, in exchange, his moral 
 reflections, and philosophical distillations, as he is 
 pleased arrogantly to style them !' 'It is indeed,' 
 replies Whiskerandos, 'positively shocking; how 
 can the man hope for such a thing ! surely the 
 world is now too wise to go back to such stuff!' 
 Soft and fair, dear Miss Papilla, and sage Mr. 
 Whiskerandos ! my love for the fine arts, for the 
 elegancies of polished life, and for all the beautiful 
 books you speak of, is quite as ardent as your 
 own ; we, perhaps, dilfer only as to the use we 
 would make of them : but let us compromise mat- 
 ters ; you may delight in all the lovely engravings,
 
 16 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 
 
 and fanciful gildings on the exterior, provided you 
 also carefully" ^read, learn, mark, and inwardly 
 digesf that for which all books are made ; and on 
 the further condition, that you fail not to do the 
 same part by mine, though they will never have 
 any such ornate accompaniments. You see, I am 
 far from being a monopolist, of which I will give 
 thee a further proof — in that my simple desire is, 
 to win thee to reading and reflection; and if thou 
 wilt do this, I shall be altogether content, shouldst 
 thou never cast thine eye on any one of the pages 
 of my little volumes — and thus, as I hope, 1 have 
 now made the amende honourable, for my momen- 
 tary departure from gallantry. 
 
 But, with the leave of Papilla, and of all her 
 class, let me be a little more grave, and to my 
 purpose. 
 
 In the following pages my readers will find I 
 have, in some degree, consulted the prevalent 
 taste, by endeavouring, occasionally, to convey my 
 moral, or instruction, as the case may be, in some- 
 thing after the fashion of a tale ! and, when this is 
 not the case, by imparting to each theme as much 
 of life and ease, as may consist with the nature of 
 my topics — and of my own nature. And yet 
 truly, I have never seen any reason why the 
 gravest, nay, even the most recondite subjects, 
 may not be popularly, and sometimes even spor- 
 tively handled ; and I believe that the writings of 
 the philosophers, of the school-men, and even of 
 the early fathers of the 'mother church,' might be 
 thus dealt with, and profitably withal, yet without
 
 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 17 
 
 the least disparagement of their dignity— and that 
 when so taken up, our surface readers may thus 
 gain some knowledge of facts and opinions in for- 
 gotten literature and science, that otherwise might 
 never have reached them ! Be this as it may, I 
 shall complete my series, in my own way, both as 
 to matter and manner, justly hoping, but not ar- 
 dently craving, that if in the present day and 
 generation, very many should be disposed humour- 
 ously to say of me, 
 
 'Our author thus with stuff 'd sufficiency. 
 Of all omnigenous omnisciency, 
 Began (as who would not begin. 
 That had, like him, so much within ?) 
 To let it out in books of all sorts. 
 In duodecimos, large and small sorts !' — 
 
 the generation after it may possibly exclaim, 'Oh 
 Vandal age, now gone by ! it was not given to 
 thee, whilst in the cartilage, to be nourished on 
 the pith and marrow of that author; but we, who 
 are now in the muscle and bone of maturity, profit 
 by his counsels, and take just pride in his old- 
 fashioned wisdom.' And thus is it that authors 
 do sometimes take comfort unto themselves, even 
 at the moment that some Zoilus would deprive 
 them of this most benign self-complacency. 
 
 But, you all remember how, some thirty centu- 
 ries ago, a powerful monarch, and the wisest of 
 men, thus chronicles a lesson of humility for all 
 authors — one that is, and will be, equally true 
 in all past, present, and future ages — ^my son be 
 admonished — of making books there is no end — 
 Ttiucli study is a weariness of the flesh.'' And yet
 
 18 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 
 
 it would seem strange that in his day, when print- 
 ing, stereotypes, and steam-presses were wholly 
 unknown, Solomon should have had reason to 
 feel so strongly the vanity, and absolute nothing- 
 ness of authorship ! Where are now the ^yorks, 
 nay even the names of the myriads who then 
 toiled for fame, if, for a bubble so perishable, they 
 did toil, which hath ever seemed to me a most 
 unphilosophical libel against the whole fraternity 
 of authors, from Solomon's to the present day ? I 
 cannot harbour the thought that the love of fame 
 ever guided the pen of any author, be he a maker 
 of primers or of folios, and whether he were a 
 Parley or a Shakspeare, a Pinnock or a Milton, a 
 Boz or a Bacon, a Jack Downing or a Newton! — 
 but contrariwise, I do verily opine, that nearly every 
 other conceivable motive, rather than the love of 
 praise, either present, or posthumous, has attended 
 them throughout their labours of the pen ! To 
 recount the incitements that may prompt and nou- 
 rish authorship, would itself require a volume, in 
 which fame, however, would occupy but an insig- 
 nificant section. Even in Lord Byron, it was the 
 dread of ennui, an indomitable imagination, a par- 
 tial misanthropy, or rather a disgust towards some 
 men and things, a strong love of satire, an arro- 
 gant contempt of ignorance and of folly — and, in 
 fine, a thousand other motives which stimulated 
 his pen more constantly and fervently, than any 
 regard for 'golden opinions.' And though the 
 noble author has said, 
 
 'Tis pleasant sure to see one's name in print; 
 A boolc's a book, although there's nothing iu't ;
 
 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 19 
 
 yet all know the spirit with which this couplet was 
 written, and that no one was less inclined than his 
 lordship, to practise what he so much condemned 
 in others. The truth is, fame is the last and least 
 of all the motives that lead to authorship of any- 
 kind — and if the lives of Voltaire — of Lope de 
 Vega, of Bacon — of Sir Walter Scott, nay of all 
 other voluminous writers, be closely examined, I 
 cannot but think it would be found that much 
 stronger, and more numerous incitements, than the 
 praises of men, led them on from small beginnings 
 to great results, in authorship. Young, in his 
 epistle to Pope, has recorded some of the motives ; 
 and he might have easily filled his poetical letter 
 with them. 
 
 'Some write confin'd by physic ; some by debt ; 
 Some, for 'tis Sunday : some because 'tis wet ; 
 Another writes because his father writ. 
 And proves himself a bastard by his wit.' 
 
 And I may add, some write because they are the 
 merriest crickets that chirp; others, lest they should 
 be drowned in their own gall, did they not periodi- 
 cally vent their spleen; some write from mere 
 repletion of learning ; others from doubts whether 
 they possess any ! With some, composition is 
 scarce an intellectual toil, but affords them the 
 highest mental gratification ; with others, it is a la- 
 bour essential to the fixation of their thoughts, and 
 to the ascertainment of their own resources ; some 
 without the least alloy of selfishness, are actuated 
 solely by the hope of benefitting their readers; 
 others are prompted by every other selfish conside-
 
 20 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 
 
 ration, save that of fame. Be the motive, how- 
 ever, what it may, no author, in our day, judging 
 from the past, can repose with much confidence, 
 on securing the grateful remembrance of future 
 ages. Dr. Johnson was the idol of his day, and for 
 half a generation after ! but his Dictionary, which 
 made him, now reposes on many shelves, as mere 
 dead lumber; and even our scholars seem to de- 
 light in demonstrating his etymological ignorances! 
 Who, of this nineteenth century, now reads the 
 Rambler? — not one in ten thousand ! Who, as in 
 former days, now with delight, pour over his truly 
 admirable Lives of the Poets? Not one, in as 
 many hundred — his poetry ? one here and there — 
 his Miscellaneous Works? scarce any ! And so of 
 Milton, Pope, Bolingbroke, Goldsmith, with the 
 exception of his Vicar of Wakefield ; and Hume, 
 likewise, excepting his History of England. Who 
 now reads Spencer — Chaucer — Ben Johnson — 
 Davenant — Glover — Marvell — Daniel — Cartwright 
 — Hurdis — Chamberiayne — Sir Philip Sydney — 
 Sir John Suckling, or even the best among the 
 early English dramatic writers? — iQ\f^ very few! 
 And, may we not with truth ask, are not the plays, 
 even of the immortal bard of Avon, comparatively 
 but little rfead, and still less often enacted ; and 
 have they not recently, sought more genial realms, 
 and become more familiar to German, than even to 
 English ears? Well hath Spencer exclaimed. 
 
 How many great ones may remembered be, 
 Which in their days most famously did llourish, 
 Of whom no word we hear, nor sign now see, 
 But as things wip'd with sponge do perish !
 
 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 21 
 
 Now, what hath been said is no exaggerated pic- 
 ture of the instability of an author's fame ; and 
 shows, moreover, that quantity hath often been 
 foohshly permitted to obUterate nearly all estima- 
 tion for quality ; and that the works of the most 
 sublime genius, equally with those from the most 
 leaden-heads, seem destined to be overwhelmed by 
 an inordinate love of novelty, generated by the 
 trashy biblio-redundancy of the present day. — 
 What author, then, can be so weak, as to repose 
 on a fame, so truly ephemeral — a fame, which if 
 reaped even with acclamation, scarce endures as 
 long as many shrubs of his garden ; and when his 
 works, if not his name, are infallibly swallowed 
 up by the coming wave of a merely popular and 
 crude literature ! Hath not each year or two, if 
 not month, its fashionable author ; and is not the 
 idol now, sure to be soon obscured or forgotten, 
 amidst the halo of him who is next on the ascen- 
 dant? The richest and most enlarged fame, is 
 but sufficient to transmit an author's 7?ame; none 
 has ever yet secured, for a great length of time, 
 numerous readers. And though Homer's name 
 has passed current through nearly three thousand 
 years, yet how few, comparatively, have ever read 
 either the Iliad or the Odyssey ! Shakspeare's 
 name is on the mouth of every one — and yet not a 
 twentieth part, even of the reading community, 
 born in the present century, have ever read his 
 plays ! His name pervades Christendom, but he is 
 read only by an extremely small portion of the 
 British, American and German people ! The ope- 
 3
 
 22 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 
 
 rative fame of Sir Walter Scott has been as great, 
 perhaps, as that of any other author, of modem or 
 even of ancient days, not excepting even Petrarch 
 and Dante ; and yet his numerous works, with all 
 their solid worth, are gradually yielding place to 
 others, whose readers, pressed by the continual 
 flow of new works, can find but little time, even 
 for the Waverly Novels ! So that the day may 
 well come, and may not be distant, when Sir 
 Walter's name^ brilliant, like that of Shakspeare 
 and Milton, will scarce retain sufficient ardour to 
 command the reading attention of one in a thou- 
 sand, even of the reading public ! 
 
 Witness the morbid taste that devours (to the 
 exclusion of almost every other species of intellec- 
 tual nouriture) those really admirable works, now 
 so noised in the world, under the euphonic names 
 of '■Pickwick^ and '■ Niclcleby ^'' awdi ^Slick,'' yea, and 
 also an hundred of the like genus, as destitute, 
 however, of their conceded genius, as is an egg of 
 squareness ! It is not the philosophy, the truth, 
 the morals, or the information, to be extracted from 
 these fashionable volumes, that these fashionable 
 readers are really in search of — for these all, are 
 very apt to be either neglected by such diseased 
 appetites, or, to be wholly evaporated by the keen 
 excitement occasioned by the spicy and ludicrous 
 materials which every where abound in them, and 
 which mainly constitute the vehicle by which they 
 are imparted. Nothing, now-a-days, can render 
 sound knowledge and sober morals even endurable, 
 unless fiction and fu?i be more than prominent —
 
 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 23 
 
 and, doubtless, even all history, metaphysics, yea, 
 perhaps, even mathematics, and our holy religion 
 will have to be ere long, handed over to the 
 broadly grinning pens of this very popular class of 
 writers ! I love to laugh, and heartily too, yet not 
 always, or on all subjects — but such is the mania, 
 now, for the ludicrous, that we may soon look for 
 a Principia Newtoni, edited by some Nicholas 
 Nickleby ; or a Polyglot Bible, illustrated by a 
 second Cruikshanks ! for, unless philosophy be 
 thus disguised by fun, and morals be gilded at all 
 points by the fascinations of romance, I w&qh that 
 all the sohd books of former days will be consigned 
 to the worms, or their contents be cooked up in 
 more palatable dishes from the cuisine of 'Messrs. 
 Jack Downing, Boz, Slick &; Co.!' (an admira- 
 ble firm I admit,) but still, not one that should 
 swallow up such as 'Messrs, Bacon, Shakspeare, 
 Johnson & Co.' and many others that might be 
 named. 
 
 The truth, however, is that the existent, and 
 used literature of almost any age, but especially of 
 our own, when compared with that which is un- 
 known, or forgotten, 'as of the days beyond the 
 flood,' forms but an insignificant portion of the 
 'world of books.' Nearly every age has had its 
 favourite and peculiar knowledge, which has super- 
 seded, or newly fashioned that of preceding times ; 
 and, in looking through the long vista of time, there 
 is nothing in man's history that more forcibly shows 
 the uncertainty of his attainments, and the fleeting 
 duration of even the philosopher's fame, than the
 
 24 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 
 
 thousand systems and theories that rise, culminate, 
 and fall! "Where are now the much vaunted and 
 infallible knowledge of Aristotle, the vortices of 
 Descartes, the learning of the astrologists, the deep 
 researches of the alchemists, the experiments of 
 the phlogistians, and the innumerable other devices 
 of human invention, and of supposed inestimable 
 discovery? — you must seek for them among the 
 things that are forgotten; and though they may 
 have reigned supreme, in their day, as positive 
 knowledge^ and have gained their authors much 
 fame, they are now regarded but as so many idle 
 fancies, that have brought as much reproach, as 
 lustre upon our species ! If, then, in the days of 
 Solomon, he could truly say, '■there is nothing neiv 
 under the sun^ how many cycles, and revolutions, 
 and changes have the great mass of human ideas 
 since performed ! — like the congregated and blend- 
 ed waters of the ocean's vast reservoir, they have 
 assumed an infinitude of forms — they pass into 
 clouds and vapours — they descend on the earth 
 in rain, snow, hail, frosts, and dews — they form 
 springs, and rivulets, and rivers, and lakes and 
 seas ; and at last, disappear in the great abyss ; but 
 again, at various intervals, and under new modifi- 
 caiions, to re-appear in other regions, and in other 
 ages ! 
 
 Whether, in the glorious days of Israel's great 
 monarch, the world were as populous as now, 
 can scarce be known ; but if the copia librorum 
 were then deemed an evil, it must be a still greater 
 one at this lime \ if, indeed, an evil it can be at all.
 
 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 25 
 
 The earth is computed now to contain about eight 
 hundred millions of inhabitants — the larger part of 
 whom are grossly illiterate and without books; 
 and yet, it is not improbable, there are now as 
 many printed and manuscript volumes, (not distinct 
 works) as there are people on the face of the globe; 
 and in Christendom, vastly more! Book-making 
 seems to go on in a kind of geometrical ratio, for 
 the very purpose, it would seem, of keeping pace 
 with population ; thus giving another proof against 
 Mr. Malthus, who says that population increases in 
 that ratio ; but that the supply of food is only an 
 arithmetical progression ! 
 
 Had the millions of volumes that now repose, 
 in dusty oblivion, in our numerous public and 
 private libraries, the faculty of locomotion, and 
 of speech, withal, so as to reveal their hidden 
 treasures to willing auditors, what a march of 
 7?iind would then ensue! But, as matters now 
 are, it would require the press to be vastly more 
 prolific than it is, before its redundancy could be 
 justly regarded, if ever, as an essential evil. We 
 are not used to complain of too much air, nor 
 yet of too much earth, or water; why then of 
 too many books? This per se, cannot occasion a 
 diminution of readers ; nor is it the cause even of 
 superficial reading — neither the quantity, nor the 
 quality being, of itself an evil, much to be com- 
 plained of What, then, is the true ground of 
 complaint? It surely is not over-much reading, 
 nor indiscriminate reading; but merely and wholly 
 that the reading of our day is rather guided by 
 3»
 
 26 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 
 
 fashion, by a love of novelty, and an indomitable 
 passion for excite7neiit, than by any sound judgment 
 and careful selection — and finally, that many per- 
 sons are mere collectors of books, who are mainly 
 content with looking at them ! Were every indi- 
 vidual, on the contrary, true to himself, how idle 
 would the complaint then be, that his field for 
 selection was too vast ! 
 
 Whilst authors, therefore, are humiliated by 
 this unfounded, and oft reiterated lament, readers 
 should remember that the fault is wholly their 
 own; for although the natural atmosphere may 
 be vitiated by many noxious elements flowing 
 into it, the world of good books must continue 
 unchanged, though very many worthless ones may 
 issue daily from the press. Proximity, or juxta- 
 position between books, can occasion no contagion 
 or infection among their contents ; the virtuous 
 and the vicious reciprocally will continue to avoid 
 what suits not their taste ; and after all, the useless 
 and vicious books, compared with those of various 
 degrees of merit, would be found so truly insignifi- 
 cant, as scarce to be worthy of notice. 
 
 All, then, that is required is, that we should 
 abandon a morbid love of novelty, an unmeaning 
 fashion in literature; and select with some judg- 
 ment, from the works of all ages, and of all nations. 
 Were such the conduct oi readers^ with what pride 
 might authors then frequent the now almost deso- 
 late halls of the numerous libraries of Europe — 
 which, though daily visited by a few strangers, to 
 take a passing look at the myriads of printed
 
 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. W 
 
 volumes and manuscripts — and also by a little 
 fraternity, of zealous students, who, in utter disre- 
 gard of fashion pay their ardent homage to the pro- 
 ductions of all ages, and of all nations, are still, 
 comparatively, forsaken halls, because the general 
 public have, of late, too much encouraged the 
 notion that nearly all that dates beyond the present 
 century, should be consigned to the oblivion of 
 dusty shelves, as fit only for professors, for book- 
 worms, and biblio-maniacs — curious to look at, but 
 unfit to be read, except by such devotees ! 
 
 I repeat, then, were readers to select with judg- 
 ment, uninfluenced by fashion, by the love of 
 novelty, and by a mawkish taste for mere excite- 
 ment, authors would feel a just pride at then 
 seeing these libraries crowded with readers ; each 
 taking, as it were from a sea of volumes, to suit 
 his individual taste. Then would the Bodleian, 
 at Oxford, the Library of the British Museum, 
 at London, the BihliotMque du Roi, of Paris, the 
 Lmperial Libraries at Vienna and St. Peters- 
 burg, the Royal Library, at Dresden, and that 
 of the Vatican, be no longer the occasional resort 
 of the idle and merely curious, but the habi- 
 tual rendezvous of crowds of zealous students, 
 offering at the shrine of the congregated genius 
 and learning of all ages, their deepest devotions, 
 without inquiring whether their productions are 
 wet from the press — are in gorgeous binding — or 
 enriched with splendid engravings ! These would, 
 indeed be halcyon days for authors : and then, 
 even the meritorious primer, would receive its
 
 28 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 
 
 meed of notice, and of praise. But, alas ! as mat- 
 ters now are, we are compelled to fear that even 
 Sir Walter, and all who aspire to be classed with 
 him, cannot but have often sighed, when passing 
 through the avenues of these extensive libraries, to 
 find countless volumes of great excellence, and 
 once so famous, now resting in undisturbed and 
 dusty oblivion ; some of them, perhaps, for ages, 
 and many of equal worth, though but a few years 
 old, already placed on remote shelves, among past 
 and nearly forgotten literature ! Did they not 
 therein perceive their own inevitable doom? and 
 was there not a still, small voice that whispered, 
 'see / to this ice must all come at last — nay shortly P 
 Who, then, let me again ask, would write for 
 fame? 
 
 But books, unto some men, and especially unto 
 authors, are as so many idols : and if they be, to a 
 ievT, even loathsome, and to others, things of in- 
 difference, and to many, objects of an unmeaning 
 fashion, occasioning them to be purchased, and, 
 possibly, to be hastily read ; yet all this deters not 
 an author from writing and publishing, so long as 
 he delights in intellectual exertion, and hopes his 
 works may prove useful, even to a select few ! 
 Such an author will remember how often he hath 
 seen (maugre the alleged redundancy of the 
 press) a libraryless scholar of great worth, on the 
 one hand, and a vast collection made by some 
 wealthy, but illiterate and selfish bibliomaniac, 
 on the other, to whom, with old Fuller, he might 
 have said — Salve doctor, sine libris, unto the
 
 ADDRESS TO MT READERS. 29 
 
 former, and Salvite libri, sine doctor e, unto the 
 latter: the one he would strongly encourage with 
 every soothing language ; the other's proud crest 
 he would razee down, until he found for him, his 
 true and ignoble level ! With what exultation, 
 moreover, would such author throw open to the 
 bookless scholar, the recherche library of one of 
 these churlish collectors, whose only connection 
 with books is to see them magnificently bound, 
 fancifully arranged, and caligraphically catalogued! 
 And how different would be the emotions (if any) 
 of such a mere collector, when contemplating his 
 books, from the enthusiasm of Richard de Bury, 
 who, when surveying his library, exclaimed — Hi 
 sunt magistri qui nos instruunt sitie vergis et 
 ferula, sine verbis et colera, sine 'pane et pecunia. 
 Si accedis non dormiu7it ; si enquiris non se abscon- 
 dunt ; non remurmurant si oberres ; cachinos si 
 ignores. The li.ke feelings also actuated Bar- 
 THOLiNi, in his dissertation De libris legendi, 
 when he thus naively and laconically declares, the 
 praises of books — Sine libris, Deus jam silet, Jus- 
 titia quiescity torpet Medicina, Philosophia manca 
 est, LettercB multm, omnia tenebris involuta dm- 
 meriis: and Cicero, contemplating a friend sur- 
 rounded by a library, evidently regarded it as 
 among the most enviable of conditions — Emn 
 vidi in Bibliotheca sedentem, multis circumfusis 
 LIBRIS. Est enim, ut sis, in eo inexhausta 
 AviDiTAS legendi, nee sactiari protest. 
 
 An author, then, has both an abstract, and a 
 practical delight in books; and possesses none of
 
 30 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 
 
 those niggard motives, which a crude and miscel- 
 laneous world would impute to him. Even fame, 
 with its silvery sounds, and golden promises to the 
 ear, comes late, if it comes at all ; and passes but 
 feebly over his mind, as an incitement to exertion. 
 And, be he an author of primers, or of folios — of 
 fancy's tales, or of the weightier matters of Law 
 or of Metaphysics, his own gratification is ever 
 sufficient for him, without the adscititious aid of a 
 fame, which, if it happen to extend much beyond 
 his own localities, is still very sure to perish, long 
 before his paternal dwelling, though of wood, has 
 sought its kindred earth ! ! 
 
 I have said thus much to account, as well as it 
 may, for the small share I have had, or may have, 
 in authorship : but, Gentle Reader, of this be 
 assured ; I care not a carlino what thy opinion 
 may be ; for, if this volume, the preceding ones, 
 and those which may follow, be without merit, I 
 should be the last to desire to see them valued ; but, 
 if they prove worthy, they will not be neglected, 
 by some few — at least, among people of judg- 
 ment, — and, as to the rest, they are a '■profanwn 
 vulgus^ of whom, if I do not say '■odi et arceo^ it 
 is not because I do not feel so ; for truly, it is not 
 in my nature to covet their admiration. 
 
 David Hoffman. 
 
 Baltimore, June, 1S39.
 
 PEEP INTO MY NOTE BOOK. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I. THE LONDON CROSSINGS. — II. CHRISTIAN BURIAL — 071 <«T/IS. 
 III. SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. — IV. THE YOUNG 
 INEBRIATE. 
 
 NOTE I. — THE LONDON CROSSINGS. 
 
 It is said that nature abhors a vacuum, and, of 
 course, that she loves a plenum ! Now, as it seems 
 to me, there is in this more than, at once, meets 
 the eye ; for in truth, this principle is the copious 
 source of all the action and vitality of life. Hence 
 is it that the infinitesimal interstices of time, which 
 by the idle are not only thrown away, but are to 
 them absolutely invisible, are to the industrious, 
 fragments of great moment, out of which they 
 compose hours, days, and weeks of usefulness ; 
 and, by collecting them, they Met no particle of 
 time fall useless to the ground.' So, likewise, in 
 crowded communities, thousands, nay millions, 
 live on the very refuse and parings of the innu-
 
 32 THE LONDON CROSSINGS. 
 
 merable vocations of life, which in the detail seem 
 valueless, but in the aggregate will be found to 
 sustain the larger portion of human, and of other 
 existences ! 
 
 A traveller can scarce occupy himself more 
 amusingly, and profitably, withal, than in solving 
 the difficulty that is sure to present itself to his 
 mind, on passing through the teeming streets of 
 an immense city — when he involuntarily asks 
 himself, 'what is it that sustains these myriads 
 of people, how is it that they seem to live upon 
 one another?' not indeed, by that great law of 
 nature, the bellum omnium in omiiia, but by a 
 principle the reverse of this ; for they reciprocally 
 create for each other's use, but most of them in so 
 minute a way, as nearly to elude detection. To 
 find out the secret, then, of this great problem, you 
 must not only visit their manufactories of every 
 kind, great and small, but you must go into the 
 abodes of poverty, and of untold wretchedness, and 
 examine how, and on what, they live ; and you 
 will there find that there is absolutely preserved 
 from destruction, and converted to innumerable 
 salutary purposes, more than the closet philosopher 
 can well credit ; and that the poveri, whose sole 
 employment, during many hours of the day, is the 
 collection of these offals, are not only thereby sus- 
 taining themselves, but adding immensely to the 
 augmentation of individual and national wealth ! 
 
 This politico-economical exordium may, possi- 
 bly, seem as little connected with the theme of my 
 note, as an Ionic capital on an Egyptian column !
 
 THE LONDON CROSSINGS. 33 
 
 but the phenomena of mental associations would 
 soon explain this; and he is no metaphysician who 
 would expect that I should stop and explain it. 
 
 On a chilly November day, I found myself 
 enveloped in a yellow and black, humid, and 
 dirty atmosphere, not unappropriately called, in 
 this mammoth town, 'pea-soup weather !' The 
 crossijigs as usual were somewhat dry and fast 
 land, with a wall of villanous mixture on either 
 side, which seemed to have a provoking proclivity 
 to run in upon the path, in spite of the man, 
 woman, or child, as the case might be, with a 
 stout birch broom, who assiduously applied it, 
 with one eye intent on their office, and the other, 
 no less so, on the numerous persons that, on tip- 
 toe, were hurriedly passing over. These sweepers 
 had generally received my grateful attention ; but, 
 in passing over Old Cavendish street, a very inte- 
 resting little girl, barefooted, and in rags, importu- 
 nately solicited the customary charity which, from 
 the haste I was then in, or from the influences of 
 the murky atmosphere, I know not which, I rudely 
 checked and dismissed her penniless! Proceeding 
 on my way, my heart was ill at ease ; and my 
 hand coming in contact with my purse, admo- 
 nished me of my cruel rebuff, — so that my steps 
 were soon retraced to seek the little sufferer. 
 
 'Are you not very cold, my little girl?' — 'Indeed, 
 yes sir, and hungry too ; I hurt my foot, (which 
 was tied up in a coarse rag,) and it pains me very 
 much this muddy weather.' 'Have you a mother?' 
 rejoined I — 'No sir, this autumn is three years 
 4
 
 34 THE LONDON CROSSINGS. 
 
 since my mother died.' 'And your father?' 'He 
 is a tin workman, is very poor, and not able now 
 to do work, having chopped off his fore finger; I 
 have three sisters and one brother.' 'At what time 
 of day do you come to this work ?' 'At eleven 
 o'clock, your honour, every day, saving Sunday, 
 and leave off at five ; but before eleven, I pick up 
 old rags, paper, twine, and any thing, and make 
 a ievj half pence, almost every day, in that way.' 
 A flood of thought, as well as of feeling, rushed 
 into my mind : 'this little utilitarian,' said I men- 
 tally, 'is more nobly and profitably employed in 
 her humble vocation, than many of the children 
 of afiiuence ; we often curse the flies, and thou- 
 sand insects that crowd the air, and treat them 
 rudely, and even murder them recklessly, though 
 God hath assigned them, in procuring their daily 
 sustenance, the salutary office of purifying the air, 
 that man may breathe it the more freely ! and I, 
 regardless of a like great law, would have chubbed 
 this poor child, who in her humble station, forms 
 a link, however small, in the great chain that binds 
 together the countless occupations of life !' 
 
 Recovering from this momentary, and rapid 
 musing, 'but little girl, are you quite sure you 
 are telling me the truth ?' 'Oh yes sir, my mother 
 and father always told me how great a sin it is to 
 tell lies ; and our Sunday-school teachers tell us 
 that constantly.' 'Well, come with me, and you 
 shall have a pair of shoes.' No painter, nor sculp- 
 tor, nor well devised words, could portray the 
 heavenly expression that played over the child's
 
 THE LONDON CROSSINGS. 35 
 
 countenance at this announcement ! Surprise, and 
 joy, and gratitude, all delightfully blended, beamed 
 from her face, removed every insidious doubt; and, 
 at once, more than thrice repaid me. As she fol- 
 lowed on, looking for a shoe-store, I proposed to 
 enter one. If you please sir, not in there, I should 
 like to get a good strong serviceable pair, and I 
 fear none such could be got there, they are made 
 for the quality folks.' So 1 abandoned myself to 
 her direction ; and arriving at one, 'perhaps you'd 
 be so good as to give me a pair of quarter- boots, 
 they would keep me much warmer than shoes, and 
 would serve me longer.' Her preference was grati- 
 fied, and she perfectly fitted. By this time, the 
 child had winned greatly upon my sympathies, 
 and her cold feet, now clad, reminded me of stock- 
 ings — these were soon procured, — but this com- 
 fortable equipment ill assorted with the thin and 
 miserable rags around her person ; so we entered 
 another store, and a warm flannel petticoat was 
 added to her stock ; which however, so poorly 
 suited to come in contact with her tattered frock, 
 that this deficiency was also supplied. 'And now, 
 my little girl, here is a shilling for your dinner' — 
 and so we parted, she to her crossings, and I to 
 my almost forgotten visit. On arriving at the spot 
 where the 'still small voice' had turned me back to 
 my duty, I breathed far more freely, and marvelled 
 to think how much balm to my own feelings had 
 been procured, for the paltry sum of fifteen shil- 
 lings ; the little girl I met again ; but more of that 
 anon.
 
 36 THE LONDON CROSSINGS. 
 
 My visit being accomplished, I was much struck 
 on my return, close to the same crossings, with the 
 unique appearance of a lame, and tattered negro, 
 as much like 'Jim Crow' as two peas; my heart 
 yearned towards him, for I thought of my own 
 dear country, and supposed he was from thence — 
 such being the sympathy that often springs up, 
 in a foreign land, which like misery, makes us 
 willing to claim strange fellowships ! 
 
 'And what is your employment, Csesar?' 'Why, 
 massa, my name is not Casar, but I picks up a 
 few pence in doing almost any thing. I wanted a 
 crossing, but that there little gal yonder, would'nt 
 let me distarb her, for she had it long fust ago, 
 and so its not consionable for me to do so, massa.' 
 'I am glad you think so, your conscience spoke 
 truly ; and I hope you will never trouble that 
 little girl — for if she be as good as she seems to 
 be, I will protect her — but where did you come 
 from, and what brought you to the country ?' 
 "Why, massa, I am from St. Kitts, and am wait- 
 ing for my money.' 'For your money! my good 
 man, why what do you mean?' 'It's fourteen 
 thousand pounds, massa, th^e money is all here, 
 and I have the certificate from the commissioner.' 
 'Why, then, are you now so poor, and naked, and 
 who withholds your money?' 'Why, massa, I 
 don't comperhend, at all, why I don't get it — I 
 have been told so many things about it, which 
 I don't comperhend, that I begin to be affeard I 
 shall nebber get it at all.' 'Have you any one to 
 attend to it?' 'Yes, massa, a lawyer, but he seems
 
 THE LONDON CROSSINGS. 37 
 
 to me a small one, not a qualitij one ; but the Afri- 
 can Sciety has lately promised to get it for me — so 
 ray lawyer, I spose, must gin it up, and I shall be 
 rite glad on it.' 'Well, my good fellow, I suppose 
 all you tell me is true?' 'Lord, massa, I'll go this 
 instant wid you to the Sciety.' 'Well, then, here's 
 a half crown, so, good morning.' 
 
 What a microcosm is this London ! It verily 
 seemeth to me that here may be found an exem- 
 plar of every variety of the human race the world 
 affords ; and that man has never yet been carica- 
 tured, not even by that prince of caricaturists, 
 CruikshanUs ; who having painted individuals 
 faithfully from the life, and happily blended and 
 concentrated them under humorous associations, 
 has produced effects so truly amusing, and, appa- 
 rently, so exaggerated, that the realities of life 
 seem, at first, to be lost in the mere creations of 
 a fertile imagination — but let this pass. 
 
 A few days after the occurrences I have men- 
 tioned, I had occasion again to pass the crossing 
 in Cavendish street, and how great was my morti- 
 fication in seeing the little sweeping girl clad in 
 her former rags, and even with naked feet ! She 
 instantly recognized me, and responded to my 
 silent and penetrating look of reproof, by a manner 
 so truly artless, and with such an openness of 
 countenance, as, at once, in great part, restored 
 my confidence. 'What have you done with the 
 clothes, and why are you again almost naked V 
 'I am trying to get them back again from our land- 
 lord, who took all from me, for my father's rent ! 
 4*
 
 38 THE LONDON CROSSINGS. 
 
 We have to pay him every Saturday night, and it 
 is now three Saturdays since he got any, except 
 the shining your honour gave me, and one of my 
 own ; he has been very kind in waiting so long, 
 and in one week more I hope I shall pay him all ; 
 the things are all safe, I saw them all this morn- 
 ing, and if you will go with me, you can count 
 them all yourself I promptly looked and acted 
 assent to her proposition, and she and I were soon 
 at the door of the flinty-hearted and merciless 
 landlord. Surely it was no apple, however beau- 
 tiful in varied hues, and mellow with delicious 
 juices, that could have brought 'death into the 
 world, with all our woes' — but palpable coined 
 money ! — money, not only the 'root,' but the stem, 
 branch, bud, flower, seed, and fruit 'of all evil !' 
 
 She bid me enter, and spoke to those within, of 
 her hope to pay them all in a week or more, to 
 redeem her clothes — nothing, however, but the 
 monosyllables, 'well,' 'good,' 'do so,' escaped the 
 lips of those around her, who seemed to be the 
 landlord and his tender-hearted companion for hfe ! 
 My heart sickened within me, I could not speak — 
 I was satisfied of her perfect truth, and of man's 
 more than barbarous nature: and suddenly leaving 
 the little girl, I hastened home, resolved to pour 
 out the full torrent of my indignant feeling in a 
 more tangible and enduring form, than in rash and 
 spoken words ! And such a letter ! ! — but there it 
 rests, as first it was recorded in my note-book — 
 and there it shall remain, unscrutinized by other 
 eye than his who penned it — and why? — because
 
 CHRISTIAN BURIAL — 071 ierms. 39 
 
 the little girl, with far better sense than mine, 
 thankfully handed me back my ireful epistle, when 
 I called at the crossings at the close of the week, 
 with the seal unbroken, saying, 'you see, sir, our 
 landlord has been paid by me, and I have now 
 my clothes on. I feared his great anger against 
 my father, if I delivered your letter, and so I hope 
 your honour will excuse me in disobeying your 
 order.' 'I truly do, my little girl, and am happy 
 to find you far more discreet than myself.'^ So 
 taking my leave, I found that I had learned from 
 this child at the crossings, three things — that we 
 can live happily and virtuously on very little — that 
 an economical people may live on what a thriftless 
 people (as we Americans) set little or no s^ore by — 
 and lastly, that it is often far better to be coun- 
 selled, as this child was, by the calculations of 
 prudence, than by the impulses of feeling, as I 
 was, however honest they may have been. 
 
 NOTE II. CHRISTIAN BURIAL 071 terms. 
 
 The sun had just set, in glowing colours, 
 through a mass of transparent clouds, that hung 
 
 over the summit of Monte , when I arrived at 
 
 the only locanda of a small village, situate at the 
 foot of the mountain. The house had a most 
 forbidding aspect ; but the wearied traveller in 
 Italy, is sometimes not permitted to be fastidious ; 
 and is most happy to obtain shelter and food, 
 however indifferent they promise to be. My car- 
 riage door was incontinently beset, by a crowd of
 
 40 CHRISTIAN BURIAL — 071 terms. 
 
 miserable old men, haggered old women, impo- 
 verished children, bandit-looking young men ; all 
 of them the importunately begging poveri of a dirty 
 and dilapidated town ; which, if it had ever known 
 better days, could only have been in some pre- 
 ceding century ! The rudeness with which the 
 padrone soon made an opening for me, through 
 this mass of human depravity and wretchedness, 
 greatly shocked me for a moment ; until finding 
 that they pressed in upon me, at all sides, exposing 
 their deformed and horridly diseased limbs, as 
 provocatives to my bounty, and forcing themselves 
 with me up a long flight of muddy stone stairs, to 
 the very door of the salle a manger^ I became 
 assured that locks and bolts, as well as the pa- 
 drone's harshness, were needed for my protection, — 
 they being quite too numerous to be appeased by 
 alms, in an ordinary way. 
 
 The room door, however, was finally closed 
 against them ; and the servants, in time, obtained 
 the mastery over them, on the outside ; but from 
 the windows I perceived they had resumed their 
 former station before the portal, — apparently in 
 readiness for other comers ! Shortly after, a small 
 two-horse berlin drove up, and a like attack was 
 made upoa it. The crowd, however, on finding 
 that the vetturino had to take the only individual 
 it contained, in his arms, and carry him up stairs, 
 he being apparently, nearly in the article of death, 
 quietly retired from the house, as if superstitiously 
 shocked with the presage of death, so likely soon 
 to follow ! The unfortunate stranger was taken
 
 CHRISTIAN BURIAL — 071 terms. 41 
 
 by the vetturino, into a gloomy and damp cham- 
 ber, destitute of fire and carpet, and so barren of 
 every comfort, even for a well man, that all the 
 beauties and charms of Italy were, for the moment, 
 forgotten by me ; and I felt as if the whole land 
 was cursed with ignorance, superstition, vice, dis- 
 gusting maladies, and hopeless beggary ! All who 
 have visited that country must, I think, have 
 experienced the like alternations of feeling, — for 
 beauty and deformity — wealth and poverty — mag- 
 nificence and meanness — adoration and profanity — 
 piety and superstition — ignorance and learning — 
 cleanliness and beastiality — genial sunny skies and 
 gloomy chilling blasts — lovely women and loath- 
 some hags, are all more strangely blended, and 
 more frequently witnessed there, than, perhaps, 
 in any other land ! 
 
 Italy is truly a country greatly blessed of God, 
 and cursed of man — one to be loved and hated — 
 sought and avoided — praised and blamed ; — a coun- 
 try that all must desire to visit, few to live and die 
 in — a land of numerous reminiscences, quite as 
 full of pain, as of pleasure — a land where civilized 
 man was never greater, and yet where civilized 
 man was never more debased — a land, in fine, 
 where may be culled all that ennobles, and all that 
 dishonours our species ! Is it strange, then, that 
 a traveller should experience over his feelings, 
 these passing clouds that obscure, for a time, the 
 recollection of better things? I think not — and so 
 it was with me, when I beheld an interesting 
 youth, who had come from some distant country,
 
 42 CHRISTIAN BURIAL — ou tevms. 
 
 to seek among these far famed, 'soft blue skies, and 
 balmy air,' a medicament for diseased lungs, and 
 a half expiring constitution, lying in a room so 
 cheerless, so comfortless, as this ! And yet, how 
 often have travelling invalids to experience this 
 and still more, in Italy ! Let none such come, 
 unattended by erery mean-s of securing all the 
 advantages and comforts that may there be found — 
 for they do exist, but are only to be obtained with 
 some care, and with no little exercise of prudence ; 
 but, in the absence of these, Italy, as it seems to 
 me, is the last of countries that a diseased man 
 should seek. This digression ended, proceed we 
 now to the object of our Note. — The chamber 
 door, of the diseased youth, was beset with the 
 curious lookers-on ; some of whom were crossing 
 themselves, as if in the immediate presence of the 
 grim monarch, for the youth seemed in much pain, 
 and looked upwards, with so intense a gaze, that 
 heaven was manifestly the sole object of his 
 thoughts. Appliances for the body were not for a 
 moment thought of — the stranger's soul demanded 
 instant ministration ; and a shorn and belted priest, 
 of 'holy catholic church,' was soon in the stran- 
 ger's presence. 
 
 'You seem very ill, my young friend,' said the 
 padre^ 'and I have come to make your path to 
 heaven, as smooth as may be, to us sinners.' 'I 
 am, indeed, very ill,' replied the youth, 'and have 
 need of spiritual comfort, — much of which I find 
 in this blessed volume — but I truly thank you 
 for your pious errand.' 'This volume is indeed.
 
 CHRISTIAN BURIAL — Oil terms. 43 
 
 the door to life eternal,' rejoined the padre,'' (taking 
 the protestant testament from his spiritual patient, 
 eyeing it with a rapid scrutiny, then laying it 
 silently on the table, and abruptly, but softly, inter- 
 rogating him,) 'do you die a catholic V 'I hope,' 
 said the youth 'to die a christian.'' 'True, my 
 young friend, but I wish to hear you say, you die 
 a catholic christian.' 'I find no such an adjunct 
 in any of the Scriptures,' gently added the young 
 man. 'That may well be so, to your vision; but 
 you will find it in all of the Fathers of our holy 
 church, who understood the Scriptures, and knew 
 the traditions of our religion far better than yoa 
 do, — and they were all catholics.' 'Is it not now 
 too late for me to settle such nice points of faith V 
 feebly rejoined the youth. 'It is never too late — > 
 remember the thief upon the cross !' 'True, sir, it 
 can never be too late to repent, which the thief 
 did, but without having time to solve any of the 
 deep questions that might, even then, have been 
 put to him ; and which, if put, could have only 
 uselessly agitated his soul — my reply to you, my 
 good friend, is, that I humbly trust I shall die 
 a christian.' 'But how can you be a christian, 
 unless you are a catholic ; is not i\\e faith one, and 
 the church oneV 'The faith, indeed, oii^ht to be 
 one, and the church one ;' rejoined the young man, 
 'but alas ! I find a thousand faiths, and as many 
 churches ; and hence, padre, I do desire to go 
 back to the first faith, and to the first church.' 
 The eyes of the importunate son of the church, 
 brightened with pleasure at these words ; but the
 
 44 CHRISTIAN BURIAL — on tcrms. 
 
 youth continned. 'Alas ! where can I find this 
 unmixed faith, and primitive church ? I see it not 
 among the cathoHcs, nor yet even among the pro- 
 testants ; and therefore is it that I would seek to be 
 a mere christian, with no other prefix or affix ; and 
 this, as it seems to me, can be found only in the 
 Holy Scriptures, designed for babes, as well as for 
 learned Fathers.' The padre suddenly arose, 
 bowed, and retired, — audibly muttering, 'had he 
 but said he died a catholic, he would have had a 
 christian burial — but now, he must be laid in the 
 earth as a heathen, or a dog !' 
 
 I could contain myself no longer. I had wit- 
 nessed the colloquy, with some vexation of spirit, 
 and no little astonishment — but this last unfeeling 
 intimation to a dying man, nearly overwhelmed 
 me; and, approaching his bed, I gently took the 
 youth's hand, 'you have fought a good fight,' said 
 I, 'and in me, you will find a friend wiihoui con- 
 ditions.'' He ardently thanked me — but his time 
 had evidently come — he died that night ! 
 
 On the following day I sought out the padre, 
 and his holy associates ; but they were all inflexi- 
 ble — so the youth was deposited in unhallowed 
 ground, alongside of no mortal ! but, I confess, I 
 was pleased to find no lights burning around his 
 remains, no orisons olfered up, by such earthy 
 christians, who seemed so much more to value a 
 confession of catholic faith, than the heart-felt out- 
 pourings of a primitive christian repentance ! No 
 latin formulas, moreover, were pronounced over 
 his coffin ; but he was unceremoniously laid in his
 
 SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 45 
 
 solitary grave — far — far from his home and friends ; 
 whilst the by-standers were looking on, to see how 
 a heathen should be buried ; and some of the dig- 
 nitaries of the church were, also, hard-by, seeming 
 to look i?idig7iaiioti, that such youthful firmness 
 could resist, in a catholic land, the importunities 
 and threats of the 'Holy Mother Church.' 
 
 NOTE HI. SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 
 
 Man is essentially a social being — society is 
 his natural element — all the amiable affections of 
 the heart receive in it their due expansion — all the 
 powers of his mind are there invigorated; and, if 
 he may suffer the poisons which float in its atmos- 
 phere to corrupt him, so may he also be sure of 
 being strongly nourished by the elements of good 
 which every where abound. There are some who 
 are misanthropes, so there are atheists ; but as 
 even the existence of the latter has been doubted, 
 the former are almost equally rare. 
 
 To me it has been ever most evident, that those 
 who mix freely, but not lavishly with the world, 
 are often, not only more exempt from narrow pre- 
 judices, and from vulgar jealousies, but that their 
 morals, and even their religion, when they once 
 overtly profess it, are apt to be of the most elevated 
 and truly christian stamp : whereas, those who, 
 from any cause, habitually shun the converse of 
 society, especially, if from fear of the contagion of 
 bad example, are very apt to fall into greater errors 
 themselves ; and frequently, by an over-saintly 
 5
 
 46 SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 
 
 avoidance of communion, foster such a self-com- 
 placency, false pride, and uncharitable view of 
 men and things, as are greatly at variance with 
 that bland and holy spirit which so eminently 
 marked their great Master. 
 
 I have scarcely ever seen man or woman, after 
 retiring from their associations, and habitually 
 seeking for happiness in the resources of their own 
 minds, in their books, or even in their own parti- 
 cular cliques, who weie not somewhat deficient in 
 christimi charity! They may have abandoned 
 many vices, they may have conformed to many 
 new and excellent rules of life, and very properly 
 have separated themselves from many, nay, from 
 most of their former associations, and yet have 
 gone too far in looking for the virtues — the solaces 
 of the heart — the guards of religion, in retirement. 
 An acerbity of temper, a jaundiced view of life, a 
 melancholy contemplation of religion, a narrow 
 conception of the glories of nature, and even of 
 the attributes of Deity, seem almost universally 
 to predominate in such people. 
 
 Those who selfishly avoid the world, that they 
 may shun the possibility of contagion, are, indeed, 
 less criminal than those who perseveringly fre- 
 quent it, with no other view than to reap its 
 pleasures, with an heart unmindful of the great 
 Author of all sources of rational enjoyment : but 
 the loftiest christian character is he who contem- 
 plates all life as a vast garden, full of beauteous 
 flowers, of goodly trees and shrubs bearing whole- 
 some and savoury fruits, — a garden refreshed by 
 many rivulets, and limpid fountains, pouring forth
 
 SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 47 
 
 Streams of living waters ! And though there be in 
 it many rocks, and precipices, and noxious weeds, 
 and quicksands, and muddy pools, yet remembers 
 that Man is every where to be found therein — 
 every where to be ministered unto — every where 
 to be sought after ; and that his province is to dwell 
 in this garden, seeking whom lie may serve, never 
 solely intent on securing the goods and avoiding 
 the evils ; but, whilst he is constantly striving to 
 rescue some from the dangers that may beset 
 them, takes due care of himself, lest he be dashed 
 from the precipices, poisoned by the weeds, or be 
 merged in the pools and quicksands, that may 
 environ his paths. 
 
 When SiMiLis withdrew himself from court, 
 perhaps, from satiated appetites, and became an 
 impassioned admirer (all at once) of retirement, 
 which he indulged in during the seven last years 
 ui his life— he prepared the following inscription 
 foi* his tomb : 
 
 'Here lies Similis. His life was seventy-six years; 
 
 He lived but seven!' 
 
 Were we, however, to inquire minutely into the 
 arcana of Similis' life during these vaunted seven 
 years, it is quite probable we should find it stained 
 by much of selfism ; and brightened by less of 
 charity towards his species, than during his long 
 period at court, though surrounded by so many 
 worldly glories ; and that, on the whole, he bene- 
 fitted many more, during the years he would thus 
 unceremoniously have expunged from the recol- 
 lection of his existence, than during the seven
 
 48 SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 
 
 years of his beloved and rigid retirement. The 
 life of a courtier may, indeed, be characterized by 
 uselessness, folly, and vice ; but it may be equally 
 full of beneficence, of wisdom, and of virtue. The 
 error, then of Similis was double, first in not fully 
 improving the wide field which his courtly station 
 afforded him — and next, in supposing that seclu- 
 sion from the world could benefit either himself or 
 others. In the world, we may do much good — in 
 retirement, this is scarce possible. In the presence 
 of man, we see things as they are, and learn how 
 to avoid and to mitigate evils ; but in seclusion a 
 veil is drawn before us, that either obscures, or 
 falsely colours most things. And yet we should 
 not fail to distinguish the life of a religeuse, how- 
 ever recluse it may be, from that of a disappointed 
 and exhausted worldling, who seeks retirement 
 from misanthropy, having at the same time, none 
 of those consolations that flow from communion 
 ■with the spiritual world. The former, though apt 
 to entertain some erroneous views of his duties 
 towards God and man, is still most honest in his 
 purposes ; has a peaceful conscience ; and is in the 
 direct road to Heaven. His partial demerit con- 
 sists in falsely supposing that life, as it is, must be 
 wholly shunned by him, since communion with it 
 brings either imitation, Hhat siains our innocetice^'' 
 or disapproval, that '■woimds our peace.'' This, 
 however, as it seems to me, is false philosophy ; 
 for, as piety consists as nuich with society, as with 
 retirement, imitation of folly, or of vice is far from 
 being a necessary result; and disapproval of them,
 
 SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 49 
 
 SO far from being a source of wounded peace, is a 
 high duty, the performance of which may well be 
 a source of happiness. 
 
 Seclusion from society, on the other hand, when 
 it springs from the satiety of too much enjoyment ; 
 or from wounded ambition, which generates misan- 
 thropy, is generally a mental disease that should 
 excite pity, rather than strong reproach. It is a 
 state, moreover, barely consistent with religion of 
 any kind; for, the mind disgusted with the remi- 
 niscences of sated passions, or brooding over the 
 past, with vain regrets at disappointed schemes, 
 looks not to the future, either here or hereafter, as 
 a source of calm enjoyment ; and all that such a 
 mind can then hope for, would be little more than 
 a negative or joyless existence. 
 
 But, dismissing these two classes, is there any 
 other really recluse life that is sustained by posi- 
 tive merit? Not one that my fancy, even, can 
 well conceive — for, the retirement, so fascinatingly 
 described by the poets, is but a withdrawal from 
 the pleasures, the cares, and the responsibilities 
 of hfe, that we may luxuriate in enjoyments of 
 another kind : it is but changing the scene, bring- 
 ing with it, indeed, no disgust of life; and is 
 nothing more than decided preference of novel to 
 past pursuits, of the soberness of reflection, to 
 the turmoil of action ; of quietude, to scenes of 
 excitement — all of which perfectly consists witli 
 an enlarged charity, and with the most elevated 
 views of life's utilities. This can scarce be called 
 retirement at all, it is but the bodifs absence, the 
 
 5»^
 
 50 SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 
 
 mind is often in the world, often in society. But 
 when retirement begins to generate the least 
 moroseness ; and when the mind commences 
 to prey on itself, the sweet waters of life soon 
 become embittered ; their gentle currents, though 
 but little agitated by exterior causes, are much 
 disturbed by those which rage within ; and it is 
 not long before the savage feelings of our nature 
 are displayed in bold relief! 
 
 The transition from scenes of activity, whether 
 of usefulness or the reverse, to those of inaction 
 and retirement, is seldom attended by an increased 
 stock of real happiness, or with a genuine meliora- 
 tion of the moral and intellectual character ; and it 
 is too often the case, that those who, without full 
 consideration, abandon the town, for the solitude 
 of the country, greatly degenerate in both. 
 
 Those who, after being long accustomed to the 
 elegant refinements of high and poUshed life, seek, 
 from any cause, seclusion, seldom retain that buoy- 
 ancy of manners, that amiableness of feelings, that 
 generosity of opinion, and, finally, that amenity 
 in all things, which had previously marked them. 
 What once was liked, has now become offensive 
 to them; they surrender themselves to discontent 
 and peevishness; and if not, they have often con- 
 tracted, insensibly and unconsciously, other habits, 
 and other manners, which place them ill at ease, 
 when accident or necessity brings them occasion- 
 ally into life. Now, all this may, and should be 
 carefully avoided ; first, by never permitting our- 
 selves, when in full association with life, to be
 
 SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 51 
 
 seduced by its fascinations into any actions or 
 habits, so essentially wrong, as to cause such 
 regrets, when the sober judgments of retirement 
 pass them in review; and secondly, by so stu- 
 diously guarding our hearts and minds, after we 
 have sought seclusion, that they shall retain, as 
 jewels worthy of preservation, all the amiable 
 traits of character we may have cherished, when 
 shining as brilliant stars, in a brilliant society — 
 and lastly, by occluding from our minds, as fatal 
 to our peace, those vulgar and unfounded notions, 
 so common with the recluse, that the world has 
 been daily growing worse sifice we left it ! 
 
 Were these the actuating principles of conduct 
 when we have abandoned the gayeties of life, for 
 the supposed charms of solitude, how rich in sub- 
 stantial enjoyments might a life of retirement then 
 become ! But, when society is forsaken from mis- 
 taken views of religion — from the satiety of too 
 much enjoyment by ill regulated minds — from the 
 disgusts consequent upon disappointed ambition — 
 from a wayward and unsettled temper which fan- 
 cies happiness attendant upon novelty and conti- 
 nued change — or lastly, from romantically seeking 
 after the charms of solitude, as they are delineated 
 by the poet, or the novelist; who does not perceive 
 that the result must be inevitable defeat of expec- 
 tations, filling the mind with harsh views of all 
 that was once familiar to them, and with but little 
 power to separate, justly, the good from the evil? 
 
 Give me, then, the man or woman who fears not 
 the world; lest their morals and religion may suf-
 
 52 SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 
 
 fer — commend me to those who, whilst they judi- 
 ciously and conscientiously avoid temptations, have 
 the moral courage to labour in the vineyard, and to 
 meet and resist them — to those who view life as 
 full of sweets, as well as of bitters, though infi- 
 nitely blended — to those who regard it as their 
 duty to cull, with unvarying care, the goods so 
 bounteously lavished around us, though mixed 
 with evils equally to be shunned — to those, in 
 fine, who boldly use their talent^ and labour with 
 it in the world^ — and not to those who, fearing the 
 contagion of the world, would bury their talent. 
 
 Whether, however, it has been erroneous views 
 of our duty to God, to man, or to ourselves, that 
 have urged a worldling into solitude, we generally 
 find that people who live in a corner, are very apt 
 to imagine every thing peculiar to themselves ! 
 This contracted thought, begets selfishness, arro- 
 gance, silly prejudices, and acerb tempers; so that 
 it may well be doubted, whether it be possible to 
 indulge in a segregation from society, and from the 
 social principle towards our species, without nuich 
 impairment of the noble qualities of the mind, and 
 the best affections of the heart. And I have ever 
 been forced to think that these solitaries, though 
 they may have been once among the most elite of 
 an extensive and brilliant society, had then taken 
 to their bosom a serpent, which their new habits 
 could scarce fail to nourish; and which, in time, 
 would poison unto death, their newly sought hap- 
 piness. 
 
 Even such as from worldly motives, partialhj
 
 SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 53 
 
 retire ; and, in the midst of a populous city, seek 
 to be exclusives, are sure to reap an abundant 
 harvest of jealousies, of crude prejudices, and of 
 acerb feelings, destructive of that serenity which 
 springs from peace, and from generous relations 
 with all around us. By this, however, I would by 
 no means inculcate the impracticable notion that 
 society can, or should be one ; and that the man of 
 virtue, of intelligence, and of refinement, is not to 
 be permitted to steer his course, if easily he may, 
 from the vicious, the ignorant, and the vulgar ; 
 and towards those with whom he can assimilate. 
 
 Society truly has its various and distinctive ele- 
 ments ; which, by a law of affinities, settle down, 
 as unerringly, into separate classes, as do the natu- 
 ral elements, by their various chemical attractions, 
 into distinct bodies. All, then, that I do mean is 
 that, whenever these exclusives become desirous to 
 study these moral aflinilies with an over-nice exac- 
 titude, they introduce thereby into their afiections, 
 an anti-social principle, that will infallibly diminish 
 their happiness; and further, tlmt all who, from 
 any cause, prefer seclusion to such an indulgence 
 of society as springs from the most generous feel- 
 ings towards the human family, will, soon or late, 
 find the amaranthine verdure of life parched up ; 
 its clear skies often overcast ; and its pure and 
 limpid waters mostly bitter and turbid. 
 
 All ages, conditions, tempers, and pursuits of life 
 have, indeed, their own and appropriate society ; 
 and, in the autumn, or winter of life, nature, as 
 well as God, admonishes us of the nearness, even
 
 54 SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 
 
 to the door, of other scenes of far greater interest, 
 as they are eternal in the heavens ! But this is no 
 reason why the whole of life is so to be regarded. 
 In one sense, truly, every one from the cradle to 
 the grave^ should live as if these extremes were 
 separated by no interval of time — that is, he should 
 be ever pious : but the most sublimated piety, as 
 we think, is far from inculcating that the active 
 exercise of our affections is to be invariably the 
 same through life — a notion contradicted by all the 
 analogies of nature, and of every feeling both of 
 soul and body. 
 
 The dictate of true wisdom, then, is to live every 
 where and under all circumstances, as a social 
 being; to enjoy society in such degrees and kinds, 
 as shall banish all moroseness, all local and indi- 
 vidual prejudices; and so to live in the world as to 
 reap its fruits, and to use them without stint, and 
 yet without excess. Were this more generally the 
 case, the gossiping portion of our species, whether 
 in, or out of society, would greatly diminish ; and 
 solitude would only be occasionally sought (as it 
 ever should be) as a season of relaxation from 
 mental or bodily excitements, and as an appro- 
 priate time for that sober and calm reflection, which 
 every mortal needs. But, when retirement is car- 
 ried beyond this salutary limit, it tends to evil, by 
 giving to the ever vigilant enemy of human hap- 
 piness, far better opportunities for overwhelming 
 temptation, than he ordinarily possesses over well 
 regulated minds in society. 
 
 The foregoing thoughts flitted through my mind,
 
 THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 55 
 
 after remembering how much the lovely Marcia 
 depreciated in solitude ! During twenty years, she 
 never talked as much scandal, nor displayed half 
 as much severity in her comments on men and 
 things, as she has done in the year or two of her 
 partial retirement from the world, and from her 
 accustomed circle ! And, also, how the accom- 
 plished NiCANOR, once the best dressed man of his 
 time, sensible and temperate withal, is no longer 
 either ! for, after being rusticated only a few years, 
 Nicanor suffers his hair to hang in all imaginable 
 rude luxuriance, more like an Indian than any 
 civilized man — has become outre in his habili- 
 ments — talks an infinite deal of vulgar county- 
 politics, and consumes nearly as much of those 
 besotting, potent, and cheap distillations, of domes- 
 tic origin, as he formerly did of those lighter, more 
 sparkling, and expensive potations of foreign pro- 
 curement! And such, in some degree, seems to 
 be the course of deterioration, often found among 
 those who, from almost any cause, forsaking their 
 accustomed sphere, would rather brood in sickly 
 retirement, than live familiarly, and innocently, as 
 well they might, in the genial sunshine, and under 
 the occasional clouds, which the world affords. 
 
 NOTE IV. THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 
 
 The moon shone into my windows with a flood 
 of silvery light — all nature was hushed into pro- 
 found silence — no air disturbed even the pensile 
 foliage, that from many trees, and shrubs, and
 
 56 THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 
 
 flowers, in rich luxuriance, environed the inn, 
 situate in one of nature's most beautiful valleys, 
 in the 'Old Dominion' — a land, as is well known, 
 of traditional hospitality, of generous feelings, 
 exalted talents, and — of bad habits. 
 
 The little wooden clock of mine host had struck 
 twelve before I retired to rest, but not to sleep. 
 The monotonous ticking of my watch, suspended 
 near my pillow, alone reminded me that any thing 
 with motion existed in nature ; all was in deep re- 
 pose, save my own busy thoughts, and these were 
 fast subsiding into those gentle half-slumbers that 
 must soon have ended in sleep, exhausted as I then 
 was with my arduous day's journey. But a tre- 
 mendous shriek from the adjoining room, struck a 
 momentary horror through my inmost heart. This 
 was instantly followed by a most unnatural laugh — 
 then by horrid imprecations — then by cries of 
 'murder,' 'fire,' 'landlord, I am dying, sinking into 
 hell!' — 'Oh, I am lost, water, water, I am burning 
 up !' I naturally supposed that the landlord would 
 have been instantly there — but he came not; and, 
 as there was no intermission to the shocking cries 
 of the unhappy being, I soon appeared at his 
 chamber door, but was much astonished to find it 
 locked on the outside with a padlock ! The pa- 
 roxysms, growing still more intense and long-con- 
 tinued, and finding no hope of sleep that night, 
 already far advanced, it seemed but reasonable I 
 should have an associate in my anxious vigils ; 
 and at length, I resolved to seek companionship 
 with my maitre d^otel, who had left on my mind
 
 THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 57 
 
 a very favourable impression, during the half-hour 
 spent with him before retiring to my chamber. 
 The moon kindly aided me through a few narrow 
 passages to his door, which promptly yielded to 
 my tap. 
 
 'Sir, can you solve this mystery for me ? — you 
 seem to have a maniac in your house — a strange 
 alliance this, of hospital and hotel — have you no 
 means of silencing him, so that I may yet obtain a 
 little sleep? Who, and what is he V 
 
 'I hoped, for your sake, as well as his,' replied 
 the landlord, 'he would have been silent this night; 
 but poor youth, he cannot last many nights more — 
 this is the longest and severest fit I have yet known 
 him to have; it has lasted, with but few intermis- 
 sions, these four days, and as many nights — he is 
 a young gentleman of our neighbourhood, of edu- 
 cation, wealth, and high family — has not been 
 from college more than two years — his excellent, 
 and wretched parents, can do nothing with him; 
 he is now under my care; and all this comes, sir, 
 from drink ! His disease is called tnania a potu. 
 As he slept so little for some nights and days, I 
 thought him so much exhausted before you came, 
 that he would have sunk to sleep, and not have 
 disturbed you ; so I judged it better to say nothing 
 to you about him.' 
 
 The noises still continued — moanings that sick- 
 ened the heart, shrieks that chilled the blood, 
 laughter of no mortal sounds, oaths that demons 
 alone could fashion, all followed in quick succes- 
 sion, wearying the ears, and exhausting the feelings. 
 6
 
 58 THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 
 
 'There is no relief for him,' said mine host, 'I 
 dread to give him what he most craves — hquor; 
 it is but fuel to the fire that rages within him ; 
 water he asks for, but will none of it — and medi- 
 cine can only be forced upon him, which now 
 seems to be cruel, as the doctor says he cannot 
 live, and that all his remedies have failed.' 
 
 'Poor human, or rather poor beastly nature,' said 
 I, angrily, following my remark) a moment after, 
 with a deep sigh, and more than half-ashamed, 
 too, that I should feel angry, and use such a word 
 towards a fellow-being in such a state of hopeless- 
 ness. 'Poor, unhappy youth,' added I, 'would 
 that I could bring thee one moment of relief; 
 may God, who alone knoweth the cause of thy 
 great infirmity, find for thee a door of escape ! 
 but, if that must not be, have m.ercy on thee 
 beyond the grave !' 
 
 'Oh, dear sir,' replied the landlord, 'I have 
 known many persons far more wicked than he ; 
 for I may truly say, he is very amiable, and chari- 
 table, and sensible, when sober — nearly all his 
 faults proceed from intoxication. He was to have 
 been married before this time, to a lovely young 
 woman hard-by ; and could Mary Summers see 
 him, even now, she would break her heart with 
 weeping ; for she yet tenderly loves him. He still 
 wears a locket of her hair, suspended by a black 
 ribbon round his neck, which he would not part 
 with even for liquor ; and yet it seems he would 
 coin his body and soul, too, for a dram, but not 
 that locket !'
 
 THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 59 
 
 Some hours passed iti these sympathetic collo- 
 quies on his melancholy condition ; but wearied 
 nature made them more and more sluggish and 
 forced, until, after having wrung all the changes 
 on the miseries of the wretched inebriate, the vices 
 and horrors of drunkenness, the mental agonies of 
 his amiable parents, sisters, and brothers, and the 
 deep seated and inexhaustible love of Mary Sum- 
 mers, we were mutually silent. But the groans, 
 and hysterical laughs, and dreadful imprecations 
 from the pandemonium chamber, no way dimi- 
 nished ; fortunately for us, they had lost much of 
 their force on our worn out feelings, and I fell 
 asleep on my chair, in the very act of forcing out 
 a brief reply to an equally laconic question of my 
 good-natured companion. 
 
 I slept soundly — maybe a couple of hours — 
 when, from the hum of domestic arrangements, 
 the glare of broad daylight, the occasional tramp- 
 ing over the uncarpeted floor of the faithful house- 
 dog, and the easily recognized sounds from the 
 adjustment of the breakfast furniture, on a table 
 set out at a short distance from me — I awoke. At 
 that instant the landlord gently descended the 
 steps into the room, and whispered to me, 'friend, 
 it is all over with the youth ; he has departed to 
 his long home !' 
 
 'Oh, it cannot be,' I involuntarily exclaimed — 
 the big tear springing into my eyes, 'is he then 
 relieved for ever from his agony, or, oh God ! is 
 death but the beginning of a never-ending life, — 
 and, if so, is it but a prolongation, with super-
 
 60 THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 
 
 added horrors of this hfe? As the tree falls, so it 
 lies ; but yet to spring up an eternal tree of the 
 same nature, bearing none but its peculiar fruits ; 
 there can then, be no tilling, no melioration, no 
 change for the better, dreadful, overwhelming 
 thought ! But, landlord, we must now indulge no 
 farther in such matters.' 
 
 We hastened to the sad chamber ; and never did 
 eye rest upon a sight more heart-rending, more 
 loathing. We beheld a youth of fine proportions, 
 and once of manly beauty, now an emaciated corpse, 
 a miserable wreck of what he had been, stretched 
 upon the floor, with an empty bottle in one hand, 
 and a fragment of a chair in the other, both held, 
 apparently, with the same muscular force with 
 which they had been seized, perhaps but a few 
 moments before the vital spark had fled. His fine 
 hazel eyes were protruded from their livid sockets 
 — his thin blue hps and distorted features showed 
 how his vexed spirit had struggled with the grim 
 monarch — his glossy brown hair hung in short 
 ringlets, and were beautifully contrasted with the 
 fair complexion of his exposed neck and shoulders, 
 over which also hung the hair-locket of Mary 
 Summers ! In hastily casting my eye over the 
 room, I found that every thing within his reach 
 had been broken ; and his bruised and lacerated 
 body also showed that the unhappy youth had 
 waged war against a thousand imaginary ene- 
 mies, among which were his own tender limbs. 
 We promptly removed him to another chamber, 
 and bestowed on his remains every attention that
 
 THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 61 
 
 might, as far as possible, remove from the eye of 
 affection, soon to visit him, the tokens of his 
 miserable end. It was a sad scene, in a few 
 hours after, to see his aged parents kissing his 
 forehead and lips ; his lovely sisters, with deep 
 affection and involuntary horror blended, embrac- 
 ing his lifeless corpse. Some of the sad tale of 
 the preceding night had been related to them by 
 the host, and I was urgently invited by the afflict- 
 ed parents to their house, and that I should extend 
 my kindness still further, by witnessing the inter- 
 ment. The heart, in such a case, needs not the 
 ties of blood, nor yet of acquaintance, to feel for 
 the dead, or warmly to sympathize with the living ; 
 and, in a short time after, I found myself domesti- 
 cated in the comfortable mansion of a Virginian 
 gentleman of the old school. Here, all that met 
 my eye, at once told me that it had long been the 
 home of an intelligent and worthy family, one of 
 an extended hospitality, but whose progenitors had 
 probably seen brighter and more prosperous days 
 than had shone on its present owners, for some 
 time past at least. 
 
 I retired to my chamber, and slept soundly for 
 some hours, till the dinner-bell sounded, and a 
 pretty little coloured boy softly tapped at my door, 
 and summoned me out. 
 
 I entered the dining-room much refreshed, but 
 with little appetite ; a death-like silence reigned 
 there, interrupted only by those occasional subdued, 
 but heart-felt kindnesses which sprung from the 
 newly kindled affection towards me, blended with 
 6*
 
 62 THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 
 
 the habitual and noble pohteness which charac- 
 terizes manners in the 'mother state.' 
 
 As we approached the table, covered with the 
 savoury products of the surrounding manor, the 
 old gentleman placed his hands in mine : 'I fear 
 my friend, we must dine to-day without the ladies, 
 but George and James will accompany us, and we 
 shall do better, I hope, in a few days.' Then 
 pausing for a moment, he added, 'my wife and 
 daughters were nearly prevailed on to join us ; 
 but, poor Mary Summers has just arrived, and 
 their wounded hearts are now all bleeding afresh.' 
 
 'It is better so,' I gently replied, 'their tender 
 souls need the solace of weeping, and I am happy 
 they can weep.' 
 
 'Dear Mary does not weep,' rejoined the afflicted 
 father, '■we have been, in some measure, prepared 
 for the sad event — not so with Mary Summers, to 
 whom we never ventured to communicate all that 
 took place with our afflicted son.' 
 
 We dined in sadness ; the day and night passed 
 off, and the hour of four in the afternoon of the 
 following day, was appointed for the interment. 
 
 At breakfast, all were present, except the eldest 
 daughter and Mary Summers. So much had been 
 said to me by the landlord, as also by the younger 
 sons, whom I have named, in praise of Mary, that 
 1 felt, for a moment, greatly disappointed at her 
 absence ; but how soon were all my feelings the 
 other way, when selfishness gave room, on a mo- 
 ment's reflection, to far better sentiments. — 'Sweet 
 sufferer!' said I mentally, 'I value thee greatly
 
 THE YOUNG INEBRIATl}. 63 
 
 more for thy absence; for, surely, retirement and 
 silence better harmonize with thy affliction, than 
 the ruddy light of day, and the unavoidable cour- 
 tesies of life.' But rousing myself from this reve- 
 rie, I inquired, 'how is Miss Summers, — how did 
 she pass the night?' 
 
 Julia, a blue-eyed girl of seventeen, as beautiful 
 as a fresh May morning, garnished with dewy 
 flowers, and redolent with their sweets, replied to 
 my question: 'I fear, sir, she did not sleep at all; 
 she neither weeps, nor speaks, but only moans 
 continually. I think her heart will break !' 
 
 At this moment, Eliza, the eldest daughter, 
 rushed into the room, and exclaimed — 'Miss Sum- 
 mers is very ill — I fear past hope !' 
 
 All were in her chamber in an instant, and I 
 found myself also there, a witness of the melan- 
 choly scene. Dear Mary Summers was then expi- 
 ring, and my first acquaintance with her was made 
 in performing the sad office of closing her eyes 
 for ever. 
 
 'Oh! thou great and unsearchable Being,' said I 
 inwardly, 'how unfathomable are thy ways? She 
 was young, and beautiful, and, as all say, full of 
 angelic virtues, — and yet this fair and lovely crea- 
 ture dies a martyr to love, for a man who aban- 
 doned himself, his God, his loving parents, his 
 affectionate and beautiful sisters, the luxuries of 
 his home, the respect of his friends, and, finally, 
 even his betrothed — all, all, for a nauseous sicken- 
 ing, poisonous draught ! But what can conquer 
 woman's chaste love ! — it is as fathomless as the
 
 64 THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 
 
 deep, deep sea, as high as heaven, as expansive 
 and pervading as the atmosphere.' And there 
 was poor Mary's hfeless body, a faithful witness 
 of the truth of this rush of thought, that for a 
 moment occupied me in this chamber of death 
 and of agonizing grief! 
 
 Charles' funeral was of course, postponed for a 
 couple of days more, to prepare for the joint obse- 
 quies of the youthful lovers. 
 
 During this interval, I occasionally sought relief 
 in the library, which occupied a very retired part 
 of the venerable old building, the windows of 
 which were shaded by honeysuckle and eglantine 
 profusely blended, and which, as I reposed with 
 my book in a deep armed chair, saluted me with 
 their delicious fragrance, and excluded the garish 
 day, now become almost offensive to me. 
 
 I had not been long in the library before my eye 
 rested on a musty volume entitled 'Remains of 
 Sir Walter Raleigh,' which I eagerly seized, with 
 the full assurance of finding therein much good 
 sense — and, strange coincidence ! the first page my 
 eye lit on, painted in living colours the vice of 
 Drunkenness. The passages I allude to, so har- 
 monized with my feelings then, and ever, that I 
 copied them into my diary, and here they now are 
 for the benefit of all who avail themselves of the 
 privilege of looking into such portions of my 
 Note Book as I have chosen to reveal ; and espe- 
 cially for any one who hesitates whether he will 
 become a man or a beast — whether he will enjoy 
 life's blessings with wife, children, and friends, or
 
 THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 65 
 
 its poisons, through absence of them all ; for any- 
 one, in fine, who may hesitate whether he will 
 murder himself and his betrothed, or live in health 
 respected by the world, and wed the object of his 
 first love. But, why should I moralize when we 
 have the eloquent wisdom of Sir Walter Raleigh ! 
 
 'Take especial care,' says he, 'that you delight 
 not in wine, for there never was any man that 
 came to honour or preferment that loved it ; for it 
 transformeth a man into a beast, decayeth health, 
 poisoneth the breath, destroyeth natural heat, 
 bringeth a man's stomach to an artificial burn- 
 ing, deformetli the face, rotteth the teeth, and, to 
 conclude, maketh a man contemptible, soon old, 
 and despised of all wise and worthy men ; hated 
 in thy servants, in thyself, and companions ; for it 
 is a bewitching and infectious vice ; and remember 
 my words, that it were better for a man to be sub- 
 ject to any vice, than to it ; for all other vanities 
 and sins are recovered, but a drunkard will never 
 shake olf the delight of beastliness ; for the longer 
 it possesseth a man, the more he will delight in it, 
 and the older he groweth, the more shall he be sub- 
 ject to it; for it duUeth the spirits, and destroyeth 
 the body, as ivy doth the old tree, or as the worm 
 that engendereth in the kernel of the nut.' 
 
 'Take heed therefore, that such a careless canker 
 pass not thy youth, nor such a beastly infection 
 thy old age ; for then shall thy life be but as the life 
 of a beast, and after thy death thou shall only 
 leave a shameful infamy to thy posterity, who 
 shall study to forget that such an one was their
 
 66 THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 
 
 father. Anacharsis saith — the first draught servcth 
 for healthy the second for pleasure^ the third for 
 shame, the fourth for madness ; but in youth ihexQ 
 is not so much as one draught permitted, for it 
 putteth fire to fire, and wasteth the natural heat. 
 And therefore, except thou desire to hasten thine 
 end, take this for a general rule, that thou never 
 add any artificial heat to thy body, by wine or 
 spice, until thou find that time has decayed thy 
 natural heat, and the sooner thou beginnest to 
 help Qiature, the sooner will she forsake thee, and 
 thou trust altogether to art.'' 
 
 The day at length arrived for the interment of 
 Charles and of Mary. The hair-locket rested on 
 his bosom ; and the beautiful Mary Summers was 
 placed in her tomb, with every memento that 
 Charles had given to her of his affection. 
 
 It was on a lovely November afternoon, in the 
 year 18 — , that a long procession of weeping rela- 
 tions of both the families, with their numerous 
 friends and acquaintances from a populous neigh- 
 bourhood, together with an equally long train of 
 faithful slaves, who loved their young master and 
 mistress, might have been seen slowly walking 
 towards the family grave yard. 
 
 It was situate in a deep shaded dell, about a 
 quarter of a mile from the mansion. The rude but 
 substantial fence that encompassed it, was entirely 
 covered with vines and creepers of various sorts, 
 and in each corner of the square was planted an 
 evergreen, that seemed to have been there very 
 many years. Though this sacred spot was the
 
 THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 67 
 
 receptacle of many graves, it contained but few 
 tombstones, which were to be seen, here and there, 
 raising their white tops above the luxuriant grass 
 and wild flowers, distinguishing the more promi- 
 nent members of an ancient family, and of its 
 numerous alliances, who, in the course of nearly 
 two centuries had been there deposited. 
 
 As we entered the ample gate, the sublime and 
 well known words, '/ am the resurrectio7i a7id the 
 life, saith the Lord; he that bclieveth in we, though 
 he were dead, yet shall he live : and loJioever liveth 
 and believeth in me, shall never die;'' — were uttered 
 in heavenly tones by a very aged pastor, whose 
 snowy locks seemed to admonish us that tempe- 
 rance and serenity of mind are good securities for 
 ripe old age — and that intemperance in man, and 
 excessive feeling in woman, had brought the 
 deceased to untimous graves. A short, but tender 
 and appropriate discourse was delivered by the 
 venerable old man, which bathed all eyes in tears, 
 and among tlie rest, those of Jack Hodgson, a 
 middle aged man, clothed in rags, and who, T 
 observed, had approached unusually close to the 
 graves, and held before his eyes the miserable 
 fragments of what had once been a hat, removing 
 them occasionally, and looking into the graves, 
 evidently witii no idle curiosity, but with a most 
 intense interest ! I afterwards learned that Hodg- 
 son was notorious in the neighbourhood for rare 
 scholarship, wit, obscenity^ oaths, and drunken- 
 ness; and had, occasionally claimed fellowship 
 with Charles on the score of some distant rela-
 
 68 THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 
 
 tionship; but mainly, of late, from the community 
 of their tastes and pursuits. Charles' terrible 
 death had made much impression in the neigh- 
 bourhood, and had so softened the heart even of 
 Jack Hodgson, that he presented himself sober 
 that afternoon, and with a decency so unusual for 
 him, gazed on the scene that closed for ever from 
 his sight, a manifest victim to a habit that had 
 brought Hodgson to his then degraded state. 
 
 As Hodgson, in profound thought, retired from 
 the grave, and was slowly following at the heel 
 of the main procession, and near the head of the 
 coloured people, a very aged negro, whose short 
 and crisped hair had become almost snowy white, 
 approached Jack, whose long, gray hair was hang- 
 ing profusely over his shoulders. 
 
 'Ah, massa Jack !' said the venerable negro, 'you 
 be almost a boy along side o' me ; but your hair 
 be jist as white as mine! Wad's the reason, 
 massa Jack, o' that? Shall poor nigger tell you, 
 massa? — nigger drink water all his libe, work 
 hard ebbery day, go to bed arly, get up arly ; but 
 massa Jack Hodgson drink nothing but poison 
 water — nebber work at all any day — frolic all de 
 blessed night — and I tell you, massa Jack, you be 
 no long for dis world. I tell you, you die in a 
 few monds!' With this the old man, dropping 
 Hodgson's hand, and was soon out of sight. 
 
 A few years have passed since the events I 
 have thus noted. A neat tomb now jointly records 
 the loves, and the nearly synchronous deaths of
 
 THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 69 
 
 Charles and of Mary. Poor Jack Hodgson, who 
 only lived the year out, lies buried in an obscure 
 corner of the same grave yard, but with no slab to 
 record his name, and with scarcely a mound to 
 distinguish the spot desecrated by his ashes, from 
 the virgin soil that surrounds it. Old Dembo, 
 however, still lives to point it out, and from pre- 
 sent appearances, will continue so to do for a long 
 time to come. Since his warning voice to Hodg- 
 son was so accurately verified by his speedy death, 
 Dembo regards himself as no little of a prophet; 
 and it is fortunate, also, for some of the youths of 
 the surrounding country, that they esteem him 
 somewhat in the same light ; for when religion, 
 morals, and education have been found to yield to 
 the fascinations of the Circean bowl, the super- 
 stitious threatenings from the lips of the hoary- 
 headed negro have proved of more avail. 
 
 T
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 V. THE SCHOOLMEN. — VI. E PLURIBUS TTNUM. — VII. THE PHILO- 
 SOPHICAL EATER. — VIII. A CURIOUS PROPOSITION. 
 
 NOTE V. THE SCHOOLMEN. 
 
 'You must really promise me to read the works 
 of Si. Thomas Aquinas^'' said an eminent Jesuit at 
 Rome, as he was exhibiting to me, with infinite 
 bonhomie^ the extensive and beautiful estabUsh- 
 ment over which he presided, and specially calling 
 my attention to the curiosa of his well arranged 
 library. 'Worthy father,' replied I, 'you do me too 
 much honour to bring to my poor notice the elabo- 
 rate works of so distinguished a saint; for, if I 
 mistake not, his learning is said to have been as 
 immense, as his piety was exemplary. Was he 
 not called the angel of the schools — the fifth doctor 
 of the church, and was not his tomb, after his 
 canonization, the scene of many miracles?' 'True, 
 my dear friend,' answered the pious follower of St. 
 Ignatius, 'these titles were most worthily bestowed 
 upon St. Aquinas, whose writings are as eloquent 
 as they are rich in wisdom, and in the soundest 
 logic of the schools. He, of all others, best under- 
 stood that prince of philosophers, Aristotle ; and 
 hence he has ever been the admiration of popes,
 
 THE SCHOOLMEN. 71 
 
 and of sovereigns : but I must not fail to mention 
 that his works are a special favourite with one of 
 your own most eminent scholars and illustrious 
 statesmen — the Ex-President A, — who, as I have 
 heard, owes much of the discipline of his high 
 reasoning powers, to the writings of this saint.' 
 
 The profound sincerity of the good father, I was 
 in no ways disposed to doubt ; but I had some 
 previous acquaintance with the class of writers to 
 which the idolized saint belongs ; and the old 
 saying, noscitur a sociis, too promptly occurred to 
 my mind, to permit the padre's eulogy to affect 
 me much. 
 
 In looking around, moreover, I found nothing 
 to remind me of that blessed '■march of the mind^ 
 so essential to the very life-current of American 
 thought. All that met the eye were relics of by- 
 gone times — no representative of the age we live 
 in was there to be found — every thing wore the 
 monastic complexion of many past centuries, that 
 had been dyed in the gloomiest superstitions, and 
 marked by the cruelest persecutions for opinion's 
 sake. These associations rushed into my mind ; 
 and, as we passed through the numerous and am- 
 ple apartments and corridors, my soul involuntarily 
 dwelt upon the intensely interesting, but sickening 
 events, which these walls must have witnessed, 
 when the disciples of the military saint ruled the 
 destinies of the civilized world; and when the 
 degraded and fettered mind dared not to wander 
 beyond a narrow and incomprehensible creed — a 
 jargon of mystical and metaphysical religion, in
 
 72 THE SCHOOLMEN. 
 
 which it seemed as if the rivulets of Christianity 
 flowed sluggishly and fearfully, into an ocean of 
 Aristotelian and Platonic refinements ! 
 
 But the good father, as we parted, warmly shook 
 my hand, and repeated his injunction respecting 
 his favourite author : whilst I, with that fleeting 
 and extorted sincerity, which too often yields to 
 politeness, an assentation of the lips, promised him 
 C071 7tiolti ringraziamenti, to be a willing, and, I 
 trusted, an apt scholar of St. Thomas Aquinas! 
 And so I passed the threshold, with a made up 
 mind to procure some of his works, and with more 
 than half a mind to study them. 
 
 Alas ! how true is it that caelum et animwn 
 ynutant qui trans mare currunt ; for, 1 soon found 
 that the 'angelic doctor,' in his seventeen folio 
 volumes,* had quite too much subtle logic, and 
 recondite philosophy and metaphysics, for me to 
 redeem my promise; and I have since been not 
 loath to remember, withal, that although made to 
 as honest a man as breathes, he was still a Jesuit; 
 and that it had been made with some, perhaps 
 infectious, mental reservations at the time, that 
 may save me from a mortal sin, should I content 
 myself with but an occasional turning over these 
 musty pages. 
 
 Bui still, may it not be true, nay, is it not so, 
 that the 'Summa Theologia,^ at least, of this 'Eagle 
 of Divines' — this canonized doctor, is replete with 
 the deepest thought, and with much that is quite 
 
 * Vide T. Aquinatis Opera omnia, 17 vols. fol. Romae, 1570 — 
 aut a Nicoiai, Paris, 1660, 19 vols, fol.
 
 THE SCHOOLMEN. 
 
 73 
 
 worthy the attention of our scholars and tlieolo- 
 gians? It is admitted to be the best among his 
 numerous works ; and it is probable that were the 
 entire class to which it belongs, possessed of only 
 the tithe of its merits, the name of Aristotle, and 
 of the schoolmen, might have shone, even to this 
 day, with a bright and steady light. 
 
 The schoolmen, however, not only over-leaped 
 the boundaries assigned to the researches of rea- 
 son, and thus involved themselves in many idle 
 controversies, and incomprehensible enigmas, but 
 they also sullied the illustrious name of their mas- 
 ter, and became themselves the very incarnation of 
 absurdity. Their mysteries, constantly 'chyming 
 into quibbles,' and clothed in the crudest fustian, 
 tended as much to establish the worst models of 
 composition, as they undoubtedly often did, to cor- 
 rupt the purest sources of Christianity, and of legi- 
 timate reasoning. Fortunately, the spell which so 
 long bound the human mind to the mere autho- 
 rity of names, has been entirely dissolved among 
 classes, at least : men no longer think by proxy 
 only — even the pope and his church are not infal- 
 lible — and Aquinas, Banner/, Escobar, and Pontius, 
 with the whole fraternity of pseudo- Aristotelians, 
 remain as little known, and less appreciated, than 
 almost any one of the many thousand writers that 
 are annually ushered into notice, by the pjeculiar 
 facilities of our age ! 
 
 Were Aristotle, though no longer *a sort of 
 divinity,' to rise from his grave, how delighted 
 would he now be, to find himself relieved from 
 
 7*
 
 74 THE SCHOOLMEN. 
 
 the host of ohnubilators who darkened his brilliant 
 pages, by attempting to unravel mysteries, and 
 hidden meanings in thera, never dreamt of in his 
 philosophy, but which are alone to be found in 
 the phrenzied imaginings of his numerous mis- 
 guided commentators. Surely Aristotle, and the 
 'divine Plato,' would scarce have recognized their 
 own works among the scolia of Avverhoes, of 
 Boetius, of Albert, of Bonaventura, or even of 
 that sage 'doctor irrefragabilis' — Alexander of 
 Hales, and still less of his friend Duns Scotus, 
 of famous memory ! And, as I opine, it would 
 not fare much better with my Roman friend's 
 great favourite, Aquinas ; for the character of our 
 day is so eminently practical^ that the small re- 
 mains of the logical and metaphysical theology 
 of the schoolmen are now, either equally 'in hands 
 utiholy,' or are consigned to the 'idle winds,' as 
 dreamy and useless knowledge. 
 
 It is to be feared, however, that the Utilita- 
 rians, now on the ascendant, may not rest content 
 with branding as the prince of learned blockheads, 
 the once far famed Duns Scotus, and that the 
 ultraism of our times will be more than a njatch 
 for the whole learned fraternity of schoolmen, and 
 all that emanated even from the long renowned 
 Sarbonne ! I doubt not that the Utilitarians of 
 Europe, nay, that some of the university scholars 
 of our own country, even when first emerging, 
 with academic honours, into life, would on any 
 day of the week, send forth an ^admirable. Crich-. 
 ton^'' — some '■doctor resolutissiniuSy to contend for
 
 THE SCHOOLMEN. 75 
 
 the mastery with any of the schoolmen that may 
 now remain ! Not, indeed, with weapons like unto 
 theirs, but with what they would call the steam 
 power of commofi sense ! 
 
 I worshipfully bow to the majesty and com- 
 manding power of common sense, and wish that 
 all men were mainly guided by it ; but, as before 
 ?aid, I fear no little mischief from the ultraism of 
 their devotion to this too often most impudent 
 utilitarian goddess ; who, though frequently attired 
 in the habiliments of modesty itself, is generally 
 a radical and daring leveller, and a meddler in 
 things she little understands ! 
 
 We know that learning, without judgment, cha- 
 racterized the schoolmen ; and we apprehend that 
 common sense, without learning, will very soon 
 characterize the utilitarians and both are ex- 
 tremes, equally to be avoided. The torch which, 
 like that of Omar, would consign all the learning, 
 even of the schoolmen, to uncompromising destruc- 
 tion, under the hope that common sense, even in 
 morals, would alone prove sufficient, could scarce 
 fail soon to bring us back to vandal ignorance. 
 
 The follies, and even criminal waste of learning, 
 which mark the course of scholastic philosophy, 
 should nevertheless, be distinguished from the 
 mines of pure ore that unquestionably are to be 
 found in the writings of the middle, and after cen- 
 turies; and whilst we shake off the trammels of 
 idle knowledge, and the influences of mere autho- 
 rity^ which, as Boyle justly observes, 'is a long 
 bow, the effect of which should depend on the 
 
 /\
 
 76 THE SCHOOLMEN. 
 
 Strength of the arm which draws it,' we should 
 not fail to remember, with him, the excellencies of 
 sound learnijig, and that the 'cross-bow of reason 
 has equal efficiency in the hands of the dwarf, and 
 of the giant,' — but only when that reason is itself 
 genuine, and without the least alloy of vanity and 
 ultraism. 
 
 Utilitarianism, therefore, without due learning, 
 is itself the grossest vanity and presumption ; for 
 it is equally true, tliat if research may be pushed 
 too far, if learning may become too esoteric, so it 
 may become degraded and impotent, by that over- 
 strained and affected simplicity, and by that super- 
 ficial plainness which aim at bringing it down to 
 the level of the meanest capacity. 
 
 In seeking after practicalness, we may easily 
 lose the substance, and scarce attain the shadow of 
 knowledge ; and this, as it seems to me, is becom- 
 ing gradually, a too visible feature in the researches 
 of our utilitarians ; for though our age be eminent 
 for useful knowledge, mainly derived from the 
 exoteric spirit of the times, there is still room to 
 apprehend that this, in turn, is becoming exces- 
 sive ; and that the next generation, if not the 
 present, will not rest content until the whole circle 
 of knowledge may be compressed in a library of a 
 few hundred octavo volumes ! The Germans, no 
 doubt, will hold out the longest — but, as the fash- 
 ion now leans so strongly towards condensations, 
 double distillations, democratic sirnpli/ications, prac- 
 tical expositions, tables of knoirledge, outlines, dia- 
 grams, digests, abridgments, syllabusses, essays.
 
 THE SCHOOLMEN. 77 
 
 coup cT ceils ^ journals^ and revieus, with a thousand 
 other short-roads, by-cuts, and smooth-paths, all of 
 of them aided, moreover, by cylinder and steam 
 presses, by rough types, coarse paper and wood 
 cuts — we fear that, whilst our so called learning 
 becomes dog- cheap, we shall find a proportionate 
 diminution of true and 'ripe scholars ;' and that 
 such of our young misses as graduate, and can 
 construe their Novum Testamentum, and talk 
 flippantly out of Mrs. Marcet's 'Conversations on 
 
 Chemistry' on 'Natural Philosophy' and on 
 
 'Political Economy' — will shrink from the more 
 elaborate works of Mrs. Somerville, and of Adam 
 Smith ! And it may be equally feared, that our 
 young men may ultimately be brought to know 
 little more of the classics, than what are to be 
 found in the ^Grceca Majorat and in the Latin, 
 ^Excerpta'' — or more of Plato, of Aristotle, of Des- 
 cartes, &c. than what may be gleaned from Watts' 
 Logic, or from some of the chapters of Locke ; 
 and, perhaps, little more of physics, tfcc. than 
 are condensely displayed in Jamieson's 'Universal 
 Science,' or in that marvellous book, 'Sir Richard 
 Phillips' Million of Facts,' each in one small 
 volume! 
 
 In the approaching sunny days, that I antici- 
 pate, days of almost universal and co equal know- 
 ledge, we may find our statesmen and politicians 
 looking down, with felicitous contempt, on the folly 
 of past times, and of German lore, and of German 
 drudges ! And, should there then be a few that 
 still hang on the skirts of a Grotius, a Pulfendorf,
 
 78 THE SCHOOLMEN. 
 
 a Domat, or a Coke, they will be regarded as so 
 inveterately book-mad, as to be more worthy in- 
 mates of some hotel des invalides, than of a uni- 
 versity ; and as to the theologians, so far from their 
 seeking occasionally for light, among even the 
 best of the schoolmen, or even from the fathers 
 of the church, they will have their essentials in 
 translated excerpts — or possibly, in those labour- 
 saving machines, the 'Penny Encyclopedias,' the 
 'Saturday Magazines,' and similar works ! 
 
 How strange is it that the world cannot avoid 
 extremes ! and passing strange, that the republic of 
 letters must degenerate into a vile democracy, and, 
 possibly, into a still more ignoble mobocracy of 
 letters ! How admirable is the juste milieu in every 
 thing ! Extremes, though in very opposite direc- 
 tions, seem ever pregnant with like results. The 
 learned jargon of the schoolmen withdrew from the 
 cognizance of the vulgar many, the wholesome 
 truths of knowledge — poisoned its fountains — and 
 degraded it with many silly refinements, clothed 
 in a most barbarous language ; all of which, even 
 among the elite and studious, greatly retarded the 
 progress of genuine philosophy, and of sound 
 morals. And so it may easily fall out with the 
 utilitarians of our day, would they vainly attempt 
 to reduce all knowledge to such primary elements 
 that, by a species of moral homa?pathic reduction 
 and administration of the most recondite sciences 
 and arts, all men are to become scholars, states- 
 men, philosophers, and what not ! — and this, too, 
 by receiving infinitesimal portions of knowledge,
 
 THE SCHOOLMEN. 79 
 
 (possibly even by sfnelling at them,) somewhat 
 after the fashion of those charlatans, who would 
 cure all diseases by a materia medica, so reduced 
 to its ultimate elements, as to come within the 
 cubic volume of a few inches, and through invisi- 
 ble portions taken into the system even by the 
 olfactories ! I confess myself a sceptic in all such 
 extremes ; and am as little inclined towards this 
 hoped-for ubiquity, and co-equality of knowledge, 
 as I should be to the restoration of those palmy 
 days of the schoolmen, when a few exclusives were 
 so idolized by the mass, as to think themselves 
 allied aut Dcum aut Diaholum ! 
 
 It was this adulation of the supposed learning 
 of the times, that rendered the schoolmen so very 
 mystical. The classical purity of the Greek and 
 Roman writers, ill-suited the rough materials which 
 often composed their works; their authority was 
 mainly derived from not being understood — and 
 also from the necessary aristocracy of learning, 
 when books were rare, and war was the vocation 
 of the many. 
 
 Ignorance and superstition are natural allies; 
 so that the scholars of those days, exercised a pro- 
 digious influence over all men and things around 
 them ; for we find that Aquinas, Albertus Magnus, 
 Hales, Bonaventura, and others, were regarded 
 with such an eye of respect, and even of awe, 
 as can scarce be comprehended, at the present 
 time. Pelligrino Antonio Orlandi, in his Notizic 
 degli Scrittori Bollognesi, says of Achellini, one 
 of these popular scholastics, 'Fu accutissimo argu-
 
 80 THE SCHOOLMEN. 
 
 mentore, onde ne circoli dove argumenlava e non 
 era conosciuto, passo in proverbio, qu'll aut Dia- 
 boliLs, aut Achellinus.'^ 
 
 The whole fraternity of these Quodlibetaria7is, 
 (so called from the quodlibetical propositions of St. 
 Thomas Aquinas,) plunged the human mind into 
 such a state of learned ignorance, that the Alche- 
 mists and, even the Astrologers, found it no difficult 
 task to palm their nonsense on the world, for seve- 
 ral centuries ; and, even when the schoolmen in 
 a great degree had passed off, and when classical 
 learning had revived, and pure letters and sound 
 philosophy had gained some ascendency, these 
 students of the metals, and of the starry influences, 
 were found lingering on, almost down to our own 
 day, leaving a mental diathesis very favourable 
 to the reception of animal magnetism, and other 
 similar opprobria of learning ! — all of which, it 
 must be admitted, flow from the absence of a 
 general and popular, though superjicial, enlighten- 
 ment. 
 
 The true doctrine, then, of the whole matter 
 would seem to be this — learning, when confined 
 to a very few, degenerates into mysticism, into 
 charlatanry, and into oppression of the people; 
 the effects of which are farther inflamed by the 
 people's superstitions : learning, on the other hand, 
 when attempted to be extended equally to all, 
 degenerates into a contemptible superficialness, 
 full of vanity and presumption in the many, and 
 of hostility, on their part, against the few, who,
 
 THE SCHOOLMEN. 81 
 
 in spite of the times, become really learned. The 
 true medium, then, is to aim at nothing ultra — at 
 no universal philosophising of the mass ; but so to 
 enlighten them, as to protect them from the ar- 
 tifices of unprincipled scholars; whilst, in turn, 
 the mass shall recognize the rights and legiti- 
 mate powers of the learned ; so that neither may- 
 encroach, or be inclined so to do, on the pro- 
 vince of the other. 
 
 Sad, indeed, is the state of things, when the 
 people are so ignorant that their scholars shall dare 
 to leach them, for example, that all the mysteries 
 of the Holy Trinity, and of the Incarnation, are 
 to be found in the pages of Aristotle! — that the 
 soul is certainly a musical pipe! these, and the 
 like, being found in some of the scholia on Aris- 
 totle! But, unfortunately for the argument in 
 relation to the soul, it was founded on a typo, 
 graphical error in the text, that had escaped the 
 overlearned scholiast, in which avXoy, a flute, was 
 used instead of the adjective auXoy, immaierial! 
 A like pedantry and wasteful display of curious 
 knowledge, but in far more recent times, is seen 
 in the too-learned German, who published a very 
 elaborate essay to account, on physical principles, 
 for a golden tooth, fabled to have made its appear- 
 ance in the maxilary of a peasant boy ! which 
 proved, however, to be a hoax, only after the 
 luckless author's labours of the pen had issued 
 from the press! And I may also allude to the 
 thrice too-learned archeologists, who recently gave 
 to the world their essays to prove that certain 
 8
 
 82 THE SCHOOLMEN. 
 
 terra cotta urns, discovered in tlie vicinity of cas- 
 tle Gandolfo, in Italy, were certainly antediluvian! 
 But, maugre many very ingenious arguments, they 
 proved to be most certainly Gothic ! — precisely simi- 
 lar urns having been found in Germany, Prussia, 
 and Sweden, under circumstances that banished 
 all doubt, and also without reposing under strata 
 of tvfo stone — that being the fact mainly relied on 
 by the antediluvians ; but which fact, was proba- 
 bly also a hoax ! 
 
 It would seem, then, that aristocracy and demo- 
 cracy, in all matters of science and of learning, 
 are equally evils. Learning, when plebeian or 
 mobocratic, becomes as fatal to solid and enduring 
 attainments, as when it is in the hands of only a 
 ie-^, in an age of surrounding darkness : for, if the 
 useful and healthy plants of knowledge dwindle 
 and die, amidst the noxious weeds that spring 
 up from an over-refined cultivation, by the few, 
 we have some cause to fear a like result, from 
 so delicately and thinly turning up the soil, by 
 the many, that neither the genial rays of the sun, 
 nor the fructifying waters of the heavens, can 
 exert their wonted influences. The whole error 
 would seem to lie in, and the mischief to flow 
 from, not properly distinguishing between that 
 cheap, simple, and appropriate knowledge, which, 
 when destined for youth, and for the people at 
 large, must prove so useful — and that more ex- 
 pensive and recondite learning, in which it be- 
 hooves scholars, and all having authority, to be 
 deeply versed.
 
 E PLURIBUS UNUM. 83 
 
 To mistake the former for the latter, or to sup- 
 pose that a superficial enUghtenment of the whole 
 mass, will coaipensale for the absence of a tho- 
 roughly cultivated few; or, finally, to hope for 
 wise laws, virtuously administered in any nation, 
 where the people at large, (though seeking after 
 moderate attainments for themselves) are still 
 jealous of the more elevated acquirements in 
 others, and would willingly reduce all to the 
 same moderate level, is to impugn the irreversible 
 laws of nature, and to go counter to the past 
 experience of all ages, and of all nations. 
 
 Suffer me, then in conclusion, once more to 
 repeat that in letters, no more than in politics, 
 should republicanism be confounded with radical- 
 ism : in both they are essentially different things, 
 leading to the widest possible results, and are 
 equally fatal to their respective aims. Happy the 
 nation, in which the people are so far enlightened, 
 as to respect and love their scholars I — prosperous 
 and useful are these scholars, when they carefully 
 avoid ultraism, be it that of the schoolmen of 
 former days, or that of the utilitarians of the 
 present ! 
 
 NOTE VI. — E PLURIBUS UNUM. 
 
 1 KNOW not how it is, but this little aphorism 
 has very often forced itself upon my attention, and 
 has ever seemed to me, though few in letters and 
 in words, so full of import as to be, in itself, almost 
 a little volume ! 1 never think of it without expe-
 
 84 E PLURIBUS UNUM. 
 
 riencing a rush of ideas, which fills my mind with 
 many historical, moral, and patriotic reminiscences 
 and feelings. These flow from it," not only as 
 being our national motto, but also as from a foun- 
 tain abundant in the lessons of wisdom, all of 
 which are so easily inculcated, and so united and 
 enforced by it, as to illustrate its beauty and truth; 
 whilst, at the same time, it is rendered as it were, 
 visible by the apposite symbol which accompanies 
 it, of a firm and solid fasciculus, made by the union 
 of many slender and fragile reeds ! The whole 
 class, indeed, of aphorisms, of apothegms, and of 
 fables, I have ever found to be a perennial source 
 of intellectual and of moral gratification — they 
 seem to demand immediate access, no less to the 
 heart, than to the head, and give to wisdom its 
 brightest and most enduring charms. 
 
 JEsop, to whom we are indebted for this, and 
 many others, was truly a philosopher, as well as 
 Solomon and Bacon ; but his is the peculiar merit 
 of being the sole architect of his good fortune, and 
 enduring fame; for unlike them, and some other 
 philosophers, he was neither a monarch, a states- 
 man, nor a scholar; but an oppressed, deformed, 
 poor, and sooty slave, born of obscure parents, in 
 an almost unknown town, and deemed, at one 
 time, so utterless worthless as to be sold for three 
 half pence — his new master jocosely remarking, 
 that ^for nothing he had bought 7ioihingl'' 
 
 And yet, how truly did this outward apology for 
 a man distinguish, when he mildly rejoined to this 
 rude sarcasm, 'a philosopher should examine the
 
 E PLURIBUS UNUM. 85 
 
 miJid as well as tlie body,'' for ^sop felt the immor- 
 tality that was within him; and in this he judged 
 rightly, as he shortly after became superior to his 
 master, though a philosopher, — was regarded by 
 the Samians as an oracle — became the deliverer 
 of his adopted country — was borne in triumph 
 and crowned with garlands ! He disputed suc- 
 cessfully with the sagest of the wise men of his 
 own and of foreign lands — was courted as the 
 favourite of kings, and by kings; and, at length, 
 becoming too famous even for the oracular Del- 
 phians, he perished a distinguished martyr of their 
 jealousy ! 
 
 But the commanding wisdom of Nature's philo- 
 sopher, caused the sages of Greece deeply to mourn 
 his loss, and they erected to the memory of him, 
 who once had been a poor and loathsome slave, a 
 splendid monument, and continued to revere his 
 name, and to follow his counsels, for many ages 
 after. Such, then, was the signal triumph of the 
 bright manifestations of mind, over the crude and 
 forbidding aspect of matter. Now whence arose a 
 fame so pervading, so imperishable — what raised 
 so bright a halo around a form so odious — what 
 transplanted one, whom the very dogs did bark at, 
 into the courdy seats of princes? — nothing but his 
 great aphoristic wisdom, the riches of his discourse, 
 the graphic excellence of his apologues, so well 
 adapted to teach moral and political truths in the 
 most impressive manner : — and such is usually the 
 train of my thoughts, whenever the author of our 
 laconic national motto is presented to my mind. 
 8*
 
 86 E PLURIBUS UNUM. 
 
 It is contained in the beautiful fable, so naively 
 toldj of the 'old man and his sons;' which, 
 though it be but a fable, known, possibly, more 
 to our youth, than to after life, I shall not crave 
 pardon for here transcribing — for, could we more 
 often than we do, go back to the simple lessons of 
 our youthful days, we should, as I opine, find more 
 of the practical wisdom of philosophers, than is 
 now usually met with. 
 
 The fable runs thus : 'An old i«ian had many 
 sons, who were often falling out with one another. 
 When the father had exerted his authority, and 
 used other means in order to reconcile them, and 
 all to no purpose, at last he had recourse to this 
 expedient : he ordered his sons to be called before 
 him and a short bundle of sticks to be brought — 
 and then commanded them, one by one, to try if, 
 with all their might and strength, they could any 
 one of them break it. They all tried, but to no pur- 
 pose; for the sticks being closely and compactly 
 bound up together, it was impossible for the force 
 of man to do it. After this the father ordered the 
 bundle to be untied, and gave a single stick to 
 each of his sons, at the same time bidding him try 
 to break it: which, when each did with all imagina- 
 ble ease, the father addressed himself to them to 
 this effect — 'O my sons, behold the power of unity! 
 For if you, in like manner, would but keep your- 
 selves strictly conjoined in the bonds of friendship, 
 it would not be in the power of any mortal to hurt 
 you ; but, when once the ties of brotherly affection 
 are dissolved, how soon do you fall to pieces, and
 
 E PLURIBUS UNUM. 87 
 
 are liable to be violated by every injurious hand 
 that assaults you !' ' 
 
 After contrasting the foregoing fable, and its 
 various applications, with an elaborate argument 
 in favour of Nullification and its cognate doctrines, 
 I could not but still more admire the simple and 
 beautiful wisdom displayed by the Greek slave, 
 and wonder that, after the lapse of nearly twenty- 
 four centuries, many of our philosophers should 
 have manifested so little of that practical philo- 
 sophy of politics and of morals, and so little of that 
 honest-hearted wisdom of a well-regulated mind, 
 which the fable just quoted so clearly sets forth. 
 
 The truth is that the lessons of the Greek fabu- 
 list are replete with sound morals, rich in deep and 
 practical knowledge of the human heart ; and so 
 admirable in political, as well as in domestic pru- 
 dence, that the volume which embraces them may 
 well claim equality, at least, with any other human 
 production, and assert its rank next to that of the 
 Bible. How satisfying to the mind and how 
 directly does the truth of this apologue go to the 
 understanding and to the heart — and how tor- 
 tuously, on the other hand, must the mind labour, 
 when the lengthened columns of some American 
 freeman and statesman, garishly and ingeniously 
 set forth the elaborate argument for disunion and 
 nullification ! And why should the so called patriots 
 of our land, forsaking the natural and genial truths 
 of ^sop, coin their very brains for topics destruc- 
 tive of so holy a maxim — one that teaches the 
 salutary truth that a power almost irresistible, will
 
 88 E PLURIBUS UNUM. 
 
 necessarily flow from the harmonious union of 
 even the weakest elements ! — a truth revealed as 
 well by the physical, as the moral world — a truth 
 of which the very beasts that roam the forests, the 
 dwellers of the watery deep, nay, the very animal- 
 cules that float in a drop, or wage their tiny wars 
 on the, to them, broad expanse of a single fig seed, 
 do most constantly practise — in fine, a truth which 
 men and angels, and even the great Eternal loves 
 to inculcate, as the bosom of their peace — the for- 
 tress of their security ! 
 
 The same great and living principle we likewise 
 find, in the account given us by Valerius Maximus, 
 of Sertorius, who, when proscribed by Sylla, 
 took the command of the Lusitani. His men 
 being strongly inclined to give battle, at once, to 
 the whole Roman forces, though greatly superior 
 to them in number, their commander used every 
 argument that interest, reason, and ingenuity could 
 devise, to dissuade them from their rash purpose ; 
 but all in vain. At length, Sertorius had recourse 
 to a different species of eloquence. He ordered 
 two horses to be brought before him ; at the tail of 
 one of these he placed a young and vigorous sol- 
 dier, and at that of the other a veteran, whose long 
 experience had worn off much of his youthful 
 ardour. These persons he commanded, respec- 
 tively, to pull off the horse's tail ! The young 
 soldier began by pulling with his utmost force, the 
 whole at once ; whilst the old veteran very deli- 
 berately went to work by pulling it out, nearly hair 
 by hair ! The young man wholly failed ; for what
 
 E PLURIBUS UNUM. 89 
 
 he essayed to do demanded the strength of a Poly- 
 phemus, as the resistance offered arose from the 
 united strength of myriads, each of which was but 
 a feeble opponent. The veteran, on the other 
 hand, effectually executed his task, guided, as he 
 was, by the motto — 'divide and conquer.' By this 
 forcible appeal, made so visible, not only the poiver 
 of union, but the essential weakness of division, 
 became so manifest, that Sertorius had the happi- 
 ness soon to find that the Lusitani were convinced 
 of their error, and had now become strong again, 
 through the obedience that produced union. 
 
 It cannot be doubted that were our jurists, our 
 legislators, and our statesmen more generally ad- 
 dicted to the study of universal ethics — were they 
 to search, with eagerness,' after the precepts of a 
 pure and manly wisdom, in the pages of holy writ, 
 and in those of ancient and modern moralists, and 
 were they to add to these the thousand lessons 
 taught by the history of all nations and of all ages, 
 they would repose with much less confidence than 
 they now do, on the thousand experiments and 
 crude fancies \vhich characterize our age and coun- 
 try; and we should have less occasion to deplore 
 the miseries that flow from erroneous views in 
 government, laws and morals — and have much 
 less of those radical and destructive doctrines, 
 which, if persisted in, will as inevitably fritter 
 away, and finally destroy- every conservative prin- 
 ciple of our government and union, as the horse's 
 tail, under the gradual manipulation of the wily old 
 veteran, slowly, though certainly disappeared.
 
 90 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 
 
 NOTE VII. THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 
 
 In the preceding note the reader will find how 
 great an admirer of ^sop I have ever been ; and, 
 also, how justly he ranks with the sagest philoso- 
 phers of any age, maugre that little boys and boy- 
 ish men are so apt to estimate him lightly, from 
 their horn-book acquaintance ""with his name — but 
 but not witli the riches of his wisdom. It seems 
 like one of nature's most sportive freaks, thus to 
 have enshrined in so diminutive and ill-formed a 
 body, a mind as capacious and beautiful, as fancy 
 and philosophy united can well imagine! for all 
 that is admirable in mere human morals, orthodox 
 in general politics, and salutary in domestic eco- 
 nomy, may be found either strongly set forth, and 
 forcibly illustrated, or, at other times, shadowed in 
 the life, conversations, and writings of this extra- 
 ordinary man. 
 
 It so happened, a short time ago, that the popu- 
 lar wisdom of the Greek fabulist was strongly 
 shown to me, in its influence in restraining the 
 gastronomic propensities of our race, in one who 
 thereafter became almost proverbial for philosophi- 
 cal and methodical abstemiousness. I dined, as 
 it was said d''une mani^re sociable, with an Apician 
 of no little note, and a few others, who loved good 
 cheer. The table was slowly, gravely, methodi- 
 cally, and with admirable exactitude, varied by a 
 succession of dishes, that gradually became more 
 and more recherche, in the ratio that the waning 
 appetite demanded stronger provocatives. All was
 
 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 91 
 
 served up, with matchless concinnity, on a cloth, 
 of the purest taste, and by domestics so admirably 
 schooled, as not only to anticipate your every 
 wish, but to suggest with peculiar and winning 
 delicacy, many others that could scarce have oc- 
 curred but to the most practised palates ; and this, 
 too, on the principle of producing striking results 
 by the strongest possible contrasts — such, for ex- 
 ample, as piping hot plumb-pudding, and flinty- 
 frozen ice-cream ; mustard and sweet jellies ; 
 strawberries and pepper ; Roman punch with a 
 sprinkling of cayenne ! 
 
 The lord of the feast, however, as his evil 
 genius on that day would have it, was obviously 
 a lame duck as to appetite : for nothing that was 
 present responded to his fitful cravings ; most 
 things were inal-concocted — some were but tasted, 
 and others churlishly rejected. 
 
 Seated near me was a little gendeman in black, 
 scarce an inch or two above five feet high, with 
 a well-powdered semi-bald head, linen of perfect 
 whiteness, relieved by an emerald of exquisite 
 colour and water, evidently of large value, that 
 had been found in a tomb of great antiquity in 
 Persia, (for he proved to have been a great tra- 
 veller.) 
 
 This gentleman in black, and of small bodily 
 dimensions, but of large mental capacities, was to 
 our host a total stranger, having been introduced 
 there somewhat in a spirit of merriment by one of 
 the guests, who counted that if the Apician were 
 in high appetite, as was generally the case when
 
 92 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 
 
 the company was select and small, they could 
 scarce fail to be greatly amused with the strange 
 conflicts likely to ensue between him and this 
 very learned magister of methodical eating; since 
 no two persons could have been better selected to 
 contrast to the life, their several and very distinct 
 modes of living. The travelling gentleman, during 
 the numerous courses, preserved a marvellous taci- 
 turnity — ate with high relish and a natural appe- 
 tite, yet, to the surprise of all, except his friend, he 
 persisted in retaining, through all the services, the 
 viand with which he had commenced, and with 
 which the servants, understanding his humour, 
 with perfect tact, instantly supplied him. In 
 truth, he ate profoundly of the one dish, whilst 
 the disabled Apician could of none. 
 
 The peculiarity of the little gentleman's tenacity 
 to the mutton, excited no httle merriment; when, 
 towards the close of the dinner, and after the 
 various wines had been freely circulated, it was 
 remarked that he had selected pale sherry, and 
 could not be induced even to taste of any other. 
 Our hero, however, had now obtained the un- 
 limited use of his tongue, which he applied in a 
 more customary, and, to him, with a more legiti- 
 mate purpose, than as an auxiliary in eating ; and 
 thereby soon approved himself a most delightful 
 companion, a ripe and good scholar, and an amusing 
 moralist withal. The Apician, at first chary of his 
 stranger-looking guest, was not slow in perceiving, 
 that his hidden treasures were not designed to be 
 churlishly withheld, jocosely remarked, 'The gen-
 
 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 93 
 
 tleman of the one viand and of the one wine, I 
 clearly perceive has so long made use of his mind 
 as a well arranged cuisine, where may be found 
 the most varied and savory dishes, that he holds 
 it unfair that one tenement should have two 
 kitchens, and has therefore abandoned to us that 
 which has charge of those which appertain to the 
 outer man.' This jeu cfesprit, which was fair 
 enough for the occasion, and considering from 
 whom it came, was promptly responded to by the 
 small man in black, who was becoming still more 
 voluble ! 'By no means,' said he, 'you mistake 
 me greatly, if you suppose that I value mental 
 fodder only •, we all have a body as well as mind 
 to nourish, and I hold in no disparagement the 
 numerous preparations that emanate from the se- 
 cond cuisine to which you have alluded, and to 
 which, this day, we are all so largely indebted — 
 you all to the many, and I to the one. It must 
 be admitted,' continued he, 'that the object of 
 eating may justly be extended beyond the mere 
 nourishing of the corps physique. I concede, that 
 there are delights attendant on it which may be 
 legitimately indulged, if the mens sana iii corpore 
 sano be ever kept in view. You, gentlemen, and 
 I differ only as to the m^odus in quo: for whilst I 
 acknowledge that this gratification is not limited 
 to the naked object of sustaining the body, but 
 may be rendered, in some degree, even intellec- 
 tual, my plan differs from yours toto codo, in this 
 important particular. Were I, like you, to taste 
 every thing at one sitting, I should, probably, after 
 9
 
 94 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 
 
 a while, have no taste at all ; but, by restricting 
 myself at each meal to one dish, and to one wine, 
 I enjoy all that is known to the culinary art, and 
 the wines, also, of every region, and my enjoyment 
 is both fresh and enduring ; hence it is, that I have 
 so keenly relished to-day my mutton and sherry, 
 with a slowly diminishing gusto — whilst you, gen- 
 tlemen, have been obliged to resort to numerous 
 provocatives ; and as for mine host, with all his 
 science, and the amiable jeers at the oneness of my 
 prajidium, he seems to have made but a slender 
 repast on simples, amidst a profusion of the most 
 artfully contrived delicacies !' 
 
 Here the laugh was fairly turned on the Apician, 
 who bore it with the more grace, not only as being 
 the assailant, but because of certain painful twitches, 
 which for some hours past had rendered him no 
 little curious to know of our philosopher, how it 
 "was that high health, a keen relish and accurate 
 taste remained so long with him, when his own 
 health, appetite, and taste, were as fitful as the 
 inconstant moon. 'Do tell us,' said he, 'how it is 
 that you first contracted the habit — and have been 
 able to persist in it — of using but one dish and one 
 wine, surrounded as you have been with the world 
 of good cheer you must have met during your 
 long and extensive travels?' 
 
 'You shall know the whole, with all my heart,' 
 replied our travelling moralist, 'but only on con- 
 dition that, when told, you'll not laugh at me 
 unmercifully.' 'Do, do, the terms are freely ac- 
 cepted,' exclaimed they all ; 'and we promise,
 
 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 95 
 
 moreover, to be your devoted disciples, if you also 
 impart to us youth, resolution, a palate, an appe- 
 tite, and olfactories, even, that deal only with one 
 instead of many, ha ! ha ! ha !' 'Hold, gentlemen, 
 you have already broken your promise.' 'By no 
 means,' said one of the company ; 'our promise, 
 you remember, was only, not to laugh at you, 
 after your experience had been delivered; but, 
 proceed, we are all attention.' Our philosopher, 
 after eyeing those around him, and adjusting his 
 tortoise shell spectacles, with due solemnity thus 
 redeemed his promise, 
 
 'When a lad, at Eton, I was distinguished 
 among my companions for two very dissimilar 
 things — an almost ravenous and indiscriminate 
 indulgence of my gastronomic propensities, and 
 for the studious reading of all such works on 
 practical morals, as were at all suited to my age. 
 Among these was Ji^sop's fables — a special favour- 
 ite with me, and to which I became so devoted, 
 that tlie boys in derision used to call me their 
 'Phrygian Slave' — 'Little Bow-legs' — 'Sooty Stut- 
 terer' — 'Crossus' Favourite,' &c.; all in allusion 
 to well known facts in ^sop's history.' But 
 these good-natured taunts in no way diminished 
 my regard for the cherished volume. The fables 
 greatly pleased, not only my young imagination, 
 but my heart and judgment. I delighted to com- 
 mune with beasts, birds, fishes, and reptiles, and 
 to drink in the purest counsels, from the lips of 
 those whose endowment with the faculty of speech 
 seemed once more to bring the whole of God's
 
 96 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 
 
 creation into that universal and sweet communion, 
 in which fancy or history finds them when they 
 were all first created. The rationality with which 
 ^sop has invested all nature, inanimate as well as 
 animate, also brought my youthful imagination 
 back to times of the earliest antiquity, and inspired 
 'me with an eager desire to trace not only man's 
 degenerate history, but the manifestations of those 
 instincts and habits of other animals, that supplied 
 the place of reason after they, with man, felt the 
 great shock and sad reverse that flowed from the 
 sanctions of a first violated law. No other work 
 of the purest fiction could have raised in my 
 young and ardent mind, half the interest these 
 fables did, as they seemed to invoke man to lay 
 aside his false pride, and to receive, from his 
 created inferiors, those oracles of wisdom he has 
 so long neglected. 
 
 'Now, gentlemen, it so happened, that after a 
 inontem surfeit, indulged in with some of my 
 companions, who on other days, also, than Whit- 
 Tuesday, worshipped the god Venter, to the ex- 
 clusion of nearly all other gods, I was enduring 
 the pains and penalties of our homage, Avhen I 
 had recourse to my favourite author; and, on 
 opening it, the first fable that arrested my atten- 
 tion was that of the ^Ass eati7isr Thistles.'' 
 
 'This poor beast, as you all know, was loaded 
 with well balanced panniers, filled to repletion with 
 all sorts of dainty provisions for his master and 
 his retainers. Pursuing his way, the humble ass 
 encountered on the road-side a fine large thistle;
 
 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 97 
 
 and, not being out of appetite, he made on it a 
 most delicious repast. Whilst so emploj^ed, he 
 also thus philosophized : 'How many greedy 
 epicures,' said he, 'would think themselves happy 
 amidst such a variety of delicate viands as I now 
 carry ! but, to me, this bitter, prickly thistle is far 
 more savory and relishing than the most exquisite 
 and sumptuous banquet.' 
 
 'The ass, gentlemen, knew very well that the 
 epicures that day, who were to dine with his 
 master, would delight in the anticipation of each 
 and all the viands ; but, perhaps, he did not know 
 the misery of a sated and exhausted stomach — one 
 that having been wearied and diseased by a too 
 much and a too mixed indulgence of the goods 
 of the table, ends in the wreck of mental as well 
 as of bodily health. The ass, I am sure, knew 
 nothing of the arthritic — nothing of the pains that 
 torture 'Me toe of libertine excess'' — nothing of 
 the famed six cogent arguments for the gentility, 
 honour, and blessing of the gout, as given by one 
 Philander Misaurus — and, finally, nothing that 
 might well be said in reply to Master Misaurus. 
 But, as for myself, my resolution was at once 
 taken ; and, with the fable in my hand, and with 
 many pains in my head and stomach, consequent 
 upon my recent surfeit, I mentally vowed, thence- 
 forth and forever, to go with the ass in the sim- 
 plicity — the oneness of my diet ; and that, if 1 
 must gormandize, it should not be physically, but 
 mentally ; it should be the helluatio libroriim, sed 
 9*
 
 99 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 
 
 non ciborum; and to this resolve have I ever since 
 most tenaciously adhered. 
 
 'Nearly forty years have now passed, and I have 
 enjoyed the most buoyant health, an unmitigated 
 natural appetite, and, what may seem to you very 
 strange, I am both practically and theoretically 
 acquainted with the results of the culinary art, of 
 nearly every region of the globe. And though I 
 have dined to-day on mutton and sherry, you must 
 not imagine that I have done the like through life: 
 for it is quite probable, that were you to seek in the 
 lives and works of famed eaters, or of those who 
 record their exploits, from the times of the Gre- 
 cian Methecus, Epicurus, Glcmcus, Egisippus and 
 others ; in the writings of the Roman Varro, Colu- 
 mella, and Apicius, or, finally, in the more modern 
 Plati?ii, Scappi, Vo7i Rwnokr, Kitchener, the Alma- 
 nac des Gourmands, Ude, and a host of others, you 
 will scarce find one among the good livers, who 
 ever ate or drank of a greater variety of exquisite 
 dishes or wines, and yet with no pains of head, 
 eyes, or venter, than myself — all of which was the 
 happy result of a rigid avoidance of all jnixture at 
 the same meal, that is of more than one viand with 
 its appropriate vegetable, and one wine.' 
 
 Here the loquacious Mr. Cornaro (for that was 
 the nom d'^Iiotineur which the Apician afterwards 
 conferred on him,) would have ended his singular 
 narrative ; but such was the interest, as well as 
 curiosity, which our iEsopian sage had by this 
 time excited, that he was not long permitted to 
 remain silent. The wonder still continued how
 
 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 99 
 
 he could possibly have become so practically fami- 
 liar with all that is known in the French, German, 
 Italian, and Asiatic cuisine^ consistently with his 
 alleged restriction. 'There is no difficulty here 
 gentlemen, that needs much explanation, to vindi- 
 cate my jeoparded veracity,' replied Mr. Cornaro, 
 with some mixture of good humour and gravity; 
 'much may surely have been done in this way, du- 
 ring so many years, acting as I ever was on a uni- 
 form system. Nature, as I before stated, had given 
 me strong propensities to good cheer; art was, there- 
 fore, to be invoked, after I had formed my reso- 
 lution, so as to minister to this propensity as much 
 of comfort as might consist with the faithful exe- 
 cution of my vow ; and this was effected, by my 
 enjoying the numerous goods of the table, in all 
 countries, not as you have done, consociately, nor 
 yet consecutively, but truly separately, by always 
 leaving an interval for each of at least twenty- four 
 hours. Now, my friends, we seem to have differed 
 essentially, in our practice, only in two things ; but 
 these two produce all the difference. Unlike you, 
 I have invariably shunned mixture, and have also 
 rigidly stopped eating as soon as there was a clear 
 manifestation that hunger had subsided : for I 
 never ate any thing through the medium of a pro- 
 vocative, or for a mere palatial gratification.' 
 
 Here an involuntary smile, amounting to a 
 subdued laugh, became visible on every counte- 
 nance — for Mr. Cornaro was certainly an egregious 
 pedant, at least in the use of language. But, he 
 proceeded. 'My variety, then, arose from a daily,
 
 100 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 
 
 weekly, or monthly change of diet, or of the mode 
 of preparing it ; and though I indulged in this sin- 
 gleness at each meal, forty years are surely quite 
 sufficient to exhaust every article to be found in 
 the united bills of fare of Europe and of Asia. 
 But, that I might perfect my plan, I kept with an 
 exact care, what I called my Index Expurgato- 
 rius — for if any of the numerous articles disagreed 
 with me twice, I recorded it there, and never 
 touched it more. My extensive travels, more- 
 over, rather harmonized with this mode of living. 
 Nature seemed to have provided for man the means 
 of a rich and various repast ; all things were evi- 
 dently created for his use, but it was equally clear 
 to me, that the abuse consisted in the villanous 
 mixtures, and in the oppressive quantities, so 
 universally consumed at a single meal ; still, my 
 Etonian philosophy and resolution were not so 
 ultra as to occlude any thing that nature, or a 
 well-devised art had provided, so long as it proved 
 to me a friend. Mixture and excess were the only 
 enemies with which I had to combat ; and if I 
 occasionally discovered a foe among the many arti- 
 cles enrolled in the bills of fare, I bade it a willing 
 and eternal farewell. How much was thereby 
 saved to my purse — how little I had to connnune 
 with the sons of Esculapius — how much time has 
 been economized, and how many incommodities, 
 and pains of every kind, I have avoided, need not 
 now be recounted. A catalogue of ingeniously con- 
 trived dishes, «fcc. under the heads of Potages — 
 Petit s hors-d''ceuvres — Poissons — Barn/ — Eiitrtes
 
 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 101 
 
 de Patisserie — de Volaille — de Veau — the Entre- 
 mets de Lesume — de Douceur — the Desserts — 
 — as also the Vins rouges — the Vins blcmcs les 
 liqueurs, 6)'c. 6f'c. never gave me the least alarm, 
 as I partook of only a single viand from the long 
 list, and on occasions of required temperance, 
 dined at Very'^s, the Grand Valet, or at the Rocher 
 de Cancale, in great comfort, on a Charlotte russe, 
 (but never of course on an omHette soiiffiS,) with a 
 glass of iced water, I found that, even after a few 
 years, every article of every bill of fare, was per- 
 fectly familiar to me. 
 
 'I cast my eye over all animated nature, and 
 found MAN to be the only cooking animal ! Cook- 
 ing, then, was evidently no deflexion from his 
 nature, but of the very ordination of Him by 
 whom he was created. Animals cook not, merely 
 because they cannot ; man cooks, as prompted 
 thereto by reasen and by knowledge ; and even 
 brute beasts are sometimes greatly benefitted in 
 their food, by man's acquaintance with the chemi- 
 cal and other results of the culinary art. 
 
 'You see, then, gentlemen, that I am far from 
 joining in a proscription against this useful science 
 of cooking; which, if it hath killed its hundreds, 
 it has also blessed and prolonged the lives of its 
 millions. And though it was, perhaps, an exag- 
 gerated fancy in Voltaire to say, in his accustomed 
 general way, f/u^Ufi cuisiuier est v.n mortal divin, it 
 is still a fact that the statistics of France show a 
 manifest diminution of disease, and a consequent 
 prolongation of human life, since the art of cook-
 
 102 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 
 
 ing has assumed the form of a science ; and I am 
 quite satisfied that the preparation of dishes a la 
 Frangaisey ou a Vltalian, is more conducive to both 
 resuhs, than the raw and savage mode so usual in 
 my native land. I have a particular fondness for 
 the French entremet of aspergis aux petitis pois, 
 but have never since my return to England, now a 
 full half year, been able, even by many threats 
 and large bribery, to prevail on any cook to serve 
 them more than half-boiled. This you know was 
 a Roman fashion to a proverb — asparago citius — 
 and Augustus used to say, when he desired to 
 have his commands quickly executed, 'do it as 
 speedily as asparagus boils.' But though it be 
 thus ancient and imperial, it is a cruel fashion 
 and no where more savagely practised than in 
 England. 
 
 'Your vegetables are only scalded, your viands 
 are often but scorched, and your game comes to 
 the table, more cooked by the sceptic process of 
 nature, than by the fires of the cuisine. The gra- 
 vamen^ then, of which alone I have to complain, 
 is not of cookery, in most of its modern forms, 
 (and especially out of England,) but simply of the 
 uses, or rather abuses, made of its luxurious results. 
 The cook has generally performed his duty, and 
 produced almost invariably, things edible and 
 highly salutary ; but his employers have rendered 
 them almost poisonous, by blending so many of 
 them at a single meal, and by an indulgence with- 
 out stint, long after appetite has ceased, and after 
 the powers of digestion have nearly terminated.
 
 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 103 
 
 'The ancient cooks, you remember, were at one 
 time the vilest of slaves ; but, after a while, they 
 rose in high estimation; and, leaving their kitchens, 
 they came with triumph into the schools, among 
 the philosophers. Their vile vocation became an 
 honoured art, and lastly, even a lauded science : — 
 for it is said that the Syracusian Archestratus, after 
 travelling over the world in search of good cheer, 
 composed an epic poem to illustrate its heroes; and 
 that even Aristotle did not think the ars culinaria 
 unworthy of his philosophic pen. 
 
 'I speak not here in commendation of that un- 
 meaning luxury, and expensive gluttony, which 
 marked the career of a Vitellius, a Heliogabalus, a 
 Geta, a LucuUus, a Claudius, or a Gallienus. Mag- 
 nificence, taste, and science, when carried to such 
 excesses, lose all their charms, and sink into a 
 degrading and disgusting fatuity. You remem- 
 ber, for instance, the emperor Geta was so refined 
 an epicure, and had such an insatiate maw, withal, 
 that his numerous dishes were brought in by divi- 
 sions, and each alphabetically; and that his feed- 
 ing would sometimes endure several days without 
 intermission. We are likewise told that the em- 
 peror Vitellius was entertained, by his brother 
 Lucius, with many thousand rare and expensive 
 fishes, and with no less than seven thousand 
 choice birds, each of peculiar value ; and further, 
 that luxury had attained such a mad height among 
 the Romans, that the palate seemed to derive enjoy- 
 ment from the combined consideration of the vast 
 expense and shocking cruelties with' which the
 
 104 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 
 
 articles served up were procured. Hence was it, 
 that the combs of living cocks, in vast numbers, 
 were cut from their heads to form a single dish ; 
 the brains of thousands of peacocks occasioned 
 vast slaughter, to satisfy the ideal taste of a beastly 
 monarch ; rare singing and talking birds, each of 
 no small value, were collected on a large platter, 
 and were then valued in what would now amount 
 to nearly five thousand pounds of our money, 
 lampreys were said to be rendered inexpressibly 
 delicious, by being fed on human flesh ; and 
 even costly pearls were dissolved to swell up the 
 expense of their bill of fare, and to make the com- 
 bination of expense with cruelty, as perfect as 
 possible. 
 
 'Well might the splendid Lucullus, in such an 
 age, designate each of the various eating saloons 
 of his palace, by the name of some deity, so that 
 the steward of his banquets might know, at once, 
 the intended expense and magnificence of a ccena^ 
 by his master's merely stating the name of the 
 saloon in which he would have it take place. 
 Well might the cuisiniers of those days collect, 
 at untold prices, the crabs of Chios, the trouts of 
 Pessinuntium, the cranes of Melos, the peacocks 
 of Samos, the turkeys of Phrygia, the kids of Am- 
 bracia, the oysters of Tarento, and even of distant 
 Albion, where we now happily are, and especially 
 after the Trajan Apicius had discovered the im- 
 portant art of keeping them almost indefinitely 
 fresh. Well might they do all this, and likewise 
 go to Egypt for dates, to Iberia for chestnuts, and
 
 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 105 
 
 also expend, as the Tiberian Apicius is said to 
 have done, no less than a million sterling on his 
 kitchen : for it is manifest, that the deity of the 
 then world, was the god of every vitiated appetite 
 of body and of soul ; and that the Jupiter tonans 
 should have taken the name of Jupiter edans ! 
 
 'Very different, however, is the luxury and the 
 refined aims of the culinary art of the present age; 
 which, though sometimes carried to excess, and 
 often abused by the mixtures and quantities in 
 which we indulge, and which I have so carefully 
 guarded against, is an art entitled to great com- 
 mendation. The luxury of the ancients, often 
 brutal, unmeaning, and foolishly extravagant, is 
 widely removed from ours, which is far more sub- 
 dued ill every particular — has the utilities of life 
 much more in view — is far more scientifi.c and 
 salutary, — and, were every one to adopt the plan 
 suggested to me by my Montem surfeit, aided by 
 the iEsopian fable I have mentioned, I see no rea- 
 son to fear the decline of the culinary art. The 
 entire system of European and of Asiatic cookery 
 might remain, and become still more refined and 
 improved : for my long experience has resulted in 
 proscribing but few dishes, and still fewer among 
 the wines and liqueurs; so that, after all, my 
 Index Expurgatorious contains but a meagre list. 
 
 'I have sometimes thought, that the national 
 cookery afforded me no little insight, a priori, into 
 the national character of a people ! — thus, in the 
 fantastic and gossamer features of nearly all that is 
 ushered from the French cuisine^ in the various 
 10
 
 100 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 
 
 colours, distillations, reductions, and refinements 
 of their entrees^ their entremets de legumes, et de 
 douceur, and of their desserts, we find mirrored 
 forth their ardent fancy — their devotion to things 
 of taste and parade — their artificial worldly policy 
 and speciousness — their indomitable vanity ; and, 
 above all, their want of genuine sentiment. So, 
 likewise, in the substantial, honest, and perfectly 
 undisguised dishes, so usual among the Germans, 
 we perceive their national phlegm, their characteris- 
 tic openness, their laborious habits, their indiife- 
 rence to mere physical refinements, and their per- 
 \'ading economy. So, in our own country, the 
 simple boil, and still more primitive roast, and the 
 almost total absence of all greasy appliances, 
 suit the plain and unvarnished character of John 
 Bull ; and, finally, the hominy, roasting-ears, has- 
 ty-pudding, treacle, wild-game, succoiash, and a 
 hundred others, among the Americans, indicate 
 their Indian associations — whilst their German, 
 French, British, and various other dishes, mani- 
 fest their extremely miscellaneous origin; and that 
 the people have as little of national cookery as of 
 national character. I admit, that in all nations 
 the elite will depart from the general rule, and 
 that gourmands may every where be found, seek- 
 ing after the culinary chef d''(Buvres of other lands. 
 And the same remark, as to the influence of diet 
 on character, applies to individuals — the emperor 
 Charles V. not being much out of the way, when 
 he said, 'I'll tell you what a man MmArs, if you'll 
 tell me what he eatsJ^
 
 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 107 
 
 'In the use of wines, I have sometimes expe- 
 rienced a little difficulty, from the well-known 
 practice among most nations, of introducing diffe- 
 rent wines, supposed to be peculiarly adapted to 
 the several courses. In France, you know, the 
 vin ordinaire, with its copious admixture of water, 
 is made to flourish for a time, at their entertain- 
 ments. The vi?is d''entremets prevail during the 
 intervals between the courses ; and it is often the 
 case, that certain dishes demand the presence of 
 particular wines. If, therefore, the cJiablis must 
 accompany oysters, and cillery the roasts ; if the 
 liqueurs, or the highly dry wines cannot be taken 
 out of their course, I had to make my selection, 
 at each entertainment, of the wine destined for a 
 known course, and to abstain, before and after, 
 from all others. 
 
 ' I should have experienced, however, insur- 
 mountable obstacles in all this, had the Athenian 
 practice prevailed of drinking toasts, which de- 
 manded not only a bumper, but that the cup 
 should be drained, in each case, of its contents ; 
 and to see this honestly done, officers were in at- 
 tendance, clothed with the high powers of seeing 
 that each man did his duty ! No such amiably 
 intended compulsion, thanks to Bacchus, ever visit- 
 ed me; but I have always been permitted to say, 
 or nod my '5ene tnilii bene tibi,'' with but a poorly 
 replenished glass, and that, too, but only tasted. 
 
 'I have now, gentlemen, in compliance with 
 your wishes, stated, perhaps, too fully, my views 
 of the mode of rationally enjoying all the good
 
 108 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 
 
 cheer, which a true Apiciaii ought to covet: for 
 the sum of my gratification must have been quite 
 equal to that of any one of yours ; and, moreover, 
 I never expended, since I left Eton, a single pound 
 on all the Esculapians of my-own and of other 
 lands ; whereas, even among the friends and ac- 
 quaintances, I have made in various parts of the 
 world, I may truly say, with the Roman proverb, 
 plus gula quam gladius.'* 
 
 Here Mr. Cornaro removed his spectacles, called 
 for a glass of water—and was silent. 
 
 'I confess,' said our host, 'you have argued your 
 point with great ingenuity and ability ; and if you 
 could but subtract forty years from the sum I now 
 count, and place me a youth at Eton school, and 
 give me Jlilsop's fables for my daily study, and 
 surfeit me with a Montem frolic — then, all that you 
 have so charmingly detailed would scarce fail to 
 make me a practical convert to your unquestiona- 
 bly sound philosophy : but, as it is, I greatly 
 fear that, for the residue of my hfe, I shall be 
 obliged to say, as king Agrippa said unto Paul, 
 almost thou persuadest ine to he thy disciple.' 
 
 With this, our company bade adieu to their 
 host — all seemingly much pleased with so curious 
 a specimen of an ancient philosopher, who, like 
 the wandering Jew, was flourishing in modern 
 times !
 
 A CURIOUS PROPOSITION. 109 
 
 NOTE VIII. — A CURIOUS PROPOSITION. 
 
 I KNOW not where to refer for the exact terms of 
 a proposition, said to have been made by a sage to 
 a worldling, in illustration of the extreme folly of 
 those who jeopard the riches of the life to come, 
 for any pleasures the present one can afford ; but I 
 remember, it struck me with great force ; and was 
 somewhat after this fashion: — Suppose the whole 
 earth were a mass of distinct globules of sand, and 
 that every globule represented a thousand years, 
 and that during the aggregate of the years, so 
 represented by the entire mass, you were permitted 
 to enjoy, not merely such an unalloyed happiness 
 as you could contrive, or even imagine, but such 
 as with the aid of the gods could be devised ! 
 would you at once seal a bond with Deity, to 
 relinquish all of even your present feeble hopes of 
 eternal happiness thereafter, for the certain enjoy- 
 ment of the myriads of years that this world of 
 globules would thus afford you? — to which, as the 
 story goes, the unhesitating reply to the sage 
 was — No. 
 
 And this, probably, would be the response of 
 almost any mind, capable of the least reflection. 
 Why then, it may well be asked, does man so 
 constantly jeopard his eternal happiness, for the 
 uncertain enjoyment of the extremely miscella- 
 neous, and ever alloyed pleasures, he can snatch 
 from time, during the k\v years allotted to him in 
 this world? Strange infatuation ! wonderful incon- 
 sistency ! that a rational mind should, in theory^ 
 10*
 
 110 A CURIOUS PROPOSITION. 
 
 earnestly reject such a proposition, and yet, in 
 practice, daily commit a folly infinitely greater 
 than would have been involved in its acceptance. 
 The truth is that man, however correct in his 
 theoretical views, seldom acts on any very defined 
 principle (if he acts at all) in opposition to his 
 passions. He is eminently a creature of circum- 
 stances — of impulses — and is, in many things, a 
 mere bundle of habits ! He seeks for present 
 enjoyment, and seldom graduates his conduct in. 
 reference to a remote future. 
 
 The foregoing proposition reminds me of a perti- 
 nent, and beautiful illustration of the same matter, 
 found in that meritorious and curious old work, 
 entitled 'Gesta Romanorum,' printed by Wynkyn 
 de Worde, in the sixteenth century; which I ex- 
 tract, with some alteration, however, of the ortho- 
 graphy. 
 
 In the fifth of the Gesta, or stories of these 
 Roman emperors, we find the following: 
 
 'Sometime their reigned in the city of Rome, 
 a mighty emperor, and wise, named Frederick, 
 which had only one son, whom he loved much. 
 This emperor, when he lay in the point of death, 
 called unto him his son, and said, dear son, I 
 have a ball of gold, which I give thee, upon my 
 blessing, that thou anon, after my death, shall give 
 it to the most fool that thou mayest find ! Then 
 said his son, my lord, without doubt, thy will 
 shall be fulfilled. Anon, this young lord, after 
 the death of his father, went and sought in many 
 realms, and found many fools richless ; and be-
 
 A CURIOUS PROPOSITION. Ill 
 
 cause he would satisfy his father's will, he labour- 
 ed further, till he came into a realm, where the 
 law was such, that every year a new king should 
 be chosen there, and this king had only the guiding 
 of that realm but to a year's end, and shall then be 
 deposed and put into exile in an island, where 
 he should wretchedly finish his life ! When the 
 emperor's son came into this realm, the new king 
 was chosen with great honour ; and all manner of 
 minstrelsy went afore him, and brought him with 
 great reverence and worship unto his regal seat: 
 and when the emperor's son saw that, he came 
 unto him, and saluted him reverently, and said, — 
 my lord, lo I give thee this ball of gold, on my 
 father's behalf. Then said the king, I pray thee 
 tell me the cause why thou givest me this ball? 
 Then answered the young lord, and said thus: 
 My father charged me, O king, in his death bed, 
 under pain of his blessing, that I should give this 
 ball to the most fool that I could find ; wherefore T 
 have sought many realms, and have found many 
 fools, — nevertheless, a more fool than thou art, 
 found I never; and therefore this is the reason. 
 It is not unknown to thee that thou shalt reign 
 but a year, and at the year's end, that thou shalt 
 be exiled into such a place, where thou shalt die a 
 mischievous death; — wherefore I hold thee for the 
 most fool that ever I found, that, for the lordship 
 of a year, thou wouldst so wilfully lease thyself! 
 and therefore, before all others, I have given thee 
 this ball of gold. 
 
 'Then said the king, without doubt, thou sayetli
 
 112 A CURIOUS PROPOSITION. 
 
 the truth ; and, therefore, when I am in full power 
 of this realm, I shall send before me great treasure 
 and riches, wherewith I may live, and relieve 
 myself from mischievous death, when that I shall 
 be exiled and put down. Wherefore, at the year's 
 end, he was exiled, and lived there in peace, upon 
 such goods as he had sent before ; and he died 
 
 afterwards a good death ! Dear friends, this 
 
 Emperor is the Father of Heaven.' 
 
 And the story might, perhaps, have added that 
 this son was Jesus Christ, and the foolish king, 
 who afterwards became wise, and followed the 
 sage admonition given him, is every son of man 
 who takes counsel from the gospel, and who, in 
 disregard of the temporary fascinations of the 
 world, lays up his treasures in heaven. Well 
 would it be, if every one, when so admonished, 
 and having, perhaps, an equally temporary lease 
 of life, that this king had of his realm, would 
 do as he did — prepare, now, for a never-ending 
 fee-simple of bliss, beyond the grave.
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 IX. ST. Peter's chair at rome. — x. was st. peter ever 
 
 AT ROME? — XI. DR. WATSON AND THE STUART PAPERS. — 
 XII. TAKING HEAVEN BY STORM. 
 
 NOTE IX. — ST. Peter's chair at rome. 
 
 Lady Morgan has given great offence to the 
 Romanists, and not without cause, as I admit, by 
 a passage in her 'Italy,' respecting the genuineness 
 of this far-famed relic of the Vatican church. The 
 matter and the manner of the attack are certainly 
 far from admirable, and, as it seems to me, are bar- 
 ren of all courtesy — dogmatical, flippant, false, and 
 wholly uncalled for. The short narrative given 
 by her is, in substance, that the French, during 
 their occupation of the holy city, forcibly removed 
 the magnificent bronze casement that for some 
 centuries has enshrined from the public gaze the 
 venerable chair, brought it from darkness and cob- 
 webs into full light, and then made the important 
 discovery that it bore a nearly obliterated Arabic 
 inscription, containing the well known Mahometan 
 confession of faith — 'There is but one God, and 
 Mahomet is his prophet !' — and, moreover, that this 
 chair came to the church among the spoils of the 
 crusaders, when the times were too ignorant to
 
 114 ST. Peter's chair at rome. 
 
 decypher the inscription — and finally, that tlie 
 truth being since suppressed by the church, the 
 chair has maintained its wonted honours — the peo- 
 ple been deceived — and none but the unhallowed 
 and audacious at Rome, either know the fact, or 
 venture on repeating it ! 
 
 In this account we find a discourteous spirit; it 
 is likewise dogmatical, because it contains mere 
 assertion, without even the feeblest attempt at 
 argument, or authority — it is flippant and false, as 
 it reposes on an idle tale, so extremely silly on its 
 face, as to make no impression on any reflecting 
 mind; and lastly, it was wholly gratuitous, and 
 inconsequential, as this relic, perhaps, of all others 
 known to the catholic church, is the least ob- 
 noxious to censure, is among the best authenti- 
 cated, (at least as being a chair of the times of the 
 Saint) and finally, because it is one, Avhich if ever 
 seen by Lady Morgan, could have been but super- 
 ficially, and which, as is equally probable, had 
 never been more critically examined by any one 
 with whom she was likely to have confidentially 
 communed. How strange is it that protestant zeal, 
 and more often an unmeaning spirit of infidelity as 
 to the genuineness of ancient remains, prompts us 
 to disregard the laws of evidence, the philosophy 
 of probabilities, and thus recklessly to close our 
 mental vision against the light of truth ! It is, 
 indeed, an undeniable fact that the Roman church 
 has very many false relics, and some of them so 
 shamefully absurd, as to raise, in thin and undis- 
 criminating minds, doubts as to them all. But it
 
 ST. Peter's chair at rome. 115 
 
 is the province of wisdom to have caution without 
 scepticism, Hberality without creduHty, and calm- 
 ness in the examination and weighing of evidences 
 in every separate case, without confounding them 
 with others ; and this, as we think, has not been 
 always done by the opponents of catholic beliefs, 
 and certainly not by Lady Morgan, in the present 
 instance ; for she has evidently applied some 
 extremely vague accounts respecting the but little 
 esteemed, and only vulgarly so called chair of St. 
 Peter at Venice, to the greatly valued one of Rome, 
 which has been long accredited as such by men of 
 distinguished learning and piety, and the authen- 
 ticity of which, daring very many centuries, is as 
 well maintained, historically and traditionally as 
 that of any one of the various relics to be found in 
 most of the English cathedrals and castles, and 
 concerning which we hear of few, if any doubts, 
 and of no illiberal and ill-natured attacks. 
 
 The chair, in question, may not be the veritable 
 one in which St. Peter reposed; but this has never 
 been disproved, and it has tradition to that effect 
 on its side — it may, also, not be a Roman curule 
 chair, but it is certainly not a Mahometan monu- 
 ment, nor has it any Arabic, or other inscription 
 that proves the falsity of its claims — it may never 
 have been within the walls of the Senator Pudens' 
 house, nor have been presented by him to the 
 Saint, but it is still, in every respect, just such a 
 chair as might have been in Rome at that time, 
 and most worthy of being thus presented to the 
 distinguished apostle, if he were ever there to
 
 116 ST. Peter's chair at rome. 
 
 receive it at the hands of his alleged host and pro- 
 selyte; and it differs, moreover, from the known 
 curule chairs, only as a variety may deviate from 
 one of its species. 
 
 Rome has numerous relics still more ancient 
 than the era imputed to this chair, and most of 
 them are even more feebly verified ; and yet in 
 regard to these, antiquarians presume to speak 
 with no little confidence and display of learning; 
 whereas this chair of the pope's, to a protestant 
 mind, seems to be at once severed from all anti- 
 quarian research, and is pronounced, by mere 
 'lookers-on in Venice,' either as a comparatively 
 modern fabric, or as one of any other region, or 
 origin, than Roman ! And why all this? — merely, 
 forsooth, because some people vaguely and idly 
 imagine that if St. Peter ever sat in this famous 
 chair, it must have been in Rome, if in Rome, then 
 as Pope, and if as pope, then as the successor of 
 Christ and the apostles, and if such, then that the 
 catholic church is the one, and only one to which 
 was said, ' Tu es Petrus, et super hanc petram 
 adificabo Ecclesiarn^ et tibi dabo claves reg7ti ccelo- 
 rumP Now, the whole of this, as it seemeth to 
 me, is verily such a congeries of non sefjuiturs, as 
 Lady Morgan, and all who so think, should deeply 
 blush at. Hath not Luther's great Reformation a 
 surer basis, a more enduring fulcrum to rest upon, 
 than the negation of such a consecutive series of 
 idle inferences ? Would even the clearest proofs 
 that this beautiful relic of ancient art, with its fine 
 embellishments of ivory and gold, had never been
 
 ST. Peter's chair at rome. 117 
 
 seen by the great 'apostle of the circumcision,' and 
 that the whole tradition was a 'pious fraud' of far 
 more recent days, abate one jot or tittle the claims 
 of popery, whatever they may be ? 1 think not. 
 Does protestantism suffer an iota of loss, on the 
 other hand, by the clearest proofs, not only that 
 this was his chair, but that he long resided at 
 Rome, and there suffered martyrdom? Clearly 
 not, — all this, and all the other particulars respect- 
 ing the chair, might well be conceded, and yet St. 
 Peter never have been pope of Rome, never have 
 been even bishop thereof; and finally, never have 
 claimed, nor exercised any official superiority over 
 the other apostles. The laboured researches, then, 
 of the Romanists to prove the genuineness of this 
 chair, and the testy jealousy of protestants in 
 respect to it, and particularly as to the point of 
 the saint's long residence, and martyrdom at 
 Rome, seem to me to be what lawyers would 
 denominate an immaterial issue, or a departure in 
 the pleadings, whenever these researches, on either 
 side, are in any degree connected with the ques- 
 tion — 'which is the true church?' 
 
 Dr. Wiseman, of the Roman University, how- 
 ever, in his short but eloquent reply to Lady Mor- 
 gan's slander, shows himself a wiser catholic than 
 many of his brethren, who have written on the 
 claims of the chair ; for his brief argument is not 
 that of an elaborate antiquarian, but of an honest 
 and zealous mind in pursuit of truth, indignantly 
 refuting, in a common sense way, a fabulous narra- 
 II
 
 118 ST. Peter's chair at rome. 
 
 live of an accomplished popular writer, who, in 
 connection with her subject, had charged the whole 
 body of the catholic clergy with perpetuating a 
 gross decej)iion, after a clear discovery of the spu- 
 riousness of the relic — a charge in no degree sus- 
 tained in the present instance, whatever may be 
 the fact in respect to some others, not yet repu- 
 diated, though it be scarce possible, at least for a 
 protestant mind, to conceive a credulity in regard 
 to them so gross and benighted, as still to retain 
 them in the ccmon of their relics! 
 
 But, to revert for a moment, to the champions, 
 and to the repudiators of this chair — what do the 
 dissertations of Falei, of Bonnaid^ of Wiseinati., 
 and others, on the one side, and of Velcitms, of 
 Calvin, of Sebastian, of Ouen, and others on the 
 other, either prove, or disprove? Surely, little 
 more than the great antiquity of the chair in ques- 
 tion — its long connection with the name of St. 
 Peter — that in the priuiitive church it was custo- 
 mary for teachers of distinction to occupy, by way 
 of eminence, a secies — cathedra— throne or chair^ 
 and which, in after times, was often carefully pre- 
 served as an interesting relic — that Eusebius men- 
 tions the chair of St. James, as being extant in his 
 time — that St. Mark''s chair was long preserved 
 with a like veneration at Alexandria — that Tertul- 
 han speaks in still more general terms, of the 'very 
 chairs of the apostles as yet in their places' — that 
 St. Optatus, in the fourth century, alluded to the 
 chair of St. Peter, as one that Macrobius of Rome 
 had never occupied — that Ennodius of Pavia,
 
 ST. Peter's chair at rome. 119 
 
 early in the sixth centuiy, wiien lamenting the 
 state of the church, adverts to the fact that the 
 chair is now despised, and afterwards speaks of 
 the portable chair of the apostle's confession (or 
 tomb,) — all of which combined would seem to 
 bring this chair somewhat authentically as imputed 
 to St. Peter, as far back as to a. d. 503 — but alas ! 
 here all tradition^ even, ends. Yet, as the matter 
 thus far stands, the claims of the chair are fully 
 redeemed from the aspersions cast upon it by Lady 
 Morgan and others. Now, though in the second 
 place, her ladyship, and other cognate writers 
 have sufficiently established that the Romanists 
 have failed in obtaining certain proof that this 
 chair ever was St. Peter's, it ought to be remem- 
 bered that the Romanists themselves have spared 
 these very writers the necessity of establishing this 
 fact — since all Catholics have unhesitatingly ad- 
 mitted the absence of any such clear proof that it 
 ever was his; and have only reposed on the proba- 
 bilities which they deduced from the facts I have 
 just stated. 
 
 The whole subject is, perhaps, of little moment, 
 in the abstract; and would not have been dwelt on, 
 had not many Catholics, on the one hand, sup- 
 posed that its genuineness forms an important link 
 in the chain of their proofs of apostolic supremacy! 
 and had not Protestants, on the other, been weak 
 enough to regard it somewhat in the same light! 
 Entertaining, as I do, quite a ditferent opinion, and 
 believing that neither church would gain or lose 
 by the decision of the controversy cither way, I am
 
 120 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME? 
 
 disposed to treat this relic as I would those of Shaks- 
 peare at Stratford — those of the redoubtable Giiy, 
 at Warwick castle — those of Luther, of Wickliff, 
 of some of the early kings of England, or of Scot- 
 land — or, in fine, any other remains of unrecorded 
 times, that may have come down to us attended by 
 little of clear proof — but which are still sustained 
 by a long tradition, and by those probabilities 
 which arise out of the laws of circumstantial evi- 
 dence judiciously applied. And, with this, I now 
 take my leave of the long venerated chair en- 
 sconced in the Tribune of St. Peter's basilika at 
 Rome. 
 
 NOTE X. WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME ? 
 
 This question is gravely put by many, and 
 variously answered, as if it were one on which 
 the fate of popery or of protestantism is to be 
 ultimately decided ! 
 
 Yes, say the catholics — St. Peter first arrived 
 there in the second year of the Emperor Claudius, 
 and resided in the house of the Senator Pudens 
 for seven years, the saint having previously con- 
 verted him to the new faith, together with his 
 two daughters, Pudentiana and Prassade, and his 
 two sons, Novatus and Timothy. Inconsequence 
 of an edict against the Jews, the saint retired from 
 Rome, leaving with his host a portrait of our 
 Saviour, now preserved in the church of St. 
 Prassade, which was erected in honour of the 
 senator's daughter! During St. Peter's absence
 
 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME ? 121 
 
 from the imperial city, he assisted St. Mark in 
 the preparation of his gospel, but returned, with 
 St. Paul to Rome, about the thirty-second year 
 after the crucifixion, and again took up his resi- 
 dence with the senator, who then presented to 
 him the splendid chair of ivory and gold, (the 
 subject of my previous note,) and which is now 
 preserved in the Tribune of St. Peter's church, 
 enshrined in a magnificent bronze case, and is 
 annually exhibited, on the eighteenth of January, 
 to the eager gaze of an admiring multitude ! 
 
 The Romanists further say that in the year 
 164, the church of St. Pudentiana was erected 
 in honour of the Senator Pudens' other daughter, 
 on the very spot where his house had stood, and 
 that the chapel to the right of the choir, now 
 contains the altar on which St. Peter used to 
 celebrate the mass — some of the books say, 'dove 
 credesi che S. Pietro celebrava la massa.' This 
 church also contains the well in which Saint 
 Pudentiana cast the blood of three thousand mar- 
 tyrs, whose remains are there deposited, and to 
 which a daily visit through life, entitles those 
 making it to an indulgence of three thousand 
 years, from the pains of purgatory, and a remis- 
 sion of a moiety of their sins ! 
 
 According to these Roman authorities, St. Peter 
 resided in Rome twenty-five years, enduring many 
 alternations of prosperity and adversity. He was 
 confined in the Tullian,or Mamertine prison, which 
 still remains, though erected by Ancus Martins; 
 and the pillar to which the saint was fastened, as 
 11*
 
 122 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME? 
 
 also the small spring or well of water with which 
 he was miraculously supplied for the baptism of 
 the two gaolers, and his forty-seven companions 
 are now likewise to be seen ! 
 
 It is farther asserted that St. Peter suffered 
 martyrdom by crucifixion, a. d. 67 — in the twelfth 
 year of the Emperor Nero, on the Janiculum, now 
 called the Golden Hill, or Montorio, in sacred allu- 
 sion, as some say, to the event — or, more probably'', 
 as others supposed, from the yellow or gold-like 
 sand of the hill. Near the place of the crucifixion, 
 Constantine the Great erected the church of S. 
 Pietro in Mofitrorio ; and on the precise s})ot 
 was erected by Ferdinand IV. of Spain, a small 
 temple of singular beauty, consisting of a rotunda 
 sustained by sixteen doric columns, after the de- 
 sign of Bramante, which is still in perfect pre- 
 servation. Although the precise spot of the saint's 
 crucifixion has been questioned by some catholics, 
 (maugre the erection of the aforesaid church and 
 temple,) yet they all agree that it certainly took 
 place near the Vatican, and consequently near 
 to where tradition has assigned it, and where 
 Constantine founded the church, and where Fer- 
 dinand established the temple, now so much ad- 
 mired by travellers. 
 
 The place of the saint's i7iierme?it, according 
 to Eusebius, has always been pointed out by tradi- 
 tion, as on the Vatican hill; and further accounts 
 state it to have been in a cemetery, over which 
 Pope Anaclctus, early in the second century, 
 erected a chapel, and enclosed the body in a
 
 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME ? 123 
 
 marble urn, — that this chapel and urn were super- 
 seded by the old, and subsequently by the present 
 church, or rather hasilika of St. Peter, (as being - 
 a sacred temple erected in honour of a martyr) 
 and finally, that the remains, then hermetically 
 enshrined in brass and copper, have never since 
 been seen, but the holy spot is beneath the present 
 high altar, adjoining to which is the Confessional 
 of the Shrine, the descent to which is by a double 
 flight of steps, surrounded by more than a hundred 
 lamps, burning in perpetual honour of the sacred 
 spot. 
 
 St. Peter, according to Eusebius, went to Rome 
 to oppose the pernicious tenets of Simon Magus, 
 whose preaching is said greatly to have pleased 
 Nero, especially after it had been given out that 
 Magus would fly to heaven in the emperor's pre- 
 sence; and he was seen to fly assisted by demons, 
 until St. Peter brought him so rapidly to the earth 
 as to fracture both his legs, in consequence of 
 which he soon after died ! In addition to all these 
 proofs of St. Peter's residence at Rome, the Catho- 
 lics also refer to the saints' miraculous liberation of 
 Rome from the attack and fury of Attila — to the 
 statue of the saint now in the Vatican Basilika, 
 which was made by the order of St. Leo, out of 
 the bronze statue of Jupiter Capitolinus — to the 
 marble statue of St. Peter, formerly on the outside 
 of the old churcli^ and now to be seen in the Grotte 
 Vaticane — to the church of St. Pietro in Vi?icoli, 
 which was erected by Eudoxia, in the year 442, 
 for the preservation of the chains that bound him
 
 124 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME? 
 
 when in prison at Jerusalem! These manacles 
 were sent from the holy city of Judea, by Eudocia 
 to her daughter Eudoxia, wife of the emperor 
 Valentinian, and shortly after their arrival at Rome, 
 they miraculously associated themselves with the 
 chain that had bound St. Paul at Rome! 
 
 Catholics still further refer, in proof of their 
 point, to the relics of St. Peter, now preserved at 
 Rome, in the church of St. Cecilia, viz : two of his 
 teeth, and seven rings of the chain by which he 
 had been bound! The foregoing, with many 
 others that might have been mentioned, are the 
 materials that compose the argument of the Ro- 
 manists in favour of St. Peter's residence at Rome, 
 his persecutions there in establishing the new 
 faith, his martyrdom there — and finally, his claims 
 to be regarded as the founder of the church, the 
 first Pope, and as the rock on which Christ himself 
 promised that his church should be built. 
 
 The Protestants, on the other hand, have either 
 wholly denied his presence in the eternal city — or 
 his alleged extended residence tiiere, and establish- 
 ment by him there of the church ; or lastly, they 
 contend that if all the facts stated by Catholics be 
 true, still, that they confer no official superiority 
 whatever of this saint over St. Paul, or over any 
 other of the apostles — that they confer no claims 
 beyond that of mere bishop, and in no way sustain 
 the Romish doctrine of papal power, even to any 
 limited extent of ecclesiastical authority over other 
 bishops. Had Protestants seen fit to adhere to 
 this last simple view of the matter, they would
 
 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME ? 125 
 
 easily have perceived where the substantial truth 
 of the controversy was really to be found ; they 
 would readily have separated the idle legends from 
 plausible traditions, and from the credible histories 
 of early times; and, in so doing, would unhesi- 
 tatingly have admitted that the weight of evidence 
 deduced from both, sufficiently established the fact 
 that Sai7it Pete?- loas at Rome on two several occa- 
 sions, and was there crucified during the first perse- 
 cution of the church, under Nero. This being 
 admitted, would, as I apprehend, in no degree 
 have weakened the lawfulness and necessity of 
 the Reformation, nor the justice of the denial to 
 the Pope of Rome of every particular in which the 
 two churches differ. 
 
 But, without my now, or at any time, entering 
 into such considerations, or in any way urging the 
 comparative merits of either church, what have 
 the Protestants been accustomed to urge, in reply 
 to the naked fact of St. Peter's visit, or extended 
 residence in Rome? They have carped much, 
 though unnecessarily and yet with truth, at the 
 idle fictions respecting some of the relics — as the 
 chains, and the links of chains that bound St. Peter, 
 and which ran, 'in osculation sweet,' to associate 
 with those of St. Paul ! — the pillar to which he 
 had been manacled ! — the miraculous springing np 
 of the water in the TuUian prison ! — the impres- 
 sion made of his likeness in the solid stone, now 
 exhibited on the side wall, as you descend the 
 prison steps ! — the Saint's two teeth, so carefully 
 preserved in the church of St. Cecilia ! — the le-
 
 126 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME ? 
 
 gend of Simon Magus ! — and such like fancies, all 
 of which might well be dismissed with mixed pity 
 and surprise that, in a church so full of piety, 
 zeal, learning, and worldly tact; in days, too, of 
 so much enlightenment as the present, the merest 
 figments of primitive ignorance and superstition, 
 should still be retained ! Why not establish a 
 canon of relics? — why not winnow the pure grain 
 from the chaff; and, if there be genuine and 
 indubitable relics, why not repose upon them 
 exclusively, and give the rest to oblivion, and 
 once more, to the darkness in which they may 
 have originated? 
 
 If, however, our Catholic brethren will not do 
 this ; if they will persist in marring the many 
 real and substantial beauties and merits of their 
 mother church, Protestants surely have no occa- 
 sion, on their part, to disregard both history and 
 tradition in respect to St. Peter, from any well 
 grounded apprehension that legends or relics can, 
 in any way, affect the argument for or against the 
 views of Catholics and of Protestants — the ques- 
 tion would still remain, and be a mere point of 
 fact, 'Was St. Peter ever at Rome?' No! say 
 many Protestants, for such a fact would have been 
 somewhere recorded, or alluded to, in the acts of 
 the apostles, in the gospels, in the epistles ; where- 
 as, not a word of the kind is any where to be 
 found in them ! 
 
 The saint's residence in Rome for twenty-five 
 years, as stated by Eusebius, is, say they, an inter- 
 polation, not to be found in various editions of his
 
 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME ? 127 
 
 work that have been published out of Rome ! and 
 Origen, who Uved considerably before Eusebius, 
 refers St. Peter's visit to the close of his life: 
 which, according to these protestant arguers, 
 shows such a vague and contradictory account of 
 the matter, as to cast the whole into doubt ! His 
 first visit, said to commence with the second year 
 of Claudius, and nine years after the crucifixion, 
 could not have endured for seven years; nor could 
 his second visit have lasted eighteen years ; nor 
 could the first have been eighteen, and the second 
 seven years, consistently with the narrative con- 
 tained in the acts of the apostles? 
 
 And many over zealous Protestants further 
 think that had St. Peter been at Rome, at any 
 time during which St. Paul wrote from that city, 
 or to the Romans, he must have made some men- 
 tion of his co-Iaboraior, which he does not; and 
 hence, if he were not there during either of these 
 times, it is difficult to find any such periods 
 between the crucifixion of our Saviour, and the 
 alleged date of Si. Peter's martyrdom, since it 
 would require even more than the whole of this 
 intervening period to satisfy the residence claimed 
 for him at Rome, by those who rely on the account 
 of Eusebius, and others. 
 
 Now, 1 confess, these views are to me quite suf- 
 ficient to disprove the alleged extent of St. Peter's 
 residence during the two combined visits ; and 
 many catholics have had the candour to abandon 
 that altogether. But still, the extent of the resi- 
 dence contended for may well be erroneous, and
 
 128 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME ? 
 
 the substance of the controversy be yet entitled to 
 an affirmative answer. 
 
 Dr. Campbell, in his brief notice of this ques- 
 tion, has involved himself, as it seems to me, in at 
 least an apparent contradiction, when he asserts 
 that St. Peter's ever being at Rome rests solely on 
 tradition^ and such a tradition as is very suspi- 
 cious, accompanied as it is by such a number of 
 legendary stories, as are totally unworthy of regard ; 
 and because the scriptures, and all of the apostolic 
 fathers are entirely silent on the subject; — and yet 
 he adds that Clement of Rome, in the second cen- 
 tury, mentions Peter's martyrdom as a known fact, 
 without specifying, however, the place, but which, 
 says the Doctor, 'I am inclined to think must have 
 been at Rome, both because it is agreeable to the 
 unanimous voice of antiquity, and because the 
 sufferings of so great an apostle could not fail to 
 , be a matter of such notoriety in the church, as to 
 preclude the possibility of an imposition in regard 
 to the place.'* And he afterwards states that the 
 silence of scripture on the subject can only be 
 reconciled by admitting that St. Peter's journey to 
 Rome was not only posterior to the historical period 
 embraced by the acts of the apostles, but to that 
 embraced by Paul's epistles. 
 
 Now, if Doctor Campbell's concessions be taken, 
 how do they consist with his allegation that the 
 fact rests exclusively on a tradition, itself entitled 
 to little weight because associated with legendary 
 
 *EccIe. Hist. p. 191.
 
 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME ? 129 
 
 Stories? for, if the fact be conceded, it cannot be 
 impaired by the circumstance of its connection 
 with mere tradition and legends ; but, on his own 
 showing, it seems to repose on something further 
 than tradition and idle stories, else the concession 
 would not have been made. As the matter, how- 
 ever, stands upon the view thus taken of it by Dr. 
 Campbell, it is, as it seems to me, all that the ques- 
 tion really demands, unless, indeed, the point be at 
 the same time connected with such a length of resi- 
 dence as would of itself make St. Peter the first 
 propagator of Christianity, and the first source of 
 all christian authority, at Rome. But this has at 
 no time been asserted by the Romanists, and need 
 not have been, if their previous opinion be also 
 correct, that St. Peter's presidency in the sacred 
 college of the apostles, conferred on him by Christ, 
 necessarily conferred on him an official superiority 
 over the other apostles, which, however, is contra- 
 dicted by the admitted fact that he sometimes 
 acted in subordination to them, and they, in turn, 
 seem never to have recognized any such official 
 supremacy. 
 
 Nor can I well perceive how a tradition as to 
 his martyrdom at Rome, is to be entitled to more 
 credit, than a like tradition of his two visits — of 
 his long residence with the Senator Pudens — or of 
 such other matters as are not manifestly legendary. 
 It would seem, then, to be more consectaneous 
 with the laws of evidence that we should care- 
 fully separate all that tends to establish the naked 
 fact of St. Peter's ever having been at Rome at all, 
 12
 
 130 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME ? 
 
 from such considerations as go merely to the point 
 of the authority claimed by the Roman church 
 to have been exercised by him — questions essen- 
 tially distinct, but which the prejudice of party, 
 or the intemperance of religious zeal, has too 
 often confounded. St. Peter may have been often 
 at Rome — may have been there martyred — may 
 have received the far-famed chair from Pudens, 
 his early convert — may have had there many 
 churches and other monuments erected to his 
 illustrious memory — the relics of him, moreover, 
 may all be genuine, and his remains may now be 
 enshrined in the venerable Vatican church — nay, 
 he may even have the honour accorded to him of 
 being the sole founder at Rome of the christian 
 church, and take precedence therein of the Tuscan 
 Linus, as bishop, and yet never have been Pope of 
 Rome, or father over all churches in Christendom ; 
 but have been merely, and at most, the first bishop 
 of Rome, without the least authority beyond the 
 original limits of that bishopric ! 
 
 It is likewise to be remembered that St. Peter 
 was the founder, also, of the church at Antioch, 
 which being the^r*^ church ever established by 
 him, the popedom, by rights, should have com- 
 menced there, rather than at Rome, Certain it 
 is, that St. Paul, writing from Rome to the Galla- 
 tians, denominates St. Peter the apostle of the 
 circumcision, and himself the apostle of the un- 
 circumcision ; and further states that when Peter 
 was come to Antioch, he (St. Paul) 'withstood 
 him to the face, because he (Peter) was to be
 
 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME ? 131 
 
 blamed !' And, a short time before his death, in 
 writing to Timothy from Rome, the same apostle 
 says that 'Eubulus and Pudens, and Linus, and 
 Claudia greet thee, and all the brethren.' Now, 
 as to this Linus, if he ever were pope, it must 
 have been either before or after St. Peter's resi- 
 dence there, which, also, must have been before 
 Paul's death ; and yet his name is not mentioned 
 with that respect for precedency, which must have 
 been accorded to him, had Linus as the bishop 
 of Rome, been pope over all christian churches! 
 It is likewise certain that Irenasus, near the 
 close of the second century, makes no mention 
 of St. Peter, as ever being even bishop of Rome, 
 but speaks of Linus as the first bishop, and of 
 Anacletus as the second. And who was Irenasus? 
 Is not his authority as high as any that can be 
 adduced? He was the pupil of Polycarp, a dis- 
 ciple of the apostle John, so that being but a 
 single remove from the age of St. Peter, and 
 being, moreover, as eminent for his learning, as 
 he was for piety, must have been familiar with, 
 the primitive organization of the church. Now 
 this Irenasus, when bishop of Lyons, wrote his 
 celebrated work against tlie 'Heretics' of those 
 days ; and, in the third chapter of the third book 
 of his work, he is so explicit on the subject of 
 what is called apostolic succession, that all con- 
 troversy about it would seem to be idle, especially 
 as he is contradicted by no contemporaneous or 
 antecedent authority, or by none, whatever, for 
 several centuries after. The substance of his
 
 132 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME ? 
 
 remarks on this point is that — the apostles founded 
 churches, and ordained bishops in them — that 
 Peter and Paul founded the church at Rome, and 
 ordained Linus to the charge of governing it — 
 that Polycarp was ordained bishop of the church 
 in Smyrna, and that he and Irenasus were inti- 
 mately acquainted — that a minute enumeration of 
 the successions in all of the churches would be 
 unnecessary and tedious, but that he would select 
 the succession of the one founded at Rome, as 
 being eminent and well known, and that the suc- 
 cession of bishops, and the true faith as handed 
 down from the time of the apostles to his own 
 day (a little more than one hundred years only) 
 was so perfectly familiar to him, that its mere 
 statement would be sufficient to repel all idle 
 conceits, and all perverse blindness of those op- 
 posed to truth — that Linus was the first bishop 
 of Rome, then came Anacletus — the third from 
 the apostles was Clement, who saw the apostles 
 themselves and conversed with them — and, after 
 enumerating several others in succession after 
 Clement, he says, Sextus was ordained the si3;t/i 
 from the apostles ; and, finally, coming to Eleu- 
 therus, he says, 'he is now in the episcopate, 
 being the twelfth in succession from the apostles.' 
 Irenasus then speaks of the church at Smyrna, of 
 Polycarp as its first bishop, and says that as such 
 he had always taught what he had learned from 
 the apostles, and that to these things all the 
 churches of Asia, and all the bishops from Poly- 
 carp till the time of his writing, gave testimony.
 
 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME ? 133 
 
 After a statement so pointed and clear, it would 
 seem that the door ought to be closed as to the 
 question who was first bishop of Rome — and 
 whether St. Peter was ever pope, or even bishop 
 of Rome. 
 
 The matter now in controversy, both as to the 
 fact of St. Peter's visits to Rome, and the diverse 
 inferences deduced from them by catholics and 
 protestants, seems to have arisen long posterior 
 to the age of Irenssus, — for it is not until the 
 commencement of the fifth century that we per- 
 ceive the first buddings of the since long vexed 
 question, when Innocent I. conceived the thought 
 of claiming for the episcopal see of Rome a supe- 
 riority over other sees, in virtue of St. Peter''s 
 foundci'ship, which as he tliought was entitled 
 to precedence over Antioch, and consequently all 
 others, because St. Peter fully accomplished at 
 Rome, what he had but commenced at Antioch ! 
 
 As to the title oi pope, it is an undeniable fact 
 it was applied to bishops of other sees as well as 
 that of Rome, and tliis too, long before papal 
 supremacy was at all thought of Now, although 
 the word pope, papa, (probably from pater patrmii) 
 does, ex vi termini, import chief, or head— /aMe;- 
 of fathers, yet this does not import bishop of 
 bishops — he may well have been father over all 
 within the limits of his diocess, Avithout claiming 
 to exercise any extra territorial paternity or juris- 
 diction. And so the historical fact is — for the 
 bishop of Rome, at first, claimed no superiority 
 or precedence, this having arisen in after times, 
 12*
 
 134 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME ? 
 
 not merely in respect to the see of Rome, but as 
 to several others, they being all classed in the 
 scale of precedence, more in reference to the then 
 existing temporal power, and other influences of 
 each, than to any spiritual considerations what- 
 ever; — and hence it was that the bishop of 
 Rome, the first of cities in the empire, naturally 
 took precedence of the bishop of Constantinople, 
 which city was called '■Nev) Rome;'' and, in like 
 manner, Alexandria took precedence of even An- 
 tioch, the former being the superior city in every 
 temporal respect. Had the superiority been ac- 
 corded to 'o/g? Rome,'' because St. Peter was con- 
 sidered the first pope, the council of Chalcedon, 
 in the year 451, would never for a moment have 
 thought of yielding the precedence to Rome over 
 Constantinople, ^because it was the imperial citi/,'' 
 which was the language used on the occasion : nor 
 could the pope, in after times, have feared that the 
 bishoprick of Constantinople 'scarce named in 
 former ages, might with little ceremony^ he raised 
 above the Roman see,'' because her temporal power 
 seemed to be so fast gaining the ascendancy over 
 that of the Eternal City. 
 
 On the whole, then, the controversy respecting 
 St. Peter's residence at Rome, seems to have been 
 rather an unmeaning one, 07i both sides. The fact 
 is clearly with the catholics — but the inferences 
 of supposed importance, are, as clearly, with the 
 protestants. The history of the Roman church 
 since the apostolic age, is at this time, too well 
 understood to cause just grounds of apprehension
 
 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME ? 135 
 
 for the stability of protestant, or of catholic claims : 
 for such considerations as the long or short resi- 
 dence of St. Peter in the imperial city — the pre- 
 sence of his visible apostolic chair within the walls 
 of the Vatican — the careful preservation at Rome 
 of his martyred remains — or finally, from all the 
 combined honours, so justly accorded by monu- 
 ments, statues, and churches, to the memory of 
 this chief of the apostles, and most venerated 
 among saints — all such matters, as it seems to 
 me, have but a feeble bearing on any question, 
 either of church authority, or of church organiza- 
 tion, and have been dwelt on, thus long in the 
 present note, mainly to show how unnecessarily 
 the learned and pious have, for ages, agitated 
 their minds with immaterial facts, ingeniously 
 blended with important inferences, with which, 
 in truth, they have but an impotent connection! 
 Both the great parties, in such controversies, 
 give to alleged facts an unmerited and factitious 
 importance, instead of calmly inquiring, first as to 
 their value, if true ; and secondly, the proofs ac- 
 cording to the philosophy of evidence on which 
 they repose. Had these distinct objects been ever 
 kept in view, the result, as I think, must have 
 been that, in a theological point of view, the facts 
 are of very minor importance, and that the catho- 
 lics, though they have sufficiently established the 
 verity of their principal facts, have wholly failed 
 in many collateral matters, and in all of the infe- 
 rences on which they have so zealously insisted.
 
 136 DR. WATSON AND THE STUART PAPERS. 
 NOTE XI. DR. WATSON AND THE STUART PAPERS. 
 
 I HAVE long been curious to know, but have 
 never yet been able to ascertain, what became of 
 the Stuart Papers, discovered by Dr. Watson at 
 Rome, some twenty or more years ago. It is well 
 known that this clever Scotch gentleman went to 
 Italy on a pilgrimage in search of valuable histori- 
 cal, political, and literary relics of the house of 
 Stuart, then said to be at Rome in the hands of 
 individuals, who set but little store by them; and 
 that they were rescued by him from their oblivion, 
 but in a strange and most despotic manner, were 
 wrested from him ! It is said that Dr. Watson, 
 after a toilsome search, discovered that the execu- 
 tor of the Cardinal of York — or, if legitimacy be 
 rigidly insisted on, then of Henry IX. still retained 
 a very large collection of precious manuscripts, so 
 little prized, however, by the executor, as to be 
 found in a dusty and leaky garret, and which Dr. 
 Watson purchased of him for no considerable sum, 
 and removed them to his own apartments. These 
 papers, when assorted, were found to consist of 
 nearly half a million of distinct articles, more than 
 one half of which were said to be extremely inte- 
 resting and curious, forming in themselves mate- 
 rials for many volumes of great novelty. Among 
 these remains, tlie accumulation of nearly a cen- 
 tury, were letters from many crowned heads, from 
 statesmen, noblemen, and scholars of the day. 
 There were letters of Pope, of Swift, of Boling- 
 broke, and others, together with documents,
 
 DR. WATSON AND THE STUART PAPERS. 1-37 
 
 which, had they come to hght shortly after they 
 were penned, would have occasioned much excite- 
 ment, and possibly important results. In them 
 might be found the various schemes devised for 
 the restoration of the exiled royal house of Stuart — 
 the views of its partisans, the hopes, fears, and 
 anticipated plans of its enemies — a revelation of 
 names true to their king, but whom, from policy 
 and other causes, were ranged ostensibly on the 
 side of the existing powers — all of which interest- 
 ing matters, though they related to transactions 
 that were long past, and of individuals no longer 
 living, and of families, perhaps now extinct, were 
 still sufficiently attractive to bring crowds of visi- 
 ters to Dr. Watson's house, which ended in so 
 alarming the papal government, that the secretary 
 of state was sent, first with overtures for the re-pur- 
 chase of the papers, but which, soon after, even- 
 tuated in obtaining them by force, accompanied 
 also by arrest of the patriotic Scot ! The Pope 
 then gave orders for the careful examination of the 
 manuscripts, which were finally tendered to the 
 British government, and a frigate was hastily de- 
 spatched with them to England ! Dr. Watson, as 
 the tale goes, immediately thereafter was released 
 from his durance vile, and as soon as possible ap- 
 peared before the Regent at Carlton House, and 
 there claimed as his own purchased property, the 
 manuscripts; Avhich, as he contended, could be 
 regarded in no other light than as the private 
 and individual property of a bona fide purchaser, 
 and to which the crown, or reigning monarch of
 
 138 DR. WATSON AND THE STUART PAPERS. 
 
 England, could have no hereditary claim, especially 
 after a sale by a regularly constituted executor in a 
 foreign land. But, where power is mostly on one 
 side — where possession (said to be nine points of 
 the law) was in a mighty prince, and where state 
 policy might conflict with private views, either of 
 utility or of emolument, the hope of a favourable 
 decision for the return of the papers, could have 
 been but slight. A commission, however, was 
 constituted to investigate the claim, which, as I 
 suppose, being found untenable, we hear no more 
 of Dr. Watson ; and the question now is, what has 
 become of these Stuart Papers ! for, although two 
 large quarto volumes have been given to the world, 
 by the Rev. Mr. Clarke, which are said to have 
 been published by the command of the Prince 
 Regent, from original Stuart manuscripts, disco- 
 vered since the death of the last of the Stuarts ; 
 there seems to be some confusion in regard to the 
 batch of papers from which these volumes are 
 compiled ; and whether they embrace any of those 
 purchased by Dr. Watson ! It is said, indeed, that 
 the whole tale of Dr. Watson's discovery at Rome, 
 is untrue, and that a valuable collection was pur- 
 chased by him at Paris, from a priest, who, faith- 
 less to the trust reposed in him by the pope's audi- 
 tor, sold them, and for a trifle ; and though shortly 
 after regained by the auditor, they never reached 
 Carlton House ! This, however, is, in turn, pro- 
 bably a great mistake ; but the two volumes issued 
 by the prince's command, (if no others have been 
 since published) seem not to contain those em-
 
 DR. WATSON AND THE STUART PAPERS. 139 
 
 braced by Dr. Watson's collection. It is said 
 that Atterbury's letter giving a plan of invasion — 
 another from the Duke of Leeds to the admiral 
 then in command of the fleet, offering him an im- 
 mense sum, and a peerage, as a tempting guerdon 
 for his defection, and also many private letters of 
 friendship, which passed between the royal exiles, 
 their relatives and secret adherents, as also for their 
 companions in misfortune, all of which were full 
 of interest, formed a part of the extensive collec- 
 tion, once in Dr. Watson's possession. 
 
 I confess, I am never drawn to the sad fate of 
 the first Charles, without emotion, and a deep sym- 
 pathy, for the downfldl of his house — but then, how 
 soon am 1 compelled to remember what an arrant 
 knave and petit tnaitre was the second Charles, and 
 what a pauvre (liable was the second James ! and 
 further, how illustrious has been the nation's glory, 
 under the house of Brunswick; and how glowing 
 and radiant are the hopes of this truly great people, 
 under their present very promising, though youth- 
 ful, dueen Victoria ! The unhappy Charles during 
 his gloomy imprisonment at Carisbrooke castle, is 
 then nearly forgotten — and even the dreadful scene 
 of his execution becomes in some degree veiled 
 from my view — and the wanderings of the Pre- 
 tender, Charles Edward, and the long, pious, and 
 unpretending life of Henry — the last of the Stuarts, 
 all pass in review before me, with nothing beyond 
 those fleeting, and mere historical sympathies, 
 which leave no shadow of regret on one's mind, 
 that their throne has been so long occupied, and is
 
 140 DR. WATSON AND THE STUART PAPERS. 
 
 destined for ever so to be, by those of other blood ; 
 and that when Henry, Cardinal d'York, in 1807, 
 was consigned to his tomb in the church at Fras- 
 cati, that event made an end for ever of this long, 
 long line of noble and of royal blood, that counted 
 from the Norman Fitz Alan, through a period of 
 eight centuries ! And yet, when my eye ran 
 rapidly over the poor little monument erected to his 
 memory, as also that to his brother prince Charles 
 Edvi'-ard, who died in 1787, I could not but feel as 
 if I should have been better pleased, had the great 
 British nation, in this one instance at least, have 
 manifested a more generous feeling towards this 
 last of an unfortunate family, and for ever have 
 recorded by a splendid mausoleum, and an apt 
 inscription, not only their own oblivion of the 
 errors that deprived the Stuarts of their throne, 
 but the nation's enduring horror at the act that 
 consigned the most amiable of that family to im- 
 prisonment, and to a most unmerited death. There 
 is likewise a monument in St. Peter's at Rome, to 
 the memory of James III. and of his sons, Charles 
 and Henry — the genii, with their inverted torches, 
 beautifully and mournfully tell us, the royal line of 
 these titular kings is now extinct. It is a deliglit- 
 ful work, by Canova — by whom, or at whose in- 
 stance erected, I do not remember. 
 
 The character of Henry, bishop of Frascati, 
 seems to be but little known, and indeed, little has 
 been ever said or written of him. I was happy, 
 therefore, to meet in the chaste and veracious 
 Forsyth, with the following notice of the king —
 
 DR. WATSON AND THE STUART PAPERS. 141 
 
 Cardinal, which, I trust, will need no apology for 
 its insertion here. — 'At the Rocca I was intro- 
 duced to Cardinal York, and felt some emotion 
 on seeing the last withered branch of that unfor- 
 tunate family which had reigned in my country 
 so many ages. The Cardinal appeared to me an 
 hospitable, warm-hearted, testy old man, and dis- 
 covered, even at his own table, something of that 
 peremptory manner which, being supported by 
 long seniority and illustrious birth, gave him, I 
 understood, an ascendency in the sacred college, 
 over minds superior to his own. When my name 
 and country were announced, he said he had heard 
 of seco?id sight in Scotland, but never of Fore- 
 sight, and this poor joke drew a laugh from all 
 that understood English, which the Cardinal talks 
 pretty well for a foreigner. When my friend told 
 him that my grandfather fell in the Stuart cause, 
 the recollection of that cause drew a tear into his 
 eye, an emotion to which he is very subject. His 
 face is handsome, smooth, ruddy, without wrinkle, 
 except on the forehead. He stoops much and 
 walks with difficulty. His dress was an alterna- 
 tion of red and black ; a scarlet coif; a black coat 
 lined with scarlet silk ; a black silk mantle, a 
 scarlet waistcoat, black velvet breeches, scarlet 
 stockings, black shoes, scarlet heels, purple coat 
 laced with gold, and a plain episcopal cross on 
 his breast. I could perceive at dinner a residue 
 of royal state. There was a space between him 
 and us sufficient for another cover — after a pause 
 in conversation, none began till he spoke. He 
 13
 
 142 DR. WATSON AND THE STUART PAPERS. 
 
 had a salt-cellar for himself, but it was stone-ware I 
 the others were of silver: he had his own soup in 
 a porringer ! and ours was in a tureen. On his 
 carriage he has the regal crown under the Cardi- 
 nal's hat: but he never assumed, like his brother, 
 
 the title of majesty.' Will the human heart 
 
 ever lose its interest, even in such little matters, 
 when they relate to those who have, or who might 
 have been, at the head of human power and great- 
 ness? Truly no. And yet it would be difficult 
 to resolve this feeling into its primary elements, 
 so as to show us clearly, why it is so ! When 
 Napoleon fell, the world rejoiced; when in exile 
 on a desert rock, the world sympathized ; and that 
 sympathy seemed to grow deeper, and deeper, not 
 merely as the fallen emperor became more and 
 more oppressed, but as the proofs grew stronger 
 and stronger of the solid blessings the world was 
 enjoying, in consequence of his exile ! How won- 
 derful are the human heart and mind ! — what a 
 medley of inconsistencies and of contradictions is 
 it ! — who, but iliat great Being:, to whom nothing 
 is dark, can unravel it !
 
 TAKING HEAVEN BY STORM. 143 
 
 NOTE XII. — TAKING HEAVEN BY STORM. 
 
 'Better late than never' is an old saw that 
 every one likes — it savours of existing hope, or of 
 positive acquisition, which though long deferred, 
 still comes with 'healing on its wings,' to gladden 
 the heart, and to compensate for many anxious 
 expectations. 
 
 The saying is eminently true, though seldom so 
 applied, as to repentance, which, come when it 
 may, even in the article of death, is never too 
 late, if it be that deep remorse for sin, that rm- 
 mixed reliance on the Saviour, and that thorough 
 resolution to avoid a relapse, which springs from 
 a love towards heaven, and not from a mere dread 
 of hell. The doctrine to which I allude, in any 
 of its forms, and however true it may be, is still 
 environed with many dangers; and, if ever adopt- 
 ed as a rule of action, or permitted, in any degree 
 to influence our conduct when in heahh, will 
 be very apt to stand us in the poorest stead, when 
 we come to the last hour. 
 
 He is, indeed, a reckless calculator, who could 
 for a moment voluntarily defer the day of amend- 
 ment, that he may intermediately sin, until incli- 
 nation, or ability so to do, shall cease, and then 
 be followed by the hoped for saving repentance! 
 The truth is that, perhaps, nearly all men love 
 repentance w the abstract ; but, present enjoy- 
 ments, engrossing miseries, or sheer thoughtless- 
 ness, shut out reflection; or, if that sometimes
 
 144 TAKING HEAVEN BY STORM. 
 
 comes, they lack the moral courage — the firmness 
 of purpose, either to make, or to execute any pious 
 resohition. Many do mentally assent to the beauty 
 of the virtues, and to the necessity of a change of 
 life ; but they shrink from action^ or vainly hope 
 for some instantaneous and, as it were, compulsory 
 transformation, that may plant them safely on the 
 shore of unalloyed spiritual enjoyment, without 
 resort to any of the pains and denials of an active 
 seeking after its goods. 
 
 Now, as it seems to me, it is this very slugglish- 
 ness, this passive willingness to be changed, and 
 the absence of all active willingness to change 
 themselves, that occasion men to cling so tena- 
 ciously to the hope, and to the efficacy of a death- 
 bed repentance. When in health, the mind indulg- 
 ing this hope, transfers itself, in imagination, to the 
 moment when all necessity for action is gone, and 
 when life, then about to end, can no longer have 
 any charms. Such an imagination demands no 
 present, and active willingness, no instant sacrifice, 
 no actual change of condition — and hence may be 
 full of that passive willingness, which deceives 
 ourselves, assumes the show of religion, and 
 makes a present merit of a possible future death- 
 bed repentance ! 
 
 But even this shadow of anticipated religion, 
 this curious blending and compounding of passive 
 with active willingness, this mere fiction and con- 
 trivance of the deceitful and subtle enemy of man, 
 wholly vanishes, the moment any appeal is made 
 to such persons to show at once the verity of their
 
 TAKING HEAVEN BY STORM. 145 
 
 wishes and their hopes, by even some partial 
 rehnquishment of a besetting sin. It is on such 
 an occasion that the mind begins to plead its own 
 infirmities, to ponder over the world's pleasures, 
 cares, and temptations, and to at first silently post- 
 pone, and then openly and willingly banish all 
 fiirther reflection — until a more convenient season ! 
 Connected with the mental state first mentioned, 
 is the great alacrity with which one listens to, and 
 the confidence he reposes in, nearly every idle tale 
 of the happy, nay triumphant exit, even from the 
 scaffold, of some notorious robber, pirate, or mur- 
 derer! That mankind have this strange procli- 
 vity, that some indulge it to a great extent, and 
 that its solution is ever to be found in the princi- 
 ple I have staled, there seems to be no reason to 
 doubt : and though the clergy be specially called 
 on by their holy vocation, to use their zealous 
 endeavors in behalf of those destined to forfeit life 
 for their crimes, it seems to me specially unwise, 
 as well in regard to public policy, as to salutary 
 religion, to blazon forth their successes, as has 
 been so often done in this, and in other countries; 
 and to place such violators of divine and human 
 laws among the saints, as objects of a lively sym- 
 pathy, and to pass them, as it were, from the scene 
 of execution, to one of unmingled triumph! The 
 clergy, in common with all good men, ought to 
 be happy at such changes ; but let there be no 
 open parade of suck co7iversions, lest we greatly 
 augment the number of those, already very great, 
 who would 'begin to live, only when ready to die, 
 13*
 
 146 TAKING HEAVEN BY STORM. 
 
 and then, after a foe^s desert, come to claim of God 
 ?i friend'' s entertainment P 
 
 It is indeed true and a great solace that there 'is 
 more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, 
 than over ninety and nine just men, that need 
 no repentance' — but such repentances as we now 
 speak of, and even of those who die in their beds, 
 and who have no capital sins to mourn over, should 
 ever be regarded as belonging to so humble a class 
 of converts, as to have no just claim to be vaunted 
 of, but should be permitted, in all humility, after 
 the interesting fact is adverted to, to remain among 
 those unsought and little known to mortal eye, so 
 far as regards their destiny in the world beyond 
 the grave : for these last-hour repentances, are 
 matters between them and their Creator, to be 
 spoken of with a marked humility, surrounded as 
 they usually are, by so many dangers and doubts, 
 and being in themselves, so liable to be false and 
 insidious counterfeits, and plausible contrivances 
 of the arch-enemy of human souls, and so often 
 extorted, during the agonizing moments of mental 
 and of bodily pain, as to render the criterions of 
 genuine faith, far from sure to human scrutiny. 
 Be this, however, as it may, 1 am quite certain 
 that, although the solaces of hope should never be 
 withdrawn, it is the supremest of follies to value 
 on a supine or voluntary postponement of reforma- 
 tion to some future day, which may be not only 
 suddenly cut off by any one of a thousand acci- 
 dents, but be rendered wholly unavailing by bodily 
 pains, that banish the possibility of a sober and
 
 TAKING HEAVEN BY STORM. 147 
 
 tliorough repentance. But, in respect to storming 
 heaven, as it were, by the sudden appeals of those 
 who, in a few short days are to expiate their crimes 
 on a scaffold, and to deal with them so triumph- 
 antly, as is sometimes the case, seems to me sig- 
 nally unwise, both as respects the wicked and the 
 good — all that such cases seem to justify is a silent, 
 unobtrusive thankfuhiess for the rich manifestation 
 of God's grace ; and not such triumphant proces- 
 sions to the scaffold, as are sometimes witnessed, 
 confounding the tried saints with those who, 
 almost in articulo mortis have been tried sinners ! 
 
 This reminds me of a quaint, but very pertinent 
 remark of Sir Walter Raleigh, who saith, 'there be 
 some persons who think to snatch heaven in a mo- 
 ment, which the best can scarce attain unto even 
 in the maintenance of very many years ; and when 
 they have glutted themselves with wordly delights, 
 (or crimes of the darkest dye) would jump from 
 Dives' fare, to Lazarus' crown — from the service of 
 Satan, to the solace of a saint !' 
 
 Now, to such persons would I respond in the 
 language of this same wise, but unfortunate man, 
 who thus discourseth on the point in hand — 'But 
 be ye well assured, that God is not so penurious of 
 friends, as to hold himself and his kingdom sale- 
 able for the refuse and reversion of their lives, who 
 have sacrificed the principal part thereof to his 
 e}ietnies, and to their own brutish lusts — then 
 ceasing to offend, only when the ability of offend- 
 ing is taken from them.'
 
 148 TAKING HEAVEN BY STORM. 
 
 In an article entitled ' The Dutiful Advice of a 
 loving Son to his aged Father,^ by the same inte- 
 resting philosopher, there are some pertinent obser- 
 vations on my subject ; which being so full of just 
 thought, nervously expressed, are transferred to my 
 Note Book, to be often read by me, and for my 
 profit, withal, who am no longer a 'son,' but a 
 somewhat '■aged father.'' 
 
 'If you were now laid upon your departing bed,' 
 (saith the son to the father) 'burthened with the 
 heavy load of your former trespasses, and gored 
 with the sting and prick of a festered conscience ; 
 if you felt the cramp of death wresting your heart- 
 strings, and ready to make the rueful divorce be- 
 tween body and soul ; if you lay panting for 
 breath, and swimming in cold and pale sweat, 
 wearied with struggling against your deadly pangs, 
 oh what would you not give for an hour's repen- 
 tance ! — at what a rate would you value a day's 
 contrition ! Then worlds would be worthless in 
 respect of a little respite — a short truce would seem 
 more precious than the treasures of an empire — 
 nothing would be so much esteemed as a short 
 time of truce, which now by days, and months, 
 and years, is most lavishly mis-spent !' — Again, 'it 
 is a strange piece of art, and a very exorbitant 
 course, when the ship is bound, the pilot well, the 
 mariners strong, the gale favourable, and the sea 
 calm, to lie idly in the road, during so seasonable 
 weather: and when the ship Ieaketh,the pilot sick, 
 the mariners faint, the storms boisterous, and the
 
 TAKING HEAVEN BY STORM. 149 
 
 seas a turmoil of outrageous surges, then to launch 
 forth, hoist up sail, and set out for a long voyage 
 into a far country ! — And yet such is the skill of 
 these evening repenters, who though in the sound- 
 ness of their health, and perfect use of their reason, 
 they cannot resolve to cut the cables, and weigh 
 anchor that withholds them from God.' — 'Never- 
 theless, they feed themselves with a strong persua- 
 sion, that when they are astonied, their wits dis- 
 tracted, their understanding dusked, and their 
 bodies and souls racked and tormented with the 
 throbs and gripes of a mortal sickness — then, for- 
 sooth, they begin to think of their weightiest 
 matters, and become sudden saints^ when they 
 are scarce able to behave themselves like reason- 
 able creatures.' — 'No, no ; if neither the canon, 
 civil, nor common law will allow a man, perished 
 in judgment, to make any testament of his tem- 
 poral substance ; how can he, who is animated 
 with inward garboils of an unsettled conscience, 
 distrained with the wringing fits of his expiring 
 body, maimed in all his ability, and circled on 
 every side, with many and strange incumbrances, 
 be thought of due discretion to dispose of his 
 chiefest jewel — his soul? and to despatch eternity^ 
 and all the treasures of heaven^ in so short a 
 spurt! — No, no; they that will loiter in seed-time, 
 and begin to sow when others reap; they that 
 will riot out their health, and begin to cast their 
 accounts, when they are scarce able to speak ; they 
 that will sUimber out the day, and enter upon their 
 journey when the light doth fail them, must blame
 
 150 TAKIXG HEAVEN BY STORM. 
 
 their own folly, if they die in debt, and be eternal 
 beggars.' 
 
 The foregoing passages from Sir Walter Raleigh, 
 seem to me most worthy of being printed in letters 
 of gold, and to form a little vade mecum, to be sus- 
 pended round the neck, close to the heart, of every 
 son and daughter of Adam — that they may be re- 
 minded, constantly, how poor the dependence is of 
 those who would flatter themselves that, at some 
 remote day, they may take heaven by storm ! And, 
 I feel almost ashamed of my own previous remarks, 
 when placed in such close connection with his, — 
 for Raleigh's thoughts, like the diamond, are bril- 
 liant in proportion to their solidity — other men's 
 are made to shine in the lustre of language, in 
 proportion as solidity fails them. 
 
 But, in conclusion, let me add what Quarles 
 hath said of repentance. 
 
 ' 'Tis to bewail the '=ins thou didst commit ^ 
 And not ronjmit those sins thou hast bewail'd. 
 He that bewails and not forsakes them too, 
 Confesses rather what he means to do.' 
 
 In now parting with my subject, I would only 
 say, that an attempt to take heaven by storm, is 
 still an homage to the Most High, and is far better 
 than that sullen despair which the following lines 
 of Joanna Baillie would seem to inculcate : — 
 
 'Priest! spare thy words — I add not to my sins 
 That of presumption, in pretending now 
 To offer up to heaven the forc'd repentance 
 Of some short moments, for a life of crimes.'
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 XIII. THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. — XIV. BENVENUTO 
 CELLENT. — XV. PUBLIC CEMETERIES. — XVI. EVENTS HOW 
 RELATED TO REMOTE CIRCUMSTANCES. 
 
 NOTE XIII. THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 
 
 One hardly knows whether to be more amused 
 than vexed, with the idle fancies and studied dis- 
 play of vain and curious learning, in which some 
 college-bred gentlemen, of thin minds, love to 
 indulge. When we permit our thoughts to dwell 
 more on words, than on ideas ; when such things 
 as accident, quantity, etymology, nomenclature, 
 and the like auxiliaries and mere ladders to 
 science, are allowed to take the place of the very 
 essence of knowledge, you may be quite sure that 
 the individual so affected, though abounding in 
 all the heaped-up accumulations of learning, has 
 more of memory, than of judgment, — is charged 
 to overflowing with facts, — and is yet devoid of the 
 powers of analysis, and of justly applying them; 
 and that, with much voluble and plausible display 
 of knowledge, he has still a very tiny mind, and 
 but little of that philosophical practicalness which 
 comes from the fountain of common sense.
 
 152 THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 
 
 I am reminded of this species of character by a 
 remarkable conversation between a curious En- 
 glishman and myself, at Rome, which was strange- 
 ly brought about. A more kind-hearted, wordy, 
 amusing, and pedantic gentleman of books, seldom 
 issued from Oxford or Cambridge. When in a 
 foreign land, Englishmen are proverbially anti- 
 social ; and the traveller, from whatever land, 
 scarce ventures to address one of them, without 
 some special authority so to do; and thus it was, 
 at first, between us; and our centrifugal relations 
 might for ever have continued, had not the Briton's 
 etymological passion, eventually triumphed over 
 national character — and opened his mouth. 
 
 During nearly three hours, we had both been 
 solitary and silent explorers, as it turned out, of 
 the same interesting point — the true course and 
 limits of the Via Sacra! We met first, near the 
 Temple of Antoninus and Faustina, every part of 
 which was curiously examined by us — we then 
 traced the progress of the sacred way through the 
 Forum, passed with it under the Arch of Titus, 
 examined many patches, here and there visible, 
 of some ancient road, either that, or the Via 
 Triuniphalis! — stopped under the Arch, through 
 which, it is said, Jews never pass, and inspected, 
 with minuteness, this very early, if not the earliest 
 specimen of the composite order, — noted its deeply 
 interesting bas-reliefs, so learnedly illustrated by 
 Reland — eyed each other an hundred times — stood 
 in close contact under the Arch, and with intense 
 curiosity, scanned its yet perfect remains, which
 
 THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 153 
 
 sculpture to the eye the very forms of the sacred 
 vessels used in the Temple of Jerusalem — then 
 passed again into the Forum — reached the Temple 
 of Peace, or rather the Basilka of Constantine — 
 looked with wonder at its enormous arches — on 
 the remains of its stuccoed ceilings, its broken 
 shafts and capitals — and pondered over the nume- 
 rous fragments, which indicated a truly mammoth 
 building ; — and leaving these, we were conducted, 
 under the guidance of a bright moon, near an 
 hour after sun-set, to the base of the Mamertine 
 Prisons — and (would you credit it gentle reader !) 
 all this was done without our exchanging a single 
 word, though we had given each other many- 
 very significant, and apparently yearning looks, 
 the result, possibly, of that irresistible sympathy 
 which springs from the social principle, and espe- 
 cially from a community of pursuit ! 
 
 My patience, I confess, had been nearly ex- 
 hausted ; and had he hailed from any other land, 
 I should most certainly have disturbed his taci- 
 turnity. The noble hospitality, the great good 
 sense, the elegant refinement of Englishmen, which 
 I had seen and experienced, when sojourning for 
 a time in England, flashed across my mind, and 
 mitigated the severity of judgment, I should other- 
 wise have passed upon him. For a moment, I 
 was disposed to leave him abruptly, and pursue 
 my way, alone and solitary to my lodgings, quite 
 remote from where we then were. But, as we 
 ascended the long flight of steps which led into 
 the Capitoline Piazza, my surprise was extreme, 
 14
 
 154 THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 
 
 when the silent gentleman suddenly started upon 
 me a series of etymological questions, doubts, and 
 solutions — some of which will be here recorded. 
 
 As he looked upon the broad expanse of the 
 Mamertine prison, here, flooded with light from 
 the clear moon, and there, cast into shade ; and as 
 we were slowly ascending towards its base, he 
 abruptly said, '■XJnde derivatur — whence comes 
 this word mamertine? do you know, it puzzles 
 me greatly — is it likely that PanciroUi is correct? 
 he, you know, derives it from Mamercus^ who, 
 you know, was one of the sons of Numa, and 
 the founder of the Mamercian family — the name 
 Mamercus is said to have passed, as words, you 
 know, often do, into Mamertinus.' Without yield- 
 ing me the least chance to respond to his question, 
 he proceeded to unfold the contents of his etymo- 
 logical budget, whilst we tacitly agreed to wend 
 our way home, much more like social beings, than 
 had been our previous relation. 'I confess,' con- 
 tinued he, 'Pancirolli's account of the matter is 
 not at all to my mind. Ancus Martins, you know, 
 was its founder; it is quite probable, then, that 
 this prison takes its name from him, — for Martins 
 was anciently written Mamertius^ and this agrees, 
 you know, with the Oscan language, in which the 
 word Mamers is equivalent to Mars, which is but 
 a contraction of Mamers or Martius — do you not 
 think so?' 
 
 I at once, as I thought, saw into the strange 
 vein of ray new acquaintance, with whom etymo- 
 logy was evidently a mania ; and, as he had some-
 
 THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 155 
 
 what incommoded me by his three hours' hermeti- 
 cal taciturnity, I was now disposed, innocently to 
 provoke him to 'much talk,' by somewhat conflict- 
 ing with his opinions. My reply, therefore, a little 
 disturbed him, but was the source of many subse- 
 quent etymological colloquies, as we happened to 
 meet in our antiquarian rambles. 'I confess,' said 
 I, 'that etymology has ever seemed to me among 
 the most fallible of guides to truth of any kind ; 
 and that it should be appealed to, only in the 
 dernier resort. I would not reject it absolutely ; 
 but, as there is so broad a latitude in it for the 
 merest fancies, and as so many absurd refinements 
 have ever attended it, 1 cannot but view it with 
 extreme suspicion, and seldom place any reliance 
 on it, unless where the radix, its corruptions, 
 transitions, additions, &c. are very palpable — or 
 where some collateral evidence comes to my aid 
 
 'I differ with you toto codo^ rejoined my com- 
 panion ; 'etymology is the surest key to unlock 
 very many doubts and difficulties ; it has great 
 utility, great certainty, and embraces an immense 
 variety of subjects.' 'I willingly consent to all 
 you say, provided it he etymology lawfully used — 
 but what you have said, even in respect to the 
 word marnertine, seems to me sheer and mere 
 conjecture; for, on your own showing, it may be 
 derived either from Mamertia, the son of Numa, 
 or from Mamers, an equivalent Oscan word for 
 Martins — or it may, as I think I could show, 
 come from several other sources.' 'Not at all, sir, 
 not at all,' harshly replied the Englishman, 'see
 
 15G THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 
 
 how obviously the transitions and contractions 
 bring you up to the Oscan root — and Ancus Mar- 
 tius being the admitted founder, furnishes the 
 collateral evidence you have demanded, showing 
 that martins and mamertinus are evidently equi- 
 valent words.' 'You doubtless know,' said I with 
 affected gravity, 'the old account about the word 
 mmwo, how it is derived from a certain Mr. Jere- 
 miah King — by the accustomed resort to transi- 
 tions, contractions, and corruptions, somewhat in 
 this w'lSQ— Jeremiah King — Jerry King — Terk- 
 ing — Girken — Cucumber — Mango /' 
 
 'This you know,' rejoined the etymologist, 'was 
 manufactured, and originally uttered in derision of 
 etymology ; and, perhaps, you would now so apply 
 it — but ridicule can never be the test of truth ; and 
 the very case you put, establishes my position, for 
 even your extreme case might well have hap- 
 pened — mango might have gone through these 
 and many more changes, for what I know, and 
 have had for its progenitor Mr. Jeremiah King ! — 
 all etymology proves this, I mean the principle. 
 as might be abundantly proved by instances of 
 transition, quite as curious as the one you have 
 so disparagingly cited.' 
 
 'And I, in turn, could state a thousand still 
 more tortured and far-fetched, than that of mango, 
 which you seem not utterly to repudiate ! What 
 do you think of Fabian's derivation of Constanti- 
 nople from Constantinus nobilis — Constantine the 
 noble ! and how, upon his principle, would he 
 derive Adrianople, and is not pie a corruption of
 
 THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 157 
 
 polis — that is, Constantinoi-polis, the city of Con- 
 stantine? But, passing by Fabian, who evidently 
 made a signal blunder — what do you think of the 
 word Lollard y from lolivm — tares ! — a convenient 
 etymological argument this, for awarding the writ 
 de comburendo heretico against all Lollards, as but 
 tares, meritorious of a fiery destruction ! Or fur- 
 ther, what do you think of the etymon of Mercury 
 who, as the tale goes, was hated by the other 
 gods, as a fantastic fellow that was ever striving 
 to ingratiate himself with those whom he wished 
 to cheat, and was then dubbed by them a mere 
 curry! In like manner the word Gazette hath 
 puzzled the etymologists — what do you think of 
 its derivation from the fact that quidnuncs, eager 
 after news, anxiously gaze at these convenient 
 vehicles ! — or, of King Pepin, as derived from 
 some Greek word for diaper ; and hence, by your 
 favourite transition process, napkin — nipkin — pip- 
 kin — pippin king — King Pipin ! The word decre- 
 pitude has imputed to it a somewhat fanciful origin, 
 though certainly a possible one — the ancients, as it 
 is said, never extinguished their lamps, but per- 
 mitted them to expire by the last crackle! Hence 
 a lamp was said decrcpitare, that is, to cease to 
 crackle — and, by comparing our life to the exhaus- 
 tion of a lamp, we now say, by way of metaphor, 
 that persons verging on the grave, are decrepit. 
 Now, 1 confess, I like this derivation well enough, 
 it's classical, 'you know,' (using his favourite ex- 
 pression.) But, I will call your attention to one 
 more; how do you like the cockney derivation of 
 14*
 
 158 THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 
 
 our ejaculation 'heigh-ho !' for, when molested by 
 the troublesome pipstaff, they would each mentally 
 say 'I owe,' which when spoken out, by adding 
 their accustomed aspirates, would make '■hi — 
 hoice' — and hence, by augmentation and contrac- 
 tion, we have heigh-ho P 
 
 'You are certainly quite sportive,' replied the 
 English gentleman, with a great deal of gravity ; 
 'but, I repeat, ridicule is no test of truth — what, 
 suffer me to ask, that is useful and admirable, may 
 not be rendered, for a moment, extremely ridicu- 
 lous, by the ingenious application of unmitigated 
 ridicule? I cannot consent to abandon an old 
 friend, merely because he happens to be clad, for a 
 time, in tattered, amusing and unworthy habili- 
 ments cast upon him by others ! — Etymology cer- 
 tainly merits deep attention — in languages, it is 
 inestimable, in history, it is a bright torch — it 
 illustrates the fine arts, settles questions of doubt- 
 ful chronology, reveals the disputed origin and 
 uses of very many things. — Thus, for example, 
 when we find the name of Italy derived from 
 Italos — virtulus — a calf, we ascertain the fact that 
 the ancient Italians were great herdsmen, or raisers 
 of cattle; so, likewise, there is surely some utility, 
 as well as satisfaction, in being able, as we are, to 
 derive the word capital from caput Toli — the head 
 of Tolus, or, as Arnobius, with still more veresimi- 
 litude, gives the name, Olus, and hence caput — 
 Olus — caputol — capitol. Now, as the head of this 
 Tolus, or Olus, at the very time of digging for the 
 foundations, was discovered with the face entire, it
 
 THE TRAVELLING EYTMOLOGIST. 159 
 
 was held to give thereby a presage of Rome's future 
 greatness ; and that Rome would be the head of 
 the empire of the world — hence this great temple 
 took the name of the capiiol, as the head of Tolus 
 presaged, that on that spot, Rome should be made 
 the head of all empire, military, civil, and eccle- 
 siastical ! Again, we see the Caryatides, in every 
 form, and almost every where. We are curious to 
 know the origin, no less of the name, than of the 
 curiously fashioned pillar; and how beautiful, and 
 natural is its etymological history ! how admirably 
 does the figure itself of this pillar, harmonize with 
 the tale of its imputed origin ! These caryatides, 
 as you know, uniformly represent the upper part of 
 a female body, sustaining on its head, the incum- 
 bent weight. Now the citizens of Carya united 
 with the Persians against the Greeks, who proving 
 victorious, put all the males to the sword, and sub- 
 jected the females to slavery, who were compelled 
 to march in the victor's triumphal procession, clad 
 in graceful flowing robes, and supporting burthens 
 on their heads, as indicative of their captivity and 
 future servitude. The architects of those days, 
 availing themselves of tliis transaction, both to per- 
 petuate its memory, and to add another graceful 
 and appropriate order to their art, contrived these 
 pillars, hence called caryatides, which represent 
 the head and shoulders of a female on the top of 
 the shaft, with the entablature resting on the head. 
 You have been pleased,' continued the etymolo- 
 gist, 'to be very sportive with what you call our 
 transitions, contractions, (fcc. and yet, to give you
 
 160 THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 
 
 Other examples, can any one doubt but that the 
 renowned Punch has gone through all of these ? 
 Is it not manifest that the word is derived from 
 Pulliceno — Pullicinella — Punchenello, and, for 
 short, Punch ? We have high authority for this, 
 were any really needed. And, in like manner, one 
 cannot doubt but that the name of the town of 
 Gensano is derived from Cynthianum, the fane of 
 Cynthia — and hence Gensanum — Gensano. So 
 also, Horace mentions the gelidus Digentia riviis ; 
 now, this Digentia is evidently found in the mo- 
 dern Licenza^ which is the present name of the 
 poet's Sabine farm ; and I may likewise advert to 
 Catullus' villa, which now, by corruption, is called 
 Truglia, and with equal certainty is derived from 
 Catulli. 
 
 'So, the church we examined a few hours ago, 
 called /S*. Maria in Dominica, is evidently so called 
 by corruptions and transitions from Domitiani- 
 Mica; for you know, Domitius' Cenaculum, called 
 the BMca Aurea, was built upon the site of the pre- 
 sent church — no part of the Mica remains ; but the 
 church we saw, was dedicated to the Madonna^ 
 and originally was called the Santa Maria in Do- 
 mica, to perpetuate the fact that its foundations 
 were laid upon the site of Domitian's Mica — and 
 this through various transitions may still be traced, 
 as we find that it was first in Do-mica, then in 
 Domnica, and now in Dominica : for, Dominica 
 has no meaning; but Do-mica, is itself obviously 
 a contraction for Domitiani-mica.
 
 THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 161 
 
 'And, in like manner, how well doth an early 
 traveller, whose name I now forget, but who came 
 to Italy in the fifteenth century, explain the origin 
 of the word Venice ! — Tliere is, says he, a little 
 church there, called Santo Jacobo, which is the 
 ancientest church in all Venice ; and on that spot 
 was the first house built, and the city was named 
 at that time venete qua^ in English, 'come hither,' 
 for it was free for every man to build there; and, 
 from that phrase, 'venete qua,' it is now turned 
 into 'Venetia.' 
 
 'Your faith in etymology,' rejoined I, 'seems to 
 me very great ; it may aiford you much amuse- 
 ment ; but may it not also lead you into many 
 errors? I agree with you as to the strong proba- 
 bility concerning the church now called Domi- 
 nica; but, as to vencta qua, I am a sceptic. You 
 remember Dean Swift's argument for the antiquity 
 of our own language, in that ^Alexander the Great'' 
 was so manifestly derived from a passage in the 
 conqueror's biography, in which the exclamation 
 '■all eggs under the grate,'' came to be on a certain 
 occasion, often and emphatically repeated ! I would 
 further remind you of the derivation that hath been 
 given to our well known word breeches — in that, 
 when they were first worn, it was by the poveri of 
 a country, who being hare of riches, usually bore 
 all their riches in their breeches, that is, in this 
 their curtailed nether garment ! But, to be more 
 serious, you have given to the word Italy a deri- 
 vation that would make early Italians raisers of 
 cattle; but you must also bear in mind that others
 
 16-2 THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 
 
 have given to this word a very different origin ; as 
 for example, from one Italus, a SiciHan chieftain — 
 or from the Oscan word Viteliu, which, by drop- 
 ping certain letters, and taking up others, became 
 Italia! 
 
 'Your etymon, hkewise, of Caryatides differs 
 from that of Lessing, who derives it from the fact 
 that Diana had a temple at Caryatis, and that 
 virgins danced in honour of her in the festive 
 processions. The architects, ever in search of 
 graceful forms, ornamented their temples with 
 colonnades, somewhat after the fashion of virgins 
 in procession at the feast of Caryatis, perhaps, 
 too, with baskets of flowers, (fcc. on their heads ! 
 Now, between the two etymons, who is to decide? 
 and, if decided, perhaps I might ask, cui bonoV 
 
 'Your objection,' said the champion of verbal 
 derivations, 'certainly proves too much, since the 
 absence of absolute certainty would utterly extin- 
 guish nearly all etymology.' 'I should regret 
 that result,' said I, 'all that I protest against is 
 that ultraism, which seeks in far-fetched and fan- 
 tastic roots, and in extremely remote resemblances, 
 the origin of names, and then builds thereon 
 equally fanciful conclusions and theories, \vhich 
 they would call learning and knowledge ! whereas 
 the whole may consist of the veriest imaginings 
 that cost no little research, which had much better 
 have been employed in things more profitable.' 
 
 'I fear you and 1 are destined never to agree 
 on my favourite subject,' said the Englishman, 
 with infinite bonhomie, 'but I have found great
 
 THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 163 
 
 amusement, and equal profit, in this pursuit ; and 
 few things are more delightful to me tiian to look, 
 for instance, over the map of England ; and, as 
 Master Nash saith, with much brain-tossing, and 
 skull-breaking, resolve the names therein found, 
 by the rules of etymology, and the lights of 
 history. Thus, for example, our Yarmouth, of 
 'Lenten StufP memory, is said to be derived from 
 the river lerus^ at whose mouth it is situate — 
 hence lernmouth, which by the natural change 
 of i into Y, and e into a, becomes Yarmouth.' 
 
 'This may be, as your Master Nash hath said,' 
 rejoined I, 'but you will remember that Florence 
 is derived, by some from Jiorentia, as being 
 situate in a very Jlowery vale, and by others from 
 Florentinus^ its Roman founder! And, 'who shall 
 decide when doctors disagree?' 
 
 'And yet, I would by no means proscribe ety- 
 mology; it smacks highly of scliolarship, and, 
 indeed, is such, being really useful, curious, and 
 eminently entertaining, when wholly stripped of 
 fancy, and guided alone by judgment and well 
 authenticated facts — thus, I cannot object to such 
 an etymon as is given to the word mustard. The 
 original name of the plant, you know, is sinapis, 
 the pulverized seeds of which the Arabians were 
 accustomed to mix with their juice of the grape, 
 but more frequently, perhaps, with their arrack or 
 rice wine. In after times, when the Italians did 
 the same thing, in order to impart a stronger 
 pungency to their light wines, they called the 
 new compound mostoardo — burning must; and,
 
 164 THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 
 
 as the sinapis itself, was a foreign plant, but little 
 known among them, they transferred the name 
 of the compound drink to the substance which 
 they added to the must of their grapes ; and 
 hence our word mustard, from mosto-ardo. So, 
 likewise, it is not at all improbable that our word 
 ebriety — ebrietas, comes from 6na, the name of 
 a well known drinking-cup among the Greeks; 
 and not, as Dr. Johnson supposes, from the Greek 
 word which signifies to moisten. It is quite 
 probable, also, that currants are so called from 
 their having greatly abounded at Corinth; and 
 the word buckwheat may be a corruption of heach- 
 ivheatl — and, in fine, the French word poltron, 
 probably enough, comes from pollux truncatus, 
 owing to the fact that some of the people of that 
 country, during the feudal ages, preferred to cut 
 off their thumbs, to serving in the wars — and 
 hence poltron and coward are now synonomous 
 words !' 
 
 'I am most happy,' said the etymological tra- 
 veller, 'to find our conversation seems to be gra- 
 dually unveiling to you the beauties and utilities 
 of my favourite study,' — and hereupon onr collo- 
 quy terminated, for this time, as we had then 
 reached the Piazza dl Spagna ; and he retired 
 to his lodgings there, I to mine, in the Via di 
 Condotti.
 
 BENVENUTO CELLINI. 165 
 
 NOTE XIV. BENVENUTO CELLINI. 
 
 'Benvenuto Cellini ." said I, musingly, as I 
 contemplated his statue of Perseus and Medusa, 
 in the Piazza del Granduca of Florence, — 'the 
 jeweller, engraver, musician, poet, soldier, sculptor, 
 and lover ; and in all so truly admirable !' But 
 what I then thought, and mentally said, though 
 now repeated, need not be received, but with some 
 allowance — as Italian skies, and the wonders of 
 nature and of art, which every where abound in 
 this enchanting country, are too apt to overcharge 
 the mind with delusive feelings, to admit at once 
 of sound and unmixed reflections. 
 
 CeUini was undoubtedly a rare and brilliant 
 genius; and no one life, with which I am ac- 
 quainted, is so rich as his in the finest materials 
 of interest and instruction. And we find them 
 so recorded : for he has proved himself the prince 
 of autobiographers. How spirited and glowing is 
 his narrative, how winning and faith- inspiring his 
 candour and veracity, and how truly charming is 
 the variety of incidents which chequered his re- 
 markable life, from infancy to old age ! It is rare, 
 indeed, to find the oft-repeated corruscations of 
 exalted genius so constantly followed, as in him, 
 by useful and eflicient results •, and it is equally so 
 to meet the most flattering successes, alternating so 
 strangely with the most signal misfortunes. But 
 Cellini's destiny, in early life, seemed to take its 
 rise from two very trivial causes, and afl!brds 
 another among a thousand proofs, that a king or 
 15
 
 166 BENVENUTO CELLINI. 
 
 a cobler, a hero or a hermit, a palace or a prison, 
 are often as much the offspring of accident, as of 
 meritorious exertion, and that the same genius 
 which takes one to the scaffold, may, under cir- 
 cumstances, place another on the seat of power. 
 It seems that Cellini's performances on the flute 
 were so admirable as to command the strongest 
 praises of Pope Clement VII. who summoned him 
 into his service ; and that afterwards a dream 
 decided the controversy which Cellini had with 
 himself then ; arad his faith in dreams gave him 
 the first start into life — and how intimately it was 
 connected with all that followed may be found in 
 his very interesting memoirs. 
 
 But to return to the statue of Perseus. The 
 author of this beautiful piece of sculpture was like- 
 wise a jeweller, a fine musician, a poet, a brave 
 soldier, and an adventurous lover. And, as I gazed 
 on the statue, meihought I could easily trace the 
 impressions of all these soul-stirring arts. The 
 jeweller of those days, it may here be remarked, 
 needed a much more exquisite taste, fertility of 
 invention, and accuracy of design, than those who 
 now bear that name. A cardinal's seal, the gold 
 covering of a missal, a crucifix for noble hands, the 
 rich devices on a princess' girdle, a magnificent 
 chalice for papal processions, the button of a ponti- 
 ficial cope, the gorgeous settings of a pope's jewels, 
 and the feshioning of his triple diadem, were, each 
 and all, matters of such high import in those palmy 
 days of 'Holy Mother Church,' as to command the 
 highest order of talent the world then knew. The
 
 BENVENUTO CELLINI. 167 
 
 artificer of such graceful ornaments, in which love- 
 liness of form, and exquisiteness of workmanship 
 were ever to be present, found in sculpture a cog- 
 nate art, and one which could not then claim that 
 decided superiority accorded to it in earlier times, 
 and which it has since reclaimed. Cellini, more- 
 over, was doubtless a better sculptor from being 
 among the first of flutists, and which he could not 
 have been without much music in his soul, and a 
 peculiar delicacy of touch, which, when transferred 
 from the flute to the block of marble, rendered his 
 manipulations so successful. In like manner his 
 poetical vein refined his imagination, and imparted 
 to his sculpture superadded charms. The chivalry 
 and courage of a true soldier also brought their 
 offerings to him, and pointed his chissel with that 
 matchless daring, freedom, and yet caution in the 
 details, which the statue of Perseus so clearly 
 manifests; and the passion of the devoted lover 
 gave likewise to this great work that glow and 
 vitality of expression which we see distinctly 
 marked in the victorious sons of Danue. Such 
 indeed is the almost indissoluble connection be- 
 tween all the liberal arts and sciences, and such 
 their dependence on most of the passions and 
 afiections of the mind, that the muses have ever 
 been truly represented as dancing in chorus, and 
 are held to be the offspring of a common parent, 
 and the most affectionate of lovely sisters. 
 
 It was no idle fancy then, generated by soft 
 Italian skies, and the profusion of beauties that 
 every where salute the eye in that favoured land,
 
 168 BENVENUTO CELLINI. 
 
 which caused me to see in the Perseus, and in the 
 works, generally, of this great artist, the lineaments 
 of his diversified education and accomplishments, 
 and of the various passions that moved the inner 
 man. It is well, however, for the traveller, when 
 in the privacy of his study in after times, to chas- 
 ten his judgment and guard against the control of 
 those extraneous and factitious influences, that 
 circumstances may create in Italy. In the sober- 
 ness of the closet, he may correct those hasty 
 opinions, which the crowd of so much loveliness 
 of nature and of art is so apt to occasion : for how 
 many latent and refined beauties, (discoverable 
 alone to the eye of taste,) are spread over this land 
 of the clear blue empyrean — over this land of 
 mountain snows and flowery vales — this land of 
 the vine, the orange, the fig, and the olive ! How 
 much is the soul excited in this dominion of lavas 
 and of subterranean fires, in this land of ancient 
 ruins and of modern luxury, of priestly supersti- 
 tions, and of classical and moral associations, — the 
 land of painters, of poets, of musicians, of archi- 
 tects, and of sculptors — the land of the witcheries 
 of fancy, and the sublimities of varied genius — a 
 land full of cascades, of grottoes, of the reminis- 
 cences of sybils, of dryads, and of nymphs — the 
 region of the 'fell Charybdis and the howling 
 Scylla' — -a land where the sunbeams repose on the 
 distant hills, reflecting their varied and gorgeous 
 lights from the windows of a thousand habitations, 
 fantastically perched on almost inaccessible cliff's, 
 and where the twilight lingers o;i among the green
 
 BENVENUTO CELLINI. 169 
 
 valleys, as if reluctant to part with so much beauty, 
 or to cloud them in the shades of night! 
 
 •Fair Italy, 
 Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
 Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree, 
 Even in thy desert what is like to thee ? 
 Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
 More rich than other clime's fertility ; 
 Thy wreck of glory, and thy ruin graced 
 With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced.' 
 
 Let no philosophic cynic, however, scowl ou 
 the fancies, so often indulged in by those who are 
 fresh from Italy, since it is pecuUarly a land of 
 fancy ; and, perhaps, no stranger has ever main- 
 tained there, an undisturbed and sober judgment. 
 The classical Eustace certainly indited many false 
 conceptions, and some nonsense ; and even the 
 chaste, accomplished, terse, and thoughtful For- 
 syth, is not without some vain imaginings. If, 
 then, I have seen in the productions of Cellini, 
 traces of his peculiar education, — if the sculptor 
 has shown to my mind the nice manipulations of 
 the jeweller, the chaste touches of the engraver, 
 the soul of the musician, the fancy of the poet, the 
 glow of the lover, the chivalry and courage of the 
 soldier, blended with all the peculiar excellences 
 that belong to the chissel, suffer me to enjoy my 
 fancy, if it be one. Time and absence can, alone, 
 cure such aberrations of the judgment. In the 
 exact sciences, in morals, and in all opinions 
 which essentially affect our happiness and our 
 principles, criticism can scarce bo too cautious : 
 but in matters of mere taste, I would be a latiludi- 
 15*
 
 170 BENVENUTO CELLINI. 
 
 narian, and permit every one to express with free- 
 dom, even his most random feelings, his wildest 
 opinions — for cui inalol If one admires Carlo 
 Dolci more than Raphael, and the Last Judgment 
 of Michael Angelo more than the Communion of 
 Domenichino, whom does it injure? Let each 
 give the best reason he can for the faith that is in 
 him ; and if it fail to convince, it has done no 
 harm; and if it produce conviction, it can never 
 be on the many, if it be really erroneous, so that 
 the standard of taste remains unshaken. 
 
 But, to return for a moment to Cellini. The 
 bronze group of Perseus and Medusa, with the ad- 
 mirable basso-rehevo on the pedestal, has always 
 been considered his chef cfccuvre. In his left hand, 
 Perseus firmly holds the snaky head of Medusa, 
 reeking with blood; and under his head lies the 
 agonized body, the hands and feet of which are en- 
 twined in each other, the breasts swelling into high 
 relief, and tlie neck, from which the head had just 
 been severed, is pouring out its vital current. The 
 right arm, in deini-repose, holds the victorious 
 sword, and the whole figure is naked except the 
 head, which bears an appropriate and beautiful hel- 
 met; and the feet, which have the winged sandals 
 of Mercury. The two faces are strikingly contrast- 
 ed with each other. That of the Gorgon with its 
 horrid serpent locks, is distilling blood, and is full 
 of the contortions of pain ; the other is instinct 
 with the high soul we look for in the son of Jupi- 
 ter and Dauac, in the moment, too, of his triumph 
 over the formidable race of Medusa ! The outline
 
 BENVENUTO CELLINI. 171 
 
 of the whole group is extremely graceful and tran- 
 chant — but, if the merest amateur may venture to 
 find any fault, I should unhesitatingly condemn, as 
 in extreme bad taste, the attempted representation 
 of the flow of blood from Medusa's head, grasped 
 by Perseus, and from the neck of the body on 
 which he tramples ! The gush of blood is not 
 only excessive in the particular instance, but is 
 essentially dehors the art of sculpture, and belongs 
 exclusively to the painter, or to the poet. It is not 
 possible to represent in bronze, or even in marble, 
 a 'flowing current of the purple life-,' nor was there 
 the least occasion for it. The drops of blood from 
 which Pegasus and Chrysaor are fabled to have 
 sprung, might have been sufiiciently represented, 
 and truthfully, too, but in a manner far more sub- 
 dued, and better suited to the powers of the art ; 
 for no imagination can realize, in the solid and 
 colourless mass of bronze or marble, a flowing 
 stream from veins and arteries! and where would 
 be the essential difference, were a sculptor to peril 
 his reputation in an attempt to present in such ma- 
 terials, the falls of Tirni or of Tivoli ! Nor is it 
 within the province of sculpture to copy nature ; 
 but merely so to represent the contours of loveli- 
 ness, of grace, of deformity, and of sublimity; and 
 so to depict by lines, such lights and shades, as 
 reveal the feelings and passions of the soul, and 
 produce in the mind a state generative of thought; 
 and, through the medium of imagination and judg- 
 ment, to till up, as it were, the perfect outlines. 
 Illusion is to be effected by the sculptor's art,
 
 172 BENVENUTO CELLINI. 
 
 neither by a copy, nor yet even by such an imita- 
 tion, as aims at the realities of life; the impres- 
 sion to be produced is an abstraction only, not an 
 accurate imitation, else would it be in taste to 
 colour statues, to give them draperies of various 
 hues, to insert eyes of glass, or other materials, 
 true to the life; but all these have been condemned 
 of genuine taste. In fine, sculpture, be it in wood, 
 marble, or bronze, can recognize but a single 
 material, but a single colour — and all gilded appli- 
 ances, all metallic ornaments, all attempts at copy- 
 ing the works of nature or of art, in her colour- 
 ings, and m.inute details, are foreign, wholly, to the 
 sculptor's province. And though Cellini has not 
 attempted either, he has still violated, as I think, 
 a cognate law, in his vain endeavour to imitate the 
 blood flowing en 9nasse, from the neck and head of 
 Medusa — an instance of false taste that mars the 
 perfect harmony of the rest; and which, in tlie pic- 
 torial art, or in the more humble one of the worker 
 in wax, would have proved a faithful copy of the 
 reality. 
 
 Cellini's autobiography, as I have stated, is one 
 of incessant interest, and of truly admirable execu- 
 tion. Never was there a more naive and fsiithful 
 history of individual life. His own great genius, 
 his enthusiasm, his brilliant successes, his sad mis- 
 fortunes, and the freaks of his own indomitable 
 temper, are all most graphically portrayed — nor is 
 he at all sparing in his delineation of those little 
 great men, whose envy and malignity, or whose 
 narrow minds so often marred, and sometimes
 
 BENVENUTO CELLINI. 173 
 
 proved fatal, to his happiness. His intercourse 
 with the Grand Duke of Tuscany, (his unworthy- 
 patron,) the gilded but miserable slavery in which 
 he was there held, his numerous vexations and 
 disappointed hopes, the charlatan deportment of 
 several of his patrons, their ample promises, flatter- 
 ing words, and slender performances, are all told 
 with evident truth, and with rare felicity. 
 
 But, all these matters were detailed in too unvar- 
 nished a manner for poor Cellini's safety, had he 
 published his memoirs during his life ! And even 
 after his death, the manuscript remained in dusty 
 oblivion for nearly two centuries ! We are now fully 
 informed of the many base and mean contrivances 
 practised on Cellini by those who desired to profit 
 by the labours of his genius, without any adequate 
 consideration ; and the noble successors of the 
 Grand Duke Cosmo, now in power, can scarce 
 read Cellini's pages, as we should hope, without 
 a deep blush for the ignoble treatment which so 
 great a master had received at the hands of their 
 progenitor, and countryman, and without a lively 
 zeal to perpetuate the lustre of the artist's fame, and 
 even to honour and enrich his descendants, if there 
 be any now worthy of being so called. 
 
 The narrative which Cellini gives of the com- 
 mencement, progress and completion of his Perseus 
 and Medusa, and of his patron's base tergiversation 
 respecting the honorarium to be given for it, which 
 ended in a curiously devised subtraction of a por- 
 tion even of the admitted paltry sum of thirty- 
 five hundred crowns, to which, from ten thousand.
 
 174 BENVENUTO CELLINI. 
 
 it had been gradually reduced, presents, no doubt, 
 a faithful picture, not only of his patron, but of the 
 genius of the times, in which magnificence and 
 meanness, lavish promises, and curtailed perfor- 
 mances, flattery and threats, were united to bring 
 poor artists into the toils of their nominally noble 
 patrons. 
 
 To the lovers of genius and the fine arts, it may 
 be consolatory to know that Cellini, after a life of 
 the most romantic adventures, charged with the 
 sports of evil and of good fortune, in which he 
 was often an object of the bitterest persecution, or 
 the most malignant jealousies, and in which he 
 endured attempts at poisoning, and other assassi- 
 nations, and suffered a most- savage imprisonment 
 in the very castle of St. Angelo, which he had so 
 valiantly defended — died in a ripe old age, and was 
 buried with much funeral pomp, in the church of 
 the Annunziata, at Florence ; and further, that a 
 funeral oration in praise of his life, his moral and 
 intellectual qualities, and his great works, was pro- 
 nounced in the presence of an assembled multi- 
 tude, accompanied by the whole body of academi- 
 cians, and the company of sculptors — all of whom, 
 with eager ears took in, and with willing hearts 
 responded to. the many kind things that were said 
 of Benvenuto Cellini — Jioio that he reposed with 
 the illustrious dead! 
 
 'After life's fitful fever he sleeps well : 
 
 Nor steel, nor poison, 
 Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing 
 Can touch him further.'
 
 PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 175 
 
 NOTE XV. PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 
 
 Few subjects are of more intense interest than 
 those which relate to the various modes of inter- 
 ment adopted in all nations and ages — the rites 
 and ceremonials which often accompanied them — 
 the holy and sometimes fantastic superstitions 
 which, from time to time, arose — and, above all, 
 the sublime images and beautiful fancies of the 
 priests, of the poets, the painters and the sculptors, 
 when Death, the Grave, and the Resurrection were 
 the themes of their deepest and most solitary 
 thoughts. 
 
 How much of philosophy and solemn reflec- 
 tion, what varied and brilliant imaginations, what 
 holy and touching sentiments, what fearful fore- 
 bodings, what fascinating hopes, what sweet re- 
 pose, what thrilling terror hover around the things 
 of death and the grave ! Would we be fully 
 persuaded of man's constant and ardent pant- 
 ing after even terrene immortality, we have but 
 to visit the splendid mausoleums — the sepulchral 
 cities under ground — the towering and ever endu- 
 ring pyramids — the cenotaphs and gorgeous sarco- 
 phagi — the chapels — the chambers of repose — the 
 campo santos, and the modern but no less beautiful 
 cemeteries of Pcre la Chaise, of Liverpool, of Mount 
 Auburn, near Boston, and of Laurel Hill, in the 
 vicinity of Philadelphia ; these, all speak to us in 
 language never to be mistaken, — in a tongue com- 
 prehended by nations, and lineages, and tribes, of 
 all times, and of all creeds ; for, be they Pagans, or
 
 176 PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 
 
 Jews, or Christians, learned or illiterate, man is 
 ever the same in his dread of annihilation — in his 
 abhorrence of oblivion — in his desire to be remem- 
 bered, or in some way known in after times — 
 and finally, in his hopes of earthly as well as of 
 heavenly perpetuity. A feeling so universal, so 
 indomitable, so truly natural, can scarce be wrong; 
 and, hke many of our most noble sentiments and 
 principles of action, becomes so, only by the per- 
 version of ambition, or the abuse of riches. The 
 grateful living should respect the virtuous dead — 
 and the virtuous dying should have the hope of 
 being gratefully remembered : and though the 
 vicious and the ignoble are sometimes entombed 
 in richly sculptured marbles, and repose along side 
 the more humble slabs which cover the remains of 
 their virtuous superiors, still, the congregated mem- 
 bers in these cities of the dead, are not wanting in 
 the means of our justly distinguishing the merito- 
 rious ; whilst ihey afford to those, of meek and for- 
 giving temper, fit occasions for the holy ejacula- 
 tions — requiescat iti pace — sit ilia terra levis! Well 
 may we say with Sir Thomas Brown — ^Mati is a 
 liable aiiimal, splendid in ashes, and pompous in the 
 grave — solemnizing nativities and deaths with equal 
 lustre, and not omitting ceremonies of bravery i?i 
 the infamy of his nature.'' 
 
 It were indeed, a vain hope, by strong walls, 
 and the most solid monuments, to preserve intact 
 from the all-consuming influences of time, either 
 the remains or the memories, of even the most 
 illustrious of our dead. Families, and tribes, and
 
 PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 177 
 
 dynasties, and nations, are ultimately and surely 
 lost in the depths of this great invisible ocean, 
 which is without limits ; and when even Egyptian 
 ingenuity, with its pyramids, and subterranean ma- 
 sonry — its well cemented sarcophagi, and bodies 
 embalmed in numerous cerements and 'sweet con- 
 sistencies,' — in many aromatic and desiccative pre- 
 parations, has almost wholly failed to perpetuate 
 either the one or the other, all that we can reason- 
 ably look for in our similar endeavours to confound 
 eternity with time, is such a preservation of their 
 memory as shall probably outlive all generations 
 with whom we can claim even an ideal interest 
 or sympathy : — for, when 'Nimrod is lost in Orion, 
 and Osyris in the dog-star,' what boots it to talk of 
 monume.nts, or to hope for a patent from oblivion? 
 And here again, hath the same Sir Thomas Brown 
 beautifully said, ^all is vanity^ feeding the wind, 
 and folly : for the Egyptian mummies, which Cam- 
 byses, or time hath spared, avarice noio consumeth. 
 Mummy hath hecom.e m,erchandise, Misraim cures 
 wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams P 
 
 And though these are truths which time hath 
 revealed in a thousand ways, and assuring us so 
 must it for ever remain — yet is not the obligation 
 in the least diminished, to pay such respect to the 
 remains and memories of our departed relatives, 
 friends, patriots, and illustrious citizens, as shall 
 testify our own love and gratitude, and veneration — 
 whilst it may afford to many future generations, 
 the chance of reaping from it whatever of instruc- 
 tion, to heart and mind, can be thus conveyed. 
 16
 
 178 PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 
 
 I always think better of that man's heart, who 
 in the midst of life contenjplates its close, and who 
 turns from the toil of worldly strife, to provide a 
 secure resting place for the bodies of those he 
 loves, when their spirits have sought, or shall seek 
 their higher abodes — it is a thoughtful provision, 
 well adapted calmly to seduce the mind from pre- 
 sent enjoyments, to the contemplation of the far 
 greater riches of eternity. Is it not a setting up, 
 upon the great highway of life, a visible and 
 enduring beacon, pointing us to the country we 
 approach, — a country of assembled nations, the 
 land, not only of our forefathers, but of all the 
 sons of men ; and admonishing us, not only of its 
 reality, but of the certainty and rapidity with 
 which we are all coming to it? 
 
 How appropriate is it in the father of a family, 
 who, to the establishment which it is the labour of 
 his life to afford his children, is equally mindful 
 to add that last gift which seems to make his pro- 
 vision so complete ! — In time, such a homage from 
 the living has not only the gracefulness which ever 
 attends the performance of a duty, but it carries 
 with it a silent invitation so to use the rest of life's 
 goods, that this last may not be unhonoured. 
 Every one, moreover, is extremely apt to look more 
 kindly on this post mortem providence of others, 
 from a lurking desire that his own mortal remains 
 should repose in decent and unmolested quietude. 
 
 For myself I confess, I have none of that 
 vaunted stoicism which inculcates entire insensi- 
 bility to the fate of the body after death ; nor
 
 PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 179 
 
 would I claim association with those who desire to 
 advance science, by affecting to know no difference 
 between the quiet of the grave, and the rude as- 
 saults of resurrectionists, or the subsequent mani- 
 pulations in an anatomical theatre ! 
 
 A life adorned in its course by the practice of 
 christian virtues, and prolonged through many liv- 
 ing generations of affectionate relatives, to a vigor- 
 ous old age — a death-bed, free from bodily pain 
 and sustained by the mens coiiscia recti — a peaceful 
 sepulture, without osten^tation, but suited in all 
 respects to the character and station in life — and 
 finally, a tomb sacred and for ever undisturbed, 
 seem to fill up the measure of man's just hopes — 
 the design of existence on this side of eternity. 
 Indifference, therefore, to respectful and enduring 
 interment, ought to shock our sensibilities ; whilst 
 the contemplation of those desecrations of the 
 grave occasioned by the encroachments of cities, 
 the opening of new streets, the cold and calculating 
 exercise of corporate or municipal power, and the 
 disgusting venal offerings to the dissecting tables ; 
 or, in fine, any other cause that brings us to a 
 second intimacy with the remains of the inhumed, 
 is so strongly revolting to every feeling and well- 
 ordered mind, that secured cemeteries are destined, 
 as we think, soon to become among the most 
 favoured and prominent features in the civihzation 
 of the present age. 
 
 To me, then, it is very agreeable to sec my 
 fellow mortals, (with the thoughtfulness of men 
 who are born to die, and the courage of men who
 
 160 PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 
 
 have so lived as to banish the fear of death,) pre- 
 pare their own sepulchres, and those for such as 
 are most dear to them — and, in so doing, assemble 
 about the hallowed spot, all those appropriate orna- 
 ments and emblems of 7nortality and of immor- 
 tality, best suited to awaken and cherish mournful 
 feelings in regard to the former, and the brightest 
 hopes as to the latter. 
 
 The refined nations of antiquity paid great 
 honours to their dead. The expensive embalm- 
 ing, the eternal pyramids, gorgeous mausoleums, 
 and deeply carved sarcophagi of the Egyptians 
 and Greeks — the many chaste tombs that line the 
 Roman ways, as those of Cecilia Metella, of Scipio, 
 Caius Cestius, Augustus, and of Hadrian, which 
 in part remain ; as also those recently revealed, 
 in perfect integrity, in the streets of Pompeii, 
 and the numerous beautiful chapels, and extensive 
 catacombs, and chambers of repose of the early 
 christians, and the proud sepulchres erected in 
 the primitive churches, are striking proofs of their 
 deep veneration for those mortal tenements, once 
 instinct with the souls of heroes, of scholars, and 
 of those whom they best loved. 
 
 It is, however, not a little remarkable how many 
 ancient tombs, and even monuments to perpetuate 
 other more important events than the death of 
 individuals, are wholly destitute of inscription ! 
 How many thousand sarcophagi are there, of mar- 
 ble, granite, or alabaster, with their five sides per- 
 fect, and adorned with much laborious and goodly 
 sculpture, and yet no inscription to tell us that this
 
 PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 181 
 
 is Hector's, that Priam's, this Homer's and that 
 Alexander's ! The urns, moreover, which con- 
 tained their ashes, and the tombs which received 
 them, are often equally silent as to whose remains 
 they honoured and preserved — the tradition being 
 presumed to be co-extensive with the endurance of 
 the solid marble ; and, as one Forimondns saith, 
 'sepulchrorum nunquam intermoritur memoria' — 
 the memory of the matter to be perpetuated by the 
 tombstones, continues for ever. It is quite proba- 
 ble moreover, that but for this omission, many 
 monuments and tombs would have been more 
 carefully preserved ; we might now have the mon- 
 ument of stones which Joshua commanded the 
 Israelites to erect, as a memorial unto their chil- 
 dren forever; and also that mentioned by Euse- 
 bius, as raised by the pious and grateful woman 
 whom our Saviour cured of the bloody issue ; and, 
 perhaps, a hundred others, which, being without 
 inscription, could not be preserved by vague tradi- 
 tions, and became especially liable to destruction, 
 after the traditions themselves were gone. The 
 Romans, in this respect, were generally more care- 
 ful, though some of the tombs of Pompeii are (as 
 well as I remember) without a name. 
 
 Public cemeteries were established by the an- 
 cients, and were no less magnificent than exten- 
 sive. That on the border of the lake Acherusia, 
 in Egypt, is celebrated for its tribunal composed 
 of forty-two judges, who passed sentence on the 
 life and character of the deceased — which, if 
 unfavorable, excluded them from interment in the 
 16*
 
 182 PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 
 
 cemetery beyond the lake, and consigned them 
 to an ignominious grave in Tartarus ! and, in 
 like manner, the Greeks had their Acheron, or 
 Elisout, and their Tartarus. But, among the nu- 
 merous cemeteries of more modern days, and of 
 our own time, we have no other barrier to inter- 
 ment within their walls, than that which denies 
 all christian burial, viz : self-murder — and, some- 
 times, execution for an infamous crime. 
 
 The Catholics, however, in their cemeteries, go 
 a step further, and occlude all who have not died 
 within the pale of their church ; and hence it is 
 that, in many of the continental Catholic countries, 
 there are public cemeteries dedicated to those who 
 are strangers to their faith. The Campo- Santos, 
 so usual in Europe, are among the most interesting 
 objects that arrest a traveller's attention — some are 
 public, others appertain to certain monastic estab- 
 lishments; but wherever found, they manifest the 
 respect the living would pay to the dead. In the 
 cloistered cemetery at Pisa, besides its gothic 
 splendour, its sculptures, and its venerable fres- 
 coes, piety sought to give additional interest to 
 the place, by earth brought by the crusaders from 
 Jerusalem; and this holy soil, though nine feet 
 deep, is still preserved with great care from petty 
 transportations. It is computed that not less than 
 nine hundred vessels, such as were used in the 
 thirteenth century, must have been required for 
 the conveyance of these two acres of 'sanctified 
 mould !'
 
 PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 183 
 
 In the Carthusian Monastery, of the Certosa, 
 near Bologna, there is also a cemetery, which, 
 though not large, is of singular beauty. The 
 entrance is by an appropriate portal, on the piers 
 of which are placed a colossal statue of grief. 
 The walls are shelved, and on these are deposited 
 numerous skulls of the Carthusians, who have 
 died in the monastery during, perhaps, many cen- 
 turies. These are labelled with the name of the 
 individuals to whom they belonged. The whole 
 establishment is filled with flowers, with orange, 
 citron, and myrtle trees; and more resembles an 
 odoriferous conservatory of nature's most beautiful 
 shrubs and flowers, than a sepulchre, or repository 
 for man's mortal remains ! Beautiful thought ! 
 thus to blend with the mementoes of death the 
 fairest and freshest of Flora's garniture, — verdant 
 and flowery canopies impending over tombs, with 
 their mouldering and perishing relics ! 
 
 Another mode of preserving the memory of the 
 dead, and one a good deal practised in Europe, 
 consists in a careful preparation of the bones, and 
 arranging them in a variety of fantastic forms, as 
 lamps, chandeliers, pyramids, wreathes, &c., and 
 decorating therewith the walls of some gloomy 
 crypt, or subterraneous cemetery ! I remember 
 my mixed sensations of astonishment, horror, and 
 gratification at these ingenious and curious fancies, 
 on entering the catacomb of the Capuchin Monas- 
 tery at Rome. My belted, shorn, and sandalled 
 guide recognized the bones of some friend, in 
 many of these devices! and, in certain conspi-
 
 184 PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 
 
 cuous corners, were the perfect skeletons, perhaps, 
 of some more holy father of the church. As 
 well as I could learn, there were four progressive 
 stages to which each body was subjected — first, 
 an ordinary interment, for a year or more — second- 
 ly, interment under holy earthy brought from Jeru- 
 salem by the crusaders — thirdly, the entire skele- 
 ton, duly cleansed and prepared, and then placed 
 for some years, in an appropriate part of the crypt; 
 and lastly, an arrangement of the bones in innu- 
 merable forms, to grace the walls, and to admonish 
 all comers in, that, 
 
 'When our souls shall leave this dwelling, 
 The glory of one fair and virtuous action 
 Is above all the 'scutcheons on our tomb, 
 Or silken banners over us.' 
 
 I have been led to the foregoing reflections by 
 a recent visit to Laurel Hill Cemetery, a noble 
 and most praiseworthy enterprise by a few of the 
 living, in behalf of the many who are dead, or 
 to die. 
 
 Not all the marble magnificence of the proud 
 city in whose environs it is situate, her Banks 
 and her Exchanges, — nor yet the splendor of her 
 ornate Churches, nor yet those monuments of her 
 benevolence — her Colleges, and her Hospitals, nor 
 her far-famed Water-works, could fill my mind 
 with half the admiration, or enlarge my soul 
 with a tythe of the salutary train of thoughts, 
 as the moral beauty, the classic embellishments, 
 and the sacred purposes of this deliglufiil Reposi- 
 tory of the Dead ! This spot is forever dedicated
 
 PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 185 
 
 to the uses of a public Cemetery, in which are 
 to repose the wise, the good and the powerful — 
 and possiblj' the simple-headed, the mere world- 
 ling, the recluse, and the half-forgotten, who are 
 living — to be born — and to die in this now power- 
 ful and growing metropolis. It consists of an 
 enclosed space of about thirty acres, comprising 
 every variety of scenery, elevated in situation, 
 and, in all respects of a proper soil. It is distant 
 some three miles from the city, upon a wide 
 avenue, known as the Ridge road ; and in ap- 
 proaching it the visiter passes the Girard College, 
 and, by a slight deflection may stop at Fairmount, 
 the Prison, (fcc. &c. 
 
 The entrance to the cemetery is by an arched 
 portal, passing through a building of great archi- 
 tectural beauty, and which at once strikes the 
 beholder as peculiarly appropriate in style and 
 embellishment. In the front it presents an im- 
 posing colonnade of eight columns of the Roman 
 Doric order, surmounted by a correspondent en- 
 tablature ; this, again, supports a ballustrade, and 
 the whole is finished by placing immediately over 
 the gateway a funeral urn, appropriate in its de- 
 sign, and beautiful as an ornament. In the portico, 
 upon each side of the gateway, is a niche for the 
 reception of emblematic statuary, and the whole 
 effect of the entrance-building is made still more 
 grand and imposing, by a continuation upon eacii 
 flank of a series of lesser colunms, forming a colon- 
 nade in the same general style as the building itself, 
 and which apparently much magnifies its extent.
 
 186 PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 
 
 Once inducted through this chaste and imposing 
 portal, and pursuing his walk but a few steps, 
 the visiter finds himself in the midst of a scene 
 of surpassing natural beauty. Lawns of velvet 
 turf, gravel walks stretching off every where, 
 seemingly into the entanglements of a labyrinth ; 
 deep and impenetrable shades from lofty oaks ; 
 the tristful grace of bending willows; the perfumes 
 of many flowers ; and the melody of birds, all 
 unite in forming a scene as truly delightful to the 
 senses, as it is genial to those sweet tempers of 
 the mind, which are so apt to manifest themselves 
 in these abodes of the lamented and honoured 
 dead. 
 
 Upon the west side of the enclosure the scene 
 becomes indescribably beautiful. The spectator 
 approaches over grounds nearly level, until he 
 stands upon a bank whose precipitous sides are 
 covered with massive rocks, time-worn and moss- 
 grown ; whilst, here and there, are seen some 
 hardy evergreens Avhich have thrust their roots 
 within the clefts, and drawing thence their slen- 
 der sustenance, expand above in shady trees, or 
 in more humble shrubs. Here the kalmia delights 
 to expand its showy blossoms, and the hemlocks, 
 pines and spruces blend their foliages with the 
 broader leaves of numerous other trees — whilst 
 every little tuft of earth hanging loosely on the 
 rocks, is garnished with flowers of various hues. 
 
 At the foot of the precipice glides the placid 
 Schuylkill, here widened to the dimensions of a 
 lake, whose unrufllcd bosom sends back to the
 
 PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 187 
 
 eye of the beholder, the reflected image of the 
 beauties which encompass him. The whole is 
 expressive of deep repose, rather heightened than 
 dispelled, by the distant view of commercial acti- 
 vity on the opposite banks, where the passage 
 to and fro of the canal boats gives animation to 
 the landscapes, whilst intervening distance 'lends 
 enchantment to the view,' by taking from the 
 busy stir its noise and grossness. It is this rocky 
 hill side with its trees, its shrubbery, its numerous 
 flowers, vines and tendrils — all of nature's own 
 planting, that to me was the most enchanting — 
 there, on a tiny peninsula, jutting somewhat into 
 the river, I mused for a while, and thought that 
 even a grave, nestled in so recluse a spot, had 
 many charms : this, of all the rest, seemed to me 
 the most attractive for a burial place ; and indeed 
 the whole hill-side seems destined, at no remote 
 day, to be the favourite spot — and, like the banks, 
 of the Nile, will spread its monuments and tombs 
 from the water's edge to the very summits of these 
 rocks. 
 
 The improvement of the property, with refer- 
 rence to its uses, appears to have been most judi- 
 ciously attended to. There are spacious carriage 
 houses for shelter from inclement weather; here, 
 also, are receiving-vaults for the temporary depo- 
 site of bodies, from any cause, not prepared for 
 formal interment — a neat gothic chapel for the 
 performance of funeral service when desired — 
 commodious rooms for the retirement of relatives 
 and mourning friends, with other apartments for
 
 188 EVENTS HOW RELATED TO 
 
 the reception of those attendants at the obsequies, 
 not so closely connected with the deceased — and, 
 finally, various superintendents and competent 
 agents are ever present to provide for, and conduct 
 the business and solemn duty of interment. 
 
 Such pious and tasteful manifestations of respect 
 from the living to the dead, must originate and 
 be sustained, in our country, by individual enter- 
 prise. We have no imperial treasures, no rich 
 ecclesiastical revenues, no conventual fraternities 
 for such works of splendour and munificence ; 
 but, with us, every citizen who has a heart, who 
 loves his wife, children, and friends ; all who have 
 refined sentiments, and who would do honour to 
 the memory of the sage, the statesman, the war- 
 rior and the patriot, lend a willing aid to the 
 consecration of repositories, in which are to lie 
 the venerated remains of their distinguished coun- 
 trymen, of their matrons, their sons, and their 
 lovely daughters. 
 
 NOTE XVI. EVENTS, HOW RELATED TO REMOTE 
 
 CIRCUMSTANCES. 
 
 'Do not talk to me of chance^ said Pampiiilus, 
 'sound philosophy knows of no such thing ; for, if 
 by chance you simply mean an unknown cause, I 
 agree with you — but if you use the word, as Mr. 
 Hume has done, to denote the absence of any 
 cause, it is obviously absurd.' In this I could not 
 but concur with Pamphilus, as every event must 
 have its cause, however inscrutable that may be.
 
 REMOTE CIRCUMSTANCES. 189 
 
 But he proceeded: 'So far from nature tolerating 
 such a thing as chance, I agree with Leibnitz, and 
 beUeve that all causes and all events that ever 
 existed, or that ever shall exist, are allied; and, 
 therefore is it that I insist upon my previous 
 remark which seems so much to have surprised 
 you, that had dancitig been wholly unknown, 
 John the Baptist would never have been be- 
 headed ! in reply to this you have merely spoken 
 of chances ! — but, is it not manifest that the dan- 
 cing of Herodias' daughter Salome, caused plea- 
 sure to Herod — which pleasure caused his promise 
 to the niece — which promise, (after the fashion of 
 the times,) caused the oath — which oath affected 
 the Tetrarch's conscience, and which conscience 
 occasioned the beheading of the Baptist, when it 
 was demanded of Herod, in execution of his pro- 
 mise? and here, as you find, are all the links 
 united, from the dancing down to the death !' 
 
 I had ofien heard Pamphilus discourse thus 
 upon his favourite notion of the 'Law of Conti- 
 nuity,'' derived from the German philosopher whom 
 he had just named. 'The dancing of Herodias' 
 daughter, no doubt,' replied I, 'was a fact con- 
 nected with the death in point of circumstance ; 
 and all events must have their circumstances — 
 but whether every circumstance be a cause, and 
 whether sound philosophy directs us to connect 
 them all, ad infinitum as links in a chain of causes 
 essential to produce a given effect, is the question 
 between us. You should also bear in mind the 
 Tetrarch's anger against John — his unlawful love 
 17
 
 190 EVENTS, HOW RELATED TO 
 
 for Herodias — her desire to be avenged on the 
 Baptist, who had opposed the union — that John 
 was then in prison at her instance — that Herod 
 sought the death, but feared the multitude, as 
 they regarded Jolm as a prophet — and that, wiien 
 the request was made by the niece of her uncle, 
 at Herodias' solicitation, that the Baptist's head 
 should be given in a charger, the dancing was a 
 mere collateral circumstance, which set all the 
 antecedent causes into active operation. 
 
 'But, under your Law of Continuity, to say that 
 had dancing been unknown, the Baptist would 
 have lived, is to make the whole universe a mere 
 machine — for you should also remember that 
 Herodias might not have made the murderous 
 suggestion — her daughter might have refused the 
 cruel agency, if made — Herod's conscience might 
 have insisted that the request was altogether with- 
 out the limits of the promise — and yet the Baptist 
 might have met the same fate from an iiundred 
 other causes.' 'What you have said,' rejoined 
 Pamphilus, 'is very true, if you look merely at 
 the surface of things, — but no one of your poten- 
 tials did happen, and I insist that not one of them 
 could have happened ; what has happened is the 
 only thing that ever could have happened ; all 
 circumstances are causes, for or against an event, 
 and every event must have happened — an antici- 
 pated event that has not happened, could not have 
 happened ; and these positions are all proved by 
 Leibnitz's ''Principle of the Sujficieyit Reuso7i,'' by 
 his doctrine of ^Pre-established Harmony^'' and his
 
 REMOTE CIRCUMSTANCES. 191 
 
 great ^Law of Continuitif — all of which clearly 
 establish three things, firsts that nothing can hap- 
 pen without a reason why it should be so, rather 
 than the contrary; secondly, that there is a fixed 
 series of thoughts, desires, emotions, volitions, &c. 
 each with correspondent actions of the body, so 
 admirably suited to each other, that they all seem 
 to be the combinations of mere cause and effect; 
 and, thirdly, the crowning law of continuity gives 
 the like fixed concatenation as between all other 
 existences, events, and truths ; so that every thing, 
 moral as well as physical, that exists, ever did 
 exist, or which ever shall exist, is thus connected. 
 
 'Be not surprised, then, when I say that, as 
 chance is unknown in nature, as, indeed, you 
 have admitted, I seek for what the world calls 
 causes of any event, in every circumstance, in all 
 time, that can be in any way connected with 
 it. In the whole universe there is not the least 
 saltus — no chasm ; and if the death of the Baptist 
 be ascribed by me to the invention of dancing, 
 this 'poetry of motion' is itself connected with 
 myriads of other things, up to the first creation 
 of all things; and the beheading of the Baptist, 
 on the other hand, is in like manner allied to 
 innumerable other things, down to the present 
 hour, and so will be to the end of time !' 
 
 As it has been my good and ill fortune, to have 
 argued with sensible and learned men, as well as 
 with blockheads, a thousand times, and never yet 
 met with a solitary instance of a victory being 
 conceded by either party, to either class of arguers.
 
 192 EVENTS, HOW RELATED TO 
 
 I found myself but little stimulated to further exer- 
 tion. The pride of opinion, the fascinations of 
 sophistry, the impatience of contradiction, the mor- 
 tification at being out-argued, and the tenacity with 
 which a theory is ever maintained, are, each and 
 all, quite too powerful to give the least hope of an 
 admitted '/o triumphans^ to either party — so that 
 I dechned all further discussion with my 'learned 
 Theban,' further than, somewhat jocosely to ask 
 him a ievj questions. 'Had you been a Roman,' 
 said I, 'would you have charged upon Scipio the 
 crime of all those disturbances, and seditions raised 
 by the Gracchi? For, you know, had not this 
 Scipio married his daughter to Tiberius Gracchus, 
 whose offspring were these two famous brothers, 
 there would have been no Gracchi, and conse- 
 quently, no seditions — ergo, on your principle, 
 Scipio is criminal; for, if circumstances are causes, 
 and causes produce effects, and effects produce 
 mischief, how do you get rid of impuiabilityl* 
 'Again, would you reward those unnatural 
 brothers of Eudoxia for having turned her off 
 upon the world, whereupon the Emperor Theo- 
 dosius married her — since, unless she had been 
 driven from her home, she had never seen Con- 
 stantinople, and never have been raised to such 
 honours? And further, upon your argument, 
 how nmch thanks must have been really due by 
 Joseph to his bretiiren, for that cruelty, which, 
 as you know, made him governor over all Egypt! 
 Joseph, indeed, forgave his brethren, and lavished 
 
 * Vide Cidro de Jiivent.
 
 REMOTE CIRCUMSTANCES. 193 
 
 kindnesses upon tliem, but surely, these were 
 gratuitous ; and yet your system requires one of 
 two things as inevitable, either that there is no 
 such thing as merit and demerit, and consequently, 
 no just reward or punishment ; or, secondly, that 
 all who have in any way remotely caused evil 
 or good, and even those who have caused evil out 
 of good, or good out of evil, merit in the one 
 case punishment, in the other two cases, reward ! 
 Eudoxia, then, and Joseph, were bound to reward 
 their brothers, as, in both cases, their cruelty was 
 the cause, under your doctrine, of their signal 
 success in life, making the one an empress, the 
 other a powerful governor ! 
 
 'And still further, do you really suppose, Para- 
 philus, that Henry IV. of France was murdered 
 by Ravillac, merely because two thousand years 
 before that event some geese had cackled in the 
 capitol ?* — and yet these geese cackled at the very 
 time the capitol was assaulted by the Gauls, and 
 thus saved Rome ! The subsequent ascendency 
 of the empire enabled it to foster the christian 
 religion — France became christianized — and Ravil- 
 lac hence became inspired with those mistaken 
 motives concerning that religion, which induced 
 him to become a regicide ! Nay, Pamphilus, your 
 gracious self would never have been born, and 
 certainly not as an American, nor would there 
 have been any American Revolution, had not a 
 Dutch ship from Guinea, with some natives of 
 that country, visited our shores ! Your own inge- 
 
 • Vide Bentliam's Principles of Morals. 
 
 17*
 
 194 EVENTS, HOW RELATED TO 
 
 nuity in this kind of work, will enable you at once 
 to supply all the intermediate circumstances, and 
 thus complete your argument! And I also, have 
 to thank your theory, for letting me know why I 
 am here myself — for, I now clearly perceive how 
 my own birth in this happy land, is connected 
 with a cause that dates back at least two centuries 
 ago, in that M. d'Aubigne was then a distinguish- 
 ed Huguenot leader in France ! !' 
 
 'How is that,' exclaimed Pamphilus, with invo- 
 luntary surprise. 'Oh, nothing more simple; for, 
 had not one Francoise d'Aubigne, his grand- 
 daughter, (afterwads the Marchioness de Main- 
 tenon) been born in a prison, and in 1651, when 
 quite young, been married to the famous Scarron, 
 then aged, infirm, and deformed, and afterwards 
 to Louis XIV. — the revocation of the edict of 
 Nantes by that monarch, in 1685, would never 
 have taken place — and it was that very revocation 
 which brought 7ny grandfather to these shores ; 
 and thus, as you perceive, every link in the chain 
 is complete ; I have to thank the D'Aubigne's for 
 now conversing with you! My good Pamphilus, 
 your argument proves quite too much, and I 
 always vehemently suspect any mode of reasoning 
 that seems so compliantly to prove almost any 
 thing. And yet, I frankly admit, the subject we 
 are on is highly curious, and not without its diffi- 
 culties — but 1 trust a sober and well regulated 
 mind will be able to detect the fallacies of your 
 theory, especially as it leads to the gloomiest of all 
 philosophy — to the most rigid fatalism the world
 
 REMOTE CIRCUMSTANCES. 195 
 
 has ever known ; for it binds equally all intelli- 
 gences in heaven and upon earth; nay, even Deity 
 himself, in a mechanical system of existence, as 
 repugnant to common sense, as it is certainly 
 shocking to every sound feeling of the heart.' — 
 And so our colloquy terminated. 
 
 But, as I have since thought somewhat of the 
 matter, I will note a few additional remarks, as the 
 subject, to some thin minds, has proved not a little 
 mischievous! 
 
 There can be no doubt an argument on Pam- 
 philus' principles, diminishes in value, and may 
 become utterly worthless, when carried to its ex- 
 tremest point, as by invoking causes and princi- 
 ples so far-fetched as to prevent the mind from 
 contemplating a thousand other causes that may 
 equally, and even more, have operated. So also, 
 on the other hand, it may be conceded that a very 
 trifling matter may be the proximate cause of very 
 extraordinary events : — but, in such cases, it is 
 only the torch applied to the magazine, and is that 
 last or finisliing cause which, though in itself 
 almost invisible, lias set all the other antecedent 
 causes into efficient actions. In this view of the 
 matter a philosopher will not neglect causes very 
 remote, nor pass by the last or proximate cause, 
 however inconsiderable it may in itself be. And 
 yet he should be certain that all are causes connect- 
 ed with the event. But the whole of them com- 
 bined, thougii they ascend very high, and become 
 extremely numerous and some of them equally 
 trithng, can never justify the adoption of the fan-
 
 196 EVENTS, HOW RELATED TO 
 
 ciful and wild theory of Leibintz, who, availing 
 himself of the popular tendency to be carried away 
 by terse phrases and uncurrent terms, threw around 
 his theories the mystery and vagueness which so 
 often result from names — and hence was it that 
 his 'pre-established harmony,' and his 'law of con- 
 tinuity,' (phrases so easily pronounced) gave to his 
 pernicious doctrines the charm of novelty, and a 
 higher distinction than they would have attained, 
 had they been set forth to the popular ear in all 
 their naked absurdity. Among other things, I 
 have heard it said that Louis XVI. would not 
 have met his unhappy fate, had it not been for 
 the suppression of the religious orders in 17S2, 
 by Joseph II. of Austria ! 
 
 Now, in this and numerous like cases, a careful 
 examination of all the intermediate links, may pos- 
 sibly reveal a connection, where at the first view, 
 the matter may appear so remotely extravagant 
 as to sound eminently ridiculous ! This mode of 
 speaking is, also, sometimes rather figurative, than 
 designed to be offered as philosophically and his- 
 torically accurate. Thus, it is certainly too peremp- 
 tory for an historian (though not out of place for 
 the orator) to say, that the blood of Lucretia put 
 an end to kingly power at Rome ; that its form of 
 government was changed by a debtor's ap]iearing 
 before the people covered with wounds ; that 
 decemviral power was terminated at the sight of 
 Virginia ; that the presentation of the mangled 
 body, and the bloody robes of Cassar, enslaved 
 Rome — and yet such round expressions seldom
 
 REMOTE CIRCUMSTANCES. 197 
 
 produce any erroneous views on sensible minds, 
 as tlie more general and antecedent causes will 
 readily occur to them ; and moreover, as there is 
 here no design really to attribute such momentous 
 effects to causes so inadequate to their production. 
 
 Whilst, therefore, I Avould differ from Pamphilus 
 ioto coeloy in invoking the Leibnitzian absurdity, 
 there can be no doubt that the chain of circum- 
 stances causative of an event, is sometimes longer 
 than may at first be apparent ; and also, that a 
 proximate cause surprisingly small, may often be 
 so connected with an important event, as to charac- 
 terize it as the generative cause, and thus to pro- 
 duce on the n)ind a startling impression, similar 
 in a degree, to that experienced from wit, which 
 agreeably surprises by the sudden detection of 
 points of resemblance, between things apparently 
 very dissimilar. 
 
 Even so shrewd a commentator on Machiavel, 
 as Frederick II. of Prussia, hesitated not to ascribe 
 the change of Queen Anne's ministry, and the 
 restoration of peace with Louis XIV. to some petty 
 quarrel between her Majesty and the Duchess of 
 Marlborough, about a pair of gloves ! Another 
 sage writer thinks Marlborough's ejection, and the 
 peace of Utrecht, were occasioned by a basin of 
 water being cast upon a lady's gown — another 
 thinks that the triumpliant battle of llossbach 
 must be ascribed to a jest upon Madame de Pom- 
 padour — and so again the downfall, during so 
 many years, of the Bourbons, has been ascribed to 
 a falling out between Maria Antoinette and the
 
 198 EVENTS, HOW RELATED TO 
 
 Duke of Orleans — the wars of Louis XIV. to some 
 offence taken by his minister at the king's com- 
 plaint concerning a window ! and so of an hundred 
 others that might be named, — all of which trifles, 
 without doubt, were connected with the great 
 events mentioned, and may have even operated as 
 proximate causes ; and yet each must have been 
 but the almost invisible occasional cause that set a 
 thousand others, of infinitely greater weight, into 
 actual operation ; and, therefore, is to be regarded 
 merely as a causative circumstance, by no means 
 entitled to play so large a part, as is claimed for 
 each, in the great drama of human life. 
 
 In connection with the topic in hand, I do not 
 hesitate to note here a few remarks of the late 
 Jeremy Bentham, not only because the volume 
 containing them is so little known in this coun- 
 try — and, comparatively, but little read in his own, 
 but likewise as he deals with a part of the subject 
 in hand, with his characteristic shrewdness, and 
 method. 
 
 'A cii'cumstance may be related to an event, in 
 point of casuality, in one of four ways — 1st, in the 
 way of production; 2d, in the way of derivation; 
 3d, in the way of collateral connection; and 4th, 
 in the way of conjunct influence. The circum- 
 stance may be said to be related to the event in 
 the way of production, when it is of the number of 
 those circumstances which contribute to its causa- 
 tion, or existence: in the way of derivation, Avhen 
 it is of the number of the events, to the production 
 of which that in question has been contributory :
 
 REMOTE CIRCUMSTANCES. 199 
 
 in the way of collateral con7iectio?i, when the cir- 
 cumstance in question, and the event in question, 
 (without either of them being instrumental in the 
 production of the other) are related each of them, 
 to some common object which has been concerned 
 in the production of them both : and in the way of 
 cotijujict iii/luencc, when, whether related in any 
 other way or not, they have both of them con- 
 curred in the production of some common conse- 
 quence. All of which may be illustrated by an 
 example — In the year 1628, Villars, Duke of 
 Buckingham, the favourite minister of Charles I. 
 of England, received a wound and died. The 
 man who gave it him was one Felto?i, who exas- 
 perated at the maladministration of which that 
 minister was accused, went down from London to 
 Portsmouth, where Buckingham happened then to 
 be — made his way into his anti-chamber, and find- 
 ing him busily engaged in conversation with a 
 number of people around him, got close to him, 
 drew a knife, and stabbed him. In the effort, the 
 assassin's hat fell oif, which was found soon after, 
 and, upon searching him, the bloody knife. In the 
 crown of the hat were found scraps of paper, with 
 sentences expressive of the purpose he was come 
 upon. — Here then, suppose the event in question 
 is the wound received by Buckingham: Felton's 
 drawing out his knife, his making his way into the 
 chamber, his going down to Portsmouth, his con- 
 ceiving an indignation at the idea of Buckingham's 
 administration, that administration itself, Charles' 
 appointing such a minister, and so on, higher and
 
 200 EVENTS, HOW RELATED TO 
 
 higher rcithout end, are so many circumstances 
 related to the event in the way oi causation or pro- 
 duciioti: the bloodiness of the knife is a circum- 
 stance related to the event in the way of deriva- 
 tion: the finding the hat upon the ground, the 
 finding the sentences in the hat, and the writing 
 them, are so many circumstances related to it in 
 the way of collateral connection: and the situation 
 and conversations of the people about Bucking- 
 ham, were circumstances related to the circum- 
 stances of Felton's making his way into the room, 
 going down to Portsmouth, and so higher and 
 higher, in the way of conjunct influence, inasmuch 
 as they contributed in common to the event of 
 Buckingham's death, by preventing him from put- 
 ting himself npon his guard upon the first appear- 
 ance of the intruder. 
 
 'These several relations do not all of them 
 attach upon an event with equal certainty. In 
 the first place, it is plain, indeed, that every 
 event must have some circumstances related to 
 it in the way of production. It must of course 
 have a still greater multitude of circumstances 
 related to it in the way of collateral connection; 
 but it does not appear necessary that every event 
 should have circumstances related to it in the way 
 oi derivation ; nor, therefore, that it should have 
 any related to it in the way of conjunct iiijluence. 
 This division may be further illustrated and con- 
 firmed by the more simple and particular case of 
 offspring — for, to production corresponds pater- 
 nity — to derivation, filiation — to collateral connec-
 
 REMOTE CIRCUMSTANCES. -201 
 
 tion, collateral consanguinity — to conjunct influ- 
 ence, marriage and children^ 
 
 The foregoing classification, though ingenious, 
 and characterized by Mr. Bentham's customary 
 regard to strict method, will appear to many, rather 
 fanciful than useful ; but, when more closely in- 
 spected, and applied to the infinite concerns of life, 
 will be found by no means destitute of truth and 
 utility. How much such an apparently artificial 
 division of any subject tends to enable the mind to 
 extract from it a latent and practical philosophy, is 
 well known to those whdse vocation calls them to 
 accurate and deep inquiries. Where truth is to be 
 extracted by a thorough analysis of facts, as is 
 so often the duty of the lawyer, the judge, and 
 the metaphysician, such methodical arrangements 
 will be found of eminent advantage. Much of the 
 force as well as beauty of forensic and judicial 
 exercitations, is thereby promoted ; and the cause 
 of justice is revealed more clearly by the lights 
 shed upon the entire subject from these numerous 
 divisions, they becoming, as it were, so many 
 radiant points of departure for new and illustrative 
 researches. And so it is with every thing in life ; 
 truth is always made more clear, folly never, by 
 such classifications ; and the sophistry, however 
 artificial and ingenious, of the class to which Pam- 
 philus belongs, can never long mislead ; for nothing 
 is more true than that wisdom's counsels never 
 appear so bright, as when folly attempts to illumi- 
 nate her paths. 
 18
 
 20-2 EVENTS, HOW RELATED TO 
 
 I have been also forcibly struck with some 
 remarks of Mr. Villers, in his very sensible and 
 learned Prize Essay, on the influences of Luther's 
 Reformation. The magnitude of his subject seem- 
 ed to appall him ; and, on the outset, he inquires, 
 *Is not that great event, which I consider as a 
 cause itself, the simple result of many other 
 events that have preceded it? — and must I not 
 on this accouHt, refer to them, and not to it, which 
 has only been an intermediate agent?' 'To the 
 eye of the mind,' continues he, 'every event traced 
 upwards, becomes a simple effect; every effect, 
 traced downwards, becomes in its turn a cause. 
 To mount up to a first cause subsisting by itself, 
 is a demand on our intellectual nature which 
 searches for an absolute principle, on which its 
 speculations must terminate.' And he concludes 
 with the following beautiful illustration. 'A man 
 entirely unacquainted with the nature of a river, 
 arriving on the banks of one, and observing it 
 here to flow in an extensive plain, there confined 
 in a narrow channel, in another place foaming 
 by the agitation of a cataract, — such a man would 
 regard the first turning of the stream, where it 
 lies concealed from his eye, as the origin of the 
 river — but should he ascend, the cataract would 
 produce a similar illusion ; and having reached the 
 source at last, he would then consider the moun- 
 tain from which it issues, as the primary cause of 
 the river: he would soon however reflect, that the 
 bowels of the mountain must shortly be exhausted 
 by so constant a stream — he would then observe
 
 REMOTE CIRCUMSTANCES. 203 
 
 the accumulation of clouds, and the rains, with- 
 out which the drained mountain would yield no 
 water — thus would the clouds become the primary- 
 cause ! but those, again, are brought by the winds 
 which sweep the great seas— and, still further, by 
 the sun it is that they are raised, from the sea ! 
 Whence, then, comes tiiis power in the sun?' 
 
 But, enough has been said in this note, to 
 unfold my meaning, which briefly is, — that whilst 
 the ultimate cause, of almost any thing, is as 
 much beyond the reach of the intellectual eye, 
 as is the beginning of a circle, (the total disre- 
 gard of which has generated many of the crudi- 
 ties of vain and ponderous learning)— yet, that 
 contentment, in most cases, with the mere proxi- 
 mate cause, would fall far short of the legitimate 
 limits of philosophical inquiry, and would gene- 
 rally end in meagre sciolism: — the juste milieu^ 
 therefore, in this, as in all other things, should 
 be carefully observed by writers, be they meta- 
 physicians, physicians, historians, poets, or what 
 not.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 XVII. CATHEDEALIZING. XVIII. AN OLLA-PODRIDA. — XIX. 
 
 DREAMING. — XX. THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. XXI. 
 
 THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 
 
 NOTE XVII. CATHEDRALIZING. 
 
 One of the occupations of a traveller in Eng- 
 land, but especially on the Continent, may, not 
 unappropriately be called cathedralizing , for the 
 which I conceived no little passion, having been 
 led to explore (at least under the genus church) 
 perhaps, an hundred on the favoured island, and, 
 possibly, ten times as many on the, continent ! 
 These temples raised to the God of christians, 
 be they basilika, cathedral, church, or chapel, are 
 often full of the visible chronicles of many cen- 
 turies: they shadow forth the progress, mutations, 
 decline, and revival of architecture — the growth 
 and variations of the fine arts — the piety, follies, 
 and superstitions of hierarchs, of monarchs, and 
 of people — the rise, progress, and fall of religions, 
 and of sects — the vandal outrages, and destruc- 
 tions of opposing bigots — the devastations of war, 
 the reparations of peace — the memorials of family 
 affection, pride, or arrogance in the perpetuation 
 of the names of the great, t!ie good, and the
 
 CATHEDRALIZING. 205 
 
 wicked — the trophies of patriotism, or of a coun- 
 try's gratitude, preserved in connection with the 
 warrior's mausoleum, or his more humble slab — 
 the exquisite, or faulty taste of sculptors, painters, 
 poets — and, in fine, these temples, perhaps better 
 than any other species of building, are the faithful 
 guardians, and permanent repositories of many of 
 the notabilia in a nation's history. 
 
 I am, then, not ashamed of the many hours 
 of many days, devoted to this pursuit, nor of the 
 particularity manifested, even in this brief note, 
 respecting one of these magnificent christian 
 temples. 
 
 The descriptions and reflections of a tourist, 
 charming as they sometimes are, have now be- 
 come so trite and cur-cheap, that they pall upon 
 the appetite ; and the very name of tour, or of 
 tourist, is fast approaching the fate of things that 
 are common, or mawkishly odious ! Now, 
 
 'As every fool describes in these bright days, 
 His wonderous journey to some foreign court,' 
 
 I have long since resolved never to indite a 
 book, nay, not even a chapter, of travels! And 
 yet, no reason do I see why I should not indulge 
 in a little harmless note in my diary, for my own 
 amusement, and edification withal ; for it is most 
 pleasant to recall such things to one's memory — 
 so that one may there resort at will, no one to 
 chubb him for the trite, erroneous, or silly things he 
 may have recorded, nor for the fashion in which 
 they may be clothed — but never, oh never, should 
 he permit one of them to meet the public eye ! 
 18*
 
 206 CATHEDRALIZING. 
 
 for then, no plea of a private nature would avail 
 as an excuse, nor could he haughtily say, in 
 regard to the fashion thereof, ^Cest ma fa^on de 
 parler, and a further reason I scorn to give,'' as 
 ■well might be said when such notes are suffered 
 to meet only his own eye, or that of some special 
 friend.* 
 
 The Philosophy of Travel would be, indeed, 
 a beautiful subject; but it has never yet been 
 attempted, and, perhaps, never will be, as much 
 from the want of an author, as, possibly, of suffi- 
 ciently numerous readers were it written ! The 
 great work of the Abbe Barthelemy is scarce an 
 exception to my remark — and yet that was the 
 labour of thirty years, the production of an accom- 
 plished general scholar, orientalist, antiquarian, 
 and industrious traveller ; but it treats of matters 
 and things he had never seen, it being the imagi- 
 nary travels of the younger Anacharsis in Greece : 
 whereas I allude to the philosophy of modern 
 travel into various countries — not the result of 
 extensive reading merely, but also of actual obser- 
 vation, and of deep research among the interesting 
 and recherche things, as far as they are extant, 
 
 *The reader now perceives that the closing part of the author's 
 resolution, liice some lovers' vows, vanished into thin air, when he 
 decided to give the public a peep into his note-book. As the 
 matters were when first written, so do they now appear, with 
 such occasional additions and variations only, as might impart to 
 them something of a more popular form. But he fears he must 
 still crave pardon even for this small note of travels, and for any 
 others that appear in this little volume, so far forth as they 
 may be clearly referred to the bead of travels, which he very 
 generally endeavoured to avoid.
 
 CATHEDRALIZING. 207 
 
 of all ages, and of all countries; and, by an 
 admirable classification, bringing them so together, 
 that the wonders, excellencies, and defects of them 
 all may be compared and contrasted ! In such 
 a work, governments, laws, institutions, habits, 
 customs, arts, sciences, statistics, buildings, (an- 
 cient and modern) ruins, antiquities, things curious 
 in nature and in art — and, in fine, all that could 
 be reaped from extensive wanderings, and from 
 minute observation, would be brought together, 
 under a concentrated view ; and thus exhibit, as 
 it were, an almost universal comparative travel, 
 with its whole intellectuality — so that, like cojn- 
 parative anatomy, with its physiology, it would 
 exhibit the subject in all of its bearings, and in 
 all of its varied, beautiful, and useful results! 
 Such a book could be accomplished only by a 
 Montesquieu among travellers — by such a soli- 
 tary emanation, as might suddenly dart upon the 
 world only once, perhaps, in a decade of centuries ! 
 This by way of episode, and not of preamble to 
 what is to follow. 
 
 But, having nearly lost the theme of my dis- 
 course, I must remind my reader that I was seek- 
 ing for some apology for my present Note, seeing 
 that a traveller's descriptions are now so apt to be 
 eyed with little estimation, and often with some 
 loathing; unless, perhaps, of scenes at either 
 pole, — in central Africa — in the long forgotten 
 regions of 'Araby the blest' — of Edom — or among 
 'Tadmor's marble wastes !' None of these have I, 
 unhappily, to offer, and have therefore indulged
 
 208 CATHEDRALIZING. 
 
 (although my topic be nothing more than an 
 EngUsh Cathedral) in a little ideology about the 
 philosophy of travel, to show that I had in my 
 mind's eye, at least, the beau ideal of an interest- 
 ing work on travels, possibly never to be executed 
 by any one, but now feebly shadowed by me, that I 
 might, if possible, conciliate some few towards the 
 dull details of one who has never been in such 
 very distant lands ! Still, my cathedral may afford 
 some interest and instruction to those not learned, 
 and not over-fastidious in such matters. With this 
 hope, and without further ado, I shall proceed. 
 
 In matters of taste, and of the science that may 
 belong to them, there seems to me a certain jooe^zca/ 
 justice^ so to speak, which should never be viola- 
 ted. Hence, when works of art, or of nature, have 
 been traditionally over-praised, or under-praised, it 
 affords us pleasure to use our mite of endeavour to 
 bring them back to their merited position, and this 
 remark, as it seems to me, is strictly applicable to 
 the York Minster, the only subject of my Note, 
 and of my cathedralizing lour in England, and 
 on the continent, with which I shall trouble the 
 reader. 
 
 The Minster is, indeed, a noble pile, full of the 
 sources of interesting reminiscence, and adorned 
 with many goodly evidences of the artist's skill — 
 but, by age, misfortunes, and original defects, it is 
 not, and ncA^er was meritorious of all the praises so 
 lavishly bestowed. For centuries it hath been the 
 fashion to laud this cathedral in unmeasured terms; 
 and often to the disparagement of its fellows, both
 
 CATHEDRALIZING. 209 
 
 in England, and on the continent: and the cathe- 
 dralizer, after visiting those of Wells, Winchester, 
 Ely, Salisbury, Peterborough, Westminster, Can- 
 terbury, Durham, Lincoln, Bristol, &c. is apt to 
 continue in the same eulogistic strain of the Min- 
 ster, because his predecessors have so said ! He 
 speaks of its great antiquity, of its vast size — of 
 its mammoth 'East window' as the tenth marvel of 
 the world — of its matchless stained glass — of the 
 'maiden sisters,' as far excelling all other windows 
 in grace and beauty — of the 'mosaic pavement' — 
 the screens, monuments, carvings, gildings, &c. as 
 all so transcendant, that the Minster, like Aaron's 
 rod, seems to swallow up all others ! 
 
 Now, where there is actually much skill com- 
 bined with beauty, it would seem an invidious 
 task to note defects— but, is there not justice be- 
 tween things inanimate, and even vile, and shall 
 there not be among cathedrals, which are among 
 the worthiest of human works ? I think so, and 
 therefore do I say, though the world should laugh, 
 that the Minster is, after all, a vast and most irre- 
 gular, graceless pile, with numerous architectural 
 defects and blemishes ; that as a whole, and in the 
 detail, it is obnoxious to much censure (as well as 
 to much praise ;) that, compared with some other 
 sacred temples, of England and elsewhere, it falls 
 far short, in many particulars characteristic of a 
 truly great building — a chef cTccuvre of architec- 
 tural genius. Let us then see what this cathedral 
 is, and what it is not — but in as brief a discourse 
 as may well be.
 
 210 CATHEDRALIZING. 
 
 The Minster, as it stands 7iow, is the work of 
 different periods, beginning with the South Tran- 
 sept, in 1227 ; then came the North Transept, in 
 1260, the Nave, in 1291, the two Western Towers, 
 in 1330, and the Choir, and Central Tower, in 
 1370. But the cathedral, on the same site, had its 
 origin at a much remoter date, parts of which 
 original building are to be found in the existing 
 foundations, in the crypt; the old materials having 
 been worked into the more modern structure ; and, 
 in the crypt may be found columns, with neatly 
 carved capitals and bases ; which, however, are 
 extremely short, scarce more than six feet high, 
 and some even much less. From this it would 
 seem highly probable that these columns are not 
 now in their original places, as component parts of 
 a much earlier sacred building, as seems to be 
 erroneously supposed by some. 
 
 The first church on the present site, was built in 
 627, by Edwin, king of the Northumbrians, who 
 was one of the earliest of the petty monarchs of 
 this island, that embraced Christianity. This being 
 destroyed by fire, was rebuilt in 1069, and again 
 met the same fate, and was then rebuilt by arch- 
 bishop Thomas, and again consumed in 1137, and 
 once more rebuilt by A. B. Roger, in 1171. Thus 
 it remained until reconstructed as it now stands, 
 commencing with the year 1227, and ending in 
 1370, since which latter date no material alteration 
 has taken place, except in that portion of it de- 
 stroyed in 1827, by that mad incendiary, Jonathan 
 Martin, who, conceiving he would be rendering
 
 CATHEDRALIZING. 211 
 
 God a service, applied his sacrilegious torch, which 
 consumed most of the choir, part of the nave, and 
 considerably injured many, and destroyed some of 
 the monuments. The damage, however, was not 
 very great, and has been thoroughly repaired after 
 the original models, and with an artistical skill, not 
 only extremely creditable to the present age, but 
 which shows that, if occasion demand, the proud 
 and gorgeous cathedral of catholic times, can in 
 our day be made to stand forth in all its varied, 
 beautiful, massive, and expensive details ! 
 
 After a careful examination of this much-famed 
 temple, and an equally observant inspection of 
 many of the most noted cathedrals of France, 
 Italy, and of some other countries, I have not been 
 able, as already remarked, to account for the extra- 
 ordinary praises so constantly bestowed on this, 
 and why it should have taken rank so highly 
 above its associates, even in England : for, whether 
 it be regarded in its integrity, or in its details, it 
 could never, in its most palmy days, have been 
 much superior to some others of the island, and 
 falls short, in many respects, of some of the conti- 
 nental cathedrals. 
 
 If we attend to its dimensions, exterior form, 
 ornaments and carvings; its interior outlines, tra- 
 ceries, filligranes, stained glass, the construction 
 and material of its roof, its pavements, and its 
 monuments, we shall find some deficiency in them 
 all ; and that in most of these particulars, other 
 English cathedrals, and some of their chapels are
 
 212 CATHEDRALIZING. 
 
 quite equal, and occasionally, in some of them, 
 superior. 
 
 And 1st, of its dimensions. The Minster is 5245 
 feet in length, 222 in its transept, and 109 in its 
 nave. Winchester cathedral is 556 feet in length, 
 and 186 in its transept and nave. The Minster's 
 towers are 234 feet in height, those of Lincoln are 
 270— of St. PauVs 356, and of Salisbury 38T feet. 
 The Minster's choir is 131 feet in length, and 99 in 
 height — that of St. Paul's is 165 in length, and 88 
 in height, and those of Rochester^ Canterbury^ 
 Peterborough^ Winchester, Salisbury, Lincoln, and 
 Westminster, are all larger. In regard, therefore, 
 to the effect arising from mere dimensions, no 
 superiority can be claimed for the York building, 
 at least none that is striking to the eye. 
 
 2d. As to its exterior aspect and ornaments, the 
 entire Minster being formed apparently, as well as 
 actually, of an aggregation of edifices, not very 
 harmoniously and artfully associated, presents to 
 the eye an extremely irregular outline, composed 
 also, of five distinct species of Gothic architecture: 
 this impresses the beholder with a sensation of 
 laboured confusion, rather than of admirable vast- 
 ness ; for, the vision being broken into fragments, 
 can no where rest upon the whole at once, so as to 
 excite those sublime emotions, consequent upon the 
 contemplation of great magnitude ; nor are the 
 towers of sufficient height to raise in us those 
 delightful sensations. In respect, also, to the plea- 
 sure derived from the multiplicity and beauty of 
 exterior decorations, the cathedrals of Wells, West-
 
 CATHEDRALIZING. 213 
 
 minster, Winchester, Peterborough, and others, 
 may justly claim the pahii. The infinitely varied 
 gothic traceries, tabernacle work, rosettes, statues, 
 devices, ttc. and, in fine, all of those rich embel- 
 lishments that characterize the florid gothic, are, 
 on the exterior of these buildings, superior to those 
 of the Minster. The locale, also, of the York 
 building is singularly l)ad for the display of its 
 magnitude, its beauties, or its defects. It is en- 
 compassed almost on every side by narrow streets, 
 and indifferent buildings, which so crowd upon it, 
 as to intercept its full view from every point. 
 
 Externally, the Minster presents on its main 
 front facing the west, two towers of equal height, 
 each surmounted by eight crocketted pinnacles, 
 united by a very low battlement. These towers, 
 each pierced with three windows, are neither lofty, 
 nor highly decorated ; and yet they are still more 
 embellished than the other exterior parts of the 
 building. On this western facade are three doors, 
 one piercing each tower ; and the main one, in the 
 centre, is a double arched door, with a rude statue 
 of a Vavasor and a Percy, on the right and left. 
 Immediately over this door is the great Western 
 Window; and the front, generally, is relieved by 
 niches, almost destitute, however, at this time, of 
 images or other devices, so essential in the idea of 
 gothic architecture. Leaving this western front, 
 and following the line of the cathedral to the south, 
 we find in the centre of the building a very large, 
 but low square tower, with but little ornament, and 
 in most respects unworthy of its place, as it har- 
 19
 
 214 CATHEDRALIZING. 
 
 monizes but little, even with the plain gothic 
 which, so generally, marks the exterior. At this 
 point is the south entrance, which, though not so 
 imposing as that on the west front, is not destitute 
 of ornament. The courses of steps leading up to 
 the south transept, the four octangular turrets, the 
 great Marigold Window, and the little square turret 
 just above it, give considerable variety to this 
 facade, but no sublimity or grandeur whatever. In 
 proceeding further towards the east front, nothing 
 breaks the outline of this south side, and we arrive 
 at the east fa9ade with great expectations, as being 
 remarkable, not only for a more chaste style than 
 the other fronts, but for the much vaunted East 
 Window, which is seventy -jive feet in height, and 
 is, undoubtedly, if that be a merit, the largest 
 window in the world ! This window, viewed 
 from the exterior, is certainly very striking both 
 from its magnitude, and graceful form ; but the 
 fame of its stained glass, if ever deserved, has 
 long since departed from it ; for it strikes the eye as 
 a merely confused congeries of ill-sorted bits of 
 glass, rudely blended with slips of lead, having no 
 visible or comprehensive design, and as wholly 
 destitute of beauty as can well be imagined. The 
 mind in search of the evidences of contrivance and 
 of beauty, adverts neither to the vastness of the 
 opening, thus charged with lead and glass, nor to 
 the vast expense of time and of money said to 
 have been bestowed on it, nor yet to the skill and 
 extraordinary patience of the artist, but solely to
 
 CATHEDRALIZING. 215 
 
 those instantaneous sensations of delight which it 
 is the province of beauty, or of sublimity to excite. 
 Now, I am free to confess, I am Goth enough 
 to admit that, when casting my eye over this 
 'finest window in the world,' and which Drake 
 says 'is justly called the wonder of the world, 
 both for masonry and glazing.' 1 felt great dis- 
 appointment, and found quite as much positive 
 ugliness, as beauty, and though, after closely 
 examining it from the interior, my judg7nent be- 
 came satisfied that it originally must have cost 
 both skill and unwearied patience, and that the 
 artist had richly earned more than his daily pit- 
 tance during the years occupied by him in its 
 various combinations ; yet, was I still more con- 
 firmed that it is, and ever was, a confused mass, 
 as destitute of simplicity and of every element of 
 laste and of beauty, as almost any other human 
 labour that cost so much of time, expectation, and 
 expense. This east end is somewhat impaired by 
 the ravages of time ; the niches have almost dis- 
 appeared, and but ie-^ statues grace either them, 
 or the buttresses. Proceeding towards the north 
 side, and at the corner of the transept, we are 
 met by the once splendid Chapter-House; which, 
 though it somewhat mars the beauty of the out- 
 hne, has ever been regarded as the pride of the 
 whole Minster. Passing by this, for the present, 
 we reach the north facade, which brings us once 
 more to our starting point. This north front is yet 
 in a plainer style than any of the others, though
 
 216 CATHEDRALIZING. 
 
 graced with the celebrated windows known by the 
 name of the 'Five Maiden Sisters.' 
 
 Having now passed hastily round the building, 
 we are prepared to examine the glories within. 
 
 3d. The interior aspect and ornaments. — Much 
 of the imposing etfect on entering the Minster 
 depends upon the portal by which you are ad- 
 mitted; which should be, especially on your first 
 entrance, by the western door, and not into the 
 south transept, as is so usual. By the former 
 passage, your eye takes in, at once, the whole 
 range of the nave, transept, and choir, of more 
 than five hundred feet in length! A gallery sus- 
 tained by arches, follows this long line of the 
 nave, extending to the transept two hundred and 
 sixty feet, and is decorated with the armorial 
 bearings of the Minster's patrons. On the two 
 side aisles, over their entrances, are some finely 
 executed basso-relievoes, representing ancient rural 
 sports; and these aisles are lighted by sixteen 
 windows, fourteen of which are glazed with stain- 
 ed glass. Over the centre of the transept is the 
 arch of the central tower, lighted by eight win- 
 dows, and the ceiling of this, as also of the nave, 
 and aisles, is of wood painted, and ornamented 
 with traceries. In the central knot of the ceiling 
 of the tower, are two figures of St. Peter and St. 
 Paul ; which, however, are too small to be seen 
 with the least effect, the height being one hun- 
 dred and eighty-eight feet from the pavement ! 
 At the north-east corner is the entrance into the 
 Chapter House, and between the transept and the
 
 CATHEDRALIZING. 217 
 
 choir is a magnificent stone screen, which sepa- 
 rates to a certain height, the nave from the choir. 
 This screen was surmounted before the late fire, 
 by a magnificent organ, which contained 3,254 
 pipes, and 52 stops, and which has probably been 
 replaced by a still larger one. 
 
 The Chapter House, an octagon building of 
 about sixty-five feet in diameter, must have been, 
 originally, by far the most magnificent part of the 
 cathedral, but has now gone nearly to ruin. 
 Sufficient remains, however, to indicate its for- 
 mer splendour. The massive doors covered with 
 iron scrolls, the richly gilt and painted dome, 
 the seven Gothic windows of stained glass, which 
 nearly occupy the octagon, the forty-four stalls 
 with rich canopies of curiously carved devices, 
 the Virgin Mother treading on the serpent, the 
 silver statues of the twelve apostles, on the low 
 pedestals which still remain, the numerous slender 
 and graceful columns, which pass on each side of 
 the stalls, embellished with richly gilt capitals 
 and many strangely grotesque figures and devices, 
 designed to caricature the secular clergy of those 
 times, and the exquisitely beautiful tracery-work 
 with numerous other decorations, all in their pri- 
 mitive freshness, must have presented a gorgeous 
 scene greatly heightened, too, when the forty- four 
 church dignitaries jn their richest vestments were 
 seated in their respective stalls ! At the entrance 
 of the door which occupies the eighth side of the 
 octagon, may still be seen in large gilt Saxon 
 letters, the following lines in praise either of the 
 19*
 
 218 CATHEDRALIZING. 
 
 Minster at large, or of the Chapter House in 
 
 particular, probably the former. 
 
 Ut Rosa phlos phlorum 
 
 Sic est Domus, ista domorum. 
 
 Which, in our vernacular, may be spread out 
 thus — 'As the rose is chiefest among flowers, so is 
 this house among houses.' 
 
 Over this entrance are the niches for the 
 apostles and virgin; but these splendid silver-gilt 
 statues fell a prey to the rapacious Old Harry, of 
 monastery-loving memory ! The construction of 
 the vaulted roof, supported neither by arch nor pil- 
 lar, is said to be a master-piece of architectural 
 skill. It is wholly of wood plastered, and was 
 highly decorated — but its glories are now nearly 
 extinct. 
 
 The screen, to which I have alluded as sepa- 
 rating the nave from the choir, is certainly at this 
 time the most beautiful and interesting object of 
 the cathedral. It is in perfect preservation, and 
 probably far exceeds the much admired screen of 
 the Confessor in Westminster Abbey when perfect, 
 but which is now a ruin. The splendour which 
 once reigned in the Chapter House, was in a great 
 degree the result of gilding and painting, but the 
 stone screen is a work of matchless skill, of un- 
 wearied labour, of great fertility of design, and is 
 altogether a chef (Tmuvre that would probably put 
 to shame, if not the taste, at least the ingenuity of 
 the best artists and sculptors of our age. The 
 massive stone has become instinct with life — has 
 lost its solidity, is .seen into deeply beyond its
 
 CATHEDRALIZING. 219 
 
 surface, like the wonderfully elaborated work of 
 the Cliinese in ivory, still the marvel of many 
 who remove the difficulty, only by insisting that 
 the ivory has been softened, so that its delicate 
 lace work becomes an ordinary manipulation, re- 
 quiring little else than mechanical patience. But 
 this cannot be said of the brittle material which 
 composes the screen. No Papin's digester — no 
 chemic art, can have softened this stone ; and the 
 screen presents to the eye a study for a week, 
 composed of vines, and of delicately formed leaves, 
 of insects, animals, and reptiles, done to the life, 
 and many of them concealed as it were, under 
 others, require some scrutiny to detect them, and 
 when discovered, excite unmingled surprise and 
 delight! The screen is further adorned with 
 fifteen statues as large as life, of the English 
 monarchs, from the Conqueror, to the sixth Henry 
 inclusive; and when viewed, either in its inte- 
 grity, or in the detail, is altogether one of the most 
 attractive objects to be seen in this, or perhaps, in 
 any other cathedral. 
 
 The choir is in admirable taste : the tabernacle 
 work of the stalls and of their canopies, though 
 recent restorations, are beautifully wrought. Some, 
 however, affect to lament greatly the destruction of 
 the old substantial and more deeply carved work; 
 which, though confessedly inferior in execution to 
 the modern, is said by them to have been vast- 
 ly more effective, when viewed somewhat at a 
 distance. Tiie present cathedra, or archbishop's 
 throne, and the pulpit, are truly admirable. The
 
 220 CATHEDRALIZING. 
 
 choir, like the nave, has a gallery supported by- 
 arches ; and is lighted by windows that rise nearly 
 to the height of the roof — and it is here, likewise, 
 that we find the famous east window, which be- 
 comes somewhat transparent but still remains a 
 confused jargon, so to speak, of colours, void of 
 pictorial design. 
 
 Having thus cursorily passed entirely round the 
 interior, as well as the exterior of the building, — a 
 few particulars may, perhaps, be indulged in, as 
 necessary to a little further vindication of the dis- 
 position I have manifested, to differ in some degree 
 from the unquahfied praise so lavishly bestowed 
 on it by others. 
 
 The roof^ or rather the ceiling, as before re- 
 marked is of wood^ painted in imitation of stone, 
 and is ornamented in rather a crude and inelegant 
 manner. It is, moreover, quite too low, (except 
 that of the vault of the central tower) and comes 
 actually in contact with the apex of each of the 
 great windows ! The material of the roof ill har- 
 monizes with the general magnificence and soli- 
 dity of the edifice, and is inferior to the ceilings of 
 several other English cathedrals, and even chapels. 
 Hov/ much does it fall short of the stone vaults of 
 King's chapel, Cambridge, of St. George's chapel, 
 at Windsor, and how immeasurably behind that of 
 the Abbey at Westminster! Tliese all, are of 
 wonderful and exquisite workmanship; they sus- 
 pend over your head solid and eternal masses of 
 stone, exciting almost fearfully sublime emotions 
 at their contemplation. These ponderous cano-
 
 CATHEDRALIZING. 221 
 
 pies, the envy and almost the opprobium of modem 
 architects, are sometimes perfectly flat or horizon- 
 tal, and seem a wizzard work that baffles compre- 
 hension, suspended you know not how, and mak- 
 ing the beholder involuntarily shrink, lest the vast 
 and heavy masses, of some of their richly carved 
 figures, of more than a ton's weight, should for- 
 sake their fastenings, and crush one to powder ! 
 And yet, these massive stones are often rendered 
 so apparently Hght and airy by the sculptor's 
 handy art, as to represent some gossamer cover- 
 ing — or rich drapery of lace, and ingenious needle 
 work, embellished with golden appliances ! Who 
 then, would compare the wooden, though painted 
 and gilded ceilings, of York Minster, even when 
 in their original freshness, with the matchless 
 magnificence, and architectural skill, that hangs 
 over you, within the edifice just mentioned ! 
 
 So, likewise, much has been unmeaningly said 
 as to the stained glass which abounds in the 
 Minster. In quantity, this cathedral certainly ex- 
 ceeds any other in that particular; but, iu quality, 
 and in pictorial design and eflect, it seems to me 
 extremely defective ; and the eye of taste and of 
 science would seem to be less gratified in this 
 respect in the Minster, than in the chapels at 
 Cambridge and Westminster, and in some of the 
 halls and public buildings of other places. The 
 ^maiden sisters'' of the Minster are certainly emi- 
 nently graceful, and worthy of their name in this 
 respect. They are larger than any of the windows 
 in the chapels and halls adverted to, but do not
 
 222 CATHEDRALIZING. 
 
 equal them in richness and beauty of colouring, 
 nor in the distinctnes of pictorial design. 
 
 These remarks apply with still more justness to 
 the stained glass of the East Window, which though 
 seventy-five feet by thirty-two feet, is so divided 
 into two hundred compartments, great and small, 
 and subdivided by the painter almost indefinitely, 
 as to give to no portion of it a clear and satisfac- 
 tory effect ! The designs are taken mainly from 
 scriptural subjects, and the glazier, one John 
 Thornton, is said to have been occupied, during 
 many years, commencing in 1405, with the mere 
 manipulation of inserting in the leads, the nume- 
 rous pieces of glass of various colours, and designs, 
 that compose the entire work ! If the original, as 
 it came from master Thornton's hands, did not 
 almost wholly vary from what it now exhibits, 
 (which can scarce be the case, as I have now before 
 me Drake's ponderous folio, with his numerous en- 
 gravings, which sufliciently unfold its state in 
 palmy days,) it must ever have been a mass of con- 
 fused devices ! We are told, indeed, that the artist 
 had in his mind's eye very many curious and dis- 
 tinct fancies, which embraced nearly the whole of 
 Bible history ; and the engravers, with much pains, 
 have been able to delineate some crude outlines 
 thereof; but no eye, as we think, can trace them 
 with the coup cPosil a traveller must accord to it; 
 and the painful attention of an artist who designs 
 to commit the result to paper, is out of the question, 
 as this would require some days, at least !
 
 CATHEDRALIZING. 223 
 
 The Armorial, and the West Window, are far 
 more satisfactory, as they are less complex, are 
 more transparent, and yield the designs to the eye, 
 with infinitely more clearness and certainty. The 
 traditional praise, then, so uniformly accorded to 
 this East Window, over all others, has probably 
 resulted from regarding magnitude, variety, com- 
 plexity, toil, and expense, as per se just sources 
 of great commendation. It is the province and 
 privilege, however, of every traveller, to look with 
 his own eyes, and to judge with his own mind, 
 regardless of time sanctioned praises. 
 
 The new pavement, also, which has been, not 
 very inappropriately, called mosaic, has been greatly 
 extolled, and with little justice. About a century 
 ago. Lord Burlington prevailed on the dean and 
 chapter to remove the old pavement, composed of 
 innumerable grave stones, many of which, as the 
 antiquarian Francis Drake informs us, 'formerly 
 shone like embroidery, being enriched with ima- 
 ges, &c. in brass, of bishops and of other ecclesias- 
 tics represented in proper habits.' This sacrilege 
 was somewhat mitigated by the fact that all the 
 old marble grave stones, though entirely robbed of 
 their identity, were carefully wrought up, and used 
 in the formation of the new pavement, thus having 
 respect to economy, if not to taste, and to the me- 
 mory of the honoured and lamented dead ! And 
 the act would have been still further expiated had 
 the 'mosaic' fancy of my Lord Burlington been 
 more worthy the noble pile it was designed to 
 grace. But we have to quarrel with the new pave-
 
 224 CATHEDRALIZING. 
 
 ment, not only for these reasons, but for the remo- 
 val of the eighty-eight circles curiously wrought 
 into the old one, as so many statiofis for the digni- 
 taries of the church to stand in, during the pomp 
 and circumstance attendant upon the installations, 
 and on other solemn occasions ! These ecclesias- 
 tics, 'habited according to their proper distinctions, 
 and clad in their copes and vestments, must have 
 made a glorious appearance,' says Drake — who 
 gave to the world his massive folio, in the very 
 year that this work of destruction by the tasteful 
 Lord Burlington, was going on. 
 
 I have now given, tediously I fear, as is nearly 
 unavoidable in such details, my notions of this 
 famous cathedral, and some brief reasons for dis- 
 senting in part, from the customary language in- 
 dulged in — such as, '■the cathedral appears like a 
 vast mountain starting out of a plain'' — Ht is the 
 most august of temples'' — '■its vastness and beauty 
 impress the observer with awe and sublimitif—^^the 
 glory of the kingdom'' — '•it is the summit of scien- 
 tific perfectioji and excellence, not to be surpassed'' — 
 Hhe finest window in the world'' — '■the highest, 
 lightest, atid tnost extensive arch in the world^ (fcc. 
 (fcc. These, as it seemed to me, are rather inordi- 
 nate expressions, excusable enough, when flowing 
 from the hasty and ardent pen of a patriotic En- 
 glishman, but essentially wrong in one really in 
 search of truth, and especially so, when looking 
 after the elements of comparative excellence. The 
 fact is, this noble pile has too much solid worth, 
 and real beauty, to need such indiscriminate and
 
 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 225 
 
 untruthful praise; and, like the loveliness that 
 flows not from regular features;, but which shadows 
 forth the riches of a fine intellect within, the Mins- 
 ter of York must ever command our sober venera- 
 tion for much intrinsic worth ; though, when exa- 
 mining its features, we may be compelled to pro- 
 nounce them often 'rudely stamped,' and cast into 
 a 'perverse mould.' 
 
 NOTE XVIII. AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 
 
 The Spaniards have a dish of much note among 
 them, consisting of many meats, and other savoury 
 things, stewed together with little regard to homo- 
 geneity •, and it is sometimes convenient for authors 
 thus to deal a la cuisinier, when one knows not 
 exactly what he means to write about. What I 
 have now to say is yet all m nubibus — it may be 
 one thing, various, and any thing, just as my pen 
 shall vouchsafe. I do remember an old French 
 cook, whose master loved good things, but kept so 
 tight a string over his purse, and doled out to his 
 faithful Jacques, the viands and the condiments, 
 witli so niggard a hand, that his dinners always 
 seemed the result of accident, and surprised the 
 servant and master, quite as much as was Dr. 
 Brewster, when, from a few fragments of stones, 
 of glass, and of tinsel, all the varied beauties of 
 the kaleidoscope arose to his astonished view. 
 And so it is with an author sometimes ; the re- 
 sults are essentially accidental — they have nothing 
 to do with calculation — the reckless experimenter 
 20
 
 226 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 
 
 is as ignorant of what may follow, as are the brute 
 materials with which he may operate ; and how I 
 shall come out of my Olla-Podrida, I can no more 
 say, than can my standish and its black contents, 
 or the steel pen, its vehicle — on all of which I am 
 so slavishly dependent for the avails. These mat- 
 ters premised, proceed we now to the intended pot 
 pourri. 
 
 I have just returned from a walk, among some 
 of the most beautiful of Nature's works, over the 
 Apennines, between the litile town of Frejus, and 
 the old, walled, and fortified city of Antibes. 
 When I descended from my carriage to pluck 
 fiowers on the way, and to survey all around me 
 the many lovely prospects that enchanted my 
 view, the sun was fast declining, and many float- 
 ing clouds cast their shadows upon the boundless 
 forests, the towering rocks, and the small valleys 
 that reposed in luxuriance between the mountains. 
 These all filled my soul with such a crowd of 
 images, that on reaching the locanda, I fell into 
 a kind of dreamy reverie upon the beauties of 
 nature — I then glanced over my note book, and 
 found that some similar reflections had been there 
 recorded long before. I then seized my pen, and 
 poured forth some more of these feelings — and 
 such a melange ! 
 
 'Happy he 
 Whom what he views of beautiful or grand 
 In nature, from the broad majestic oak 
 To the green blade that twinkles in the sun, 
 Prompts with the remembrance of a present God;'
 
 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 227 
 
 for, without diving witli a philosophic eye into 
 the recesses of nature, the most irresistible evi- 
 dences of a divine architect are reflected from the 
 most simple objects which present themselves. 
 Whether we contemplate the starry orbs, 
 
 'Pursue the comets where they farthest run, 
 And bring them back obsequious to the sun,' 
 
 or descend to this our globe, and examine the 
 admirable conformity of the whole ; or whether we 
 enter into the bowels of the earth, and behold the 
 rich mines of valuable metals, earths, spars and 
 fossils of various kinds ; or lastly, whether we 
 examine the meanest of nature's animated beings, 
 we cannot but be lost in amazement at the wonder- 
 ful mechanism, the wisdom, goodness and mercy 
 displayed in tlieir formation ! The existence of a 
 God being sanctioned by such irrefragable evidence, 
 how blind, nay, how perfectly stupid must he be, 
 who would attribute this exquisite workmanship to 
 the fortuitous junction of atoms, the whirling of 
 vortices, or the principle of elementary attractions ! 
 These affinities, however plausibly they may ac- 
 count for the formation of organized inanimate 
 matter, certainly leave us perfectly in the dark as 
 to the origin of life ; for, as Rousseau sensibly 
 observes, 'the chemist with all his art in com- 
 pounds, has never yet found sensation or thought at 
 the bottom of his crucible.' The proof, therefore, 
 of the existence of a being who is the originator 
 of mind and matter — of a being transcendant in 
 wisdom and goodness, being so prominent in the
 
 228 AN OLXA-PODRIDA. 
 
 features of surrounding nature, it is the duty of 
 parents and tutors early to habituate their children 
 and pupils to the contemplation of the harmonies, 
 perfections and sublimities which momentarily 
 crowd upon the mind, and to teach them to behold 
 this mass of loveliness with a discriminating eye, 
 and a grateful heart. 
 
 How amply does the traveller of taste expatiate 
 on the beauties of nature — with what enthusiasm 
 does he admire the tremendous cataract, the 'cloud 
 capt' mountains, the wild luxuriancy of the mea- 
 dows, the rude impending rocks, and the bold 
 majestic flow of an expanded river— these are 
 among the beauties and sublimities of what is 
 called nature — on these he dwells with rapture, 
 but, perhaps, without once reflecting that 
 
 'Nature is but a name for an effect, 
 Wliose cause is God.' 
 
 When we raise our eyes to the spangled vault 
 of heaven, and behold myriads of shining spheres — 
 when we reflect that most of these are globes like 
 ours; peopled with inhabitants in the pursuit of 
 the same ends that we are — when we consider that 
 many of these stars are but suns to other systems ; 
 and that these systems are, perhaps, but component 
 parts of others, upon a still grander and more sub- 
 lime scale, how noble is the thought — how useful is 
 the lesson that may be deduced from it. We learn 
 to consider ourselves but as mites in the creation — 
 it checks our pride, ennobles our ideas of the plans 
 and views of the Creator, and teaches us to be 
 humble and virtuous. In descending in our con-
 
 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 229 
 
 templation from the vast expanse of the universe 
 to the place of our own habitation — we cannot but 
 be charmed with the harmonies, the admirable 
 economy and boundless profusion of blessings and 
 conveniences every where displayed. 
 
 The first grand and sublime objects which at- 
 tracts our attention is, the boundless Ocean. Here 
 we behold power in its vastness, wisdom in its 
 moiions, and goodness in its coiiteiits. Whether 
 we see the surface as a polished speculum, reflect- 
 ing the passing clouds, or view it in its wildest 
 rage, rolling mountainous waves against each other, 
 our souls dilate with awful sublimity, and involun- 
 tary ejaculations ascend to Him who in wisdom 
 bridles the angry billows, and keeps them within 
 their proper bounds. 
 
 In contemplating the vastness of the ocean, if 
 we reflect that the smallest drop of water is com- 
 puted to contain many thousand globules, what 
 myriads must compose that grand mass i which 
 encompasses our globe ! let the ablest Newton en- 
 deavour to compute the number — as well may he 
 attempt to compress the ocean in a vial, or measure 
 the universe with a span ! 
 
 In the deep recesses of this watery empire, 
 dwells the mighty Leviathan. Here the walrus 
 and the whale pay him court, and myriads of the 
 smaller race supply him with food. The ocean 
 itself feels his weight, and the waves yield to his 
 massy sides. 
 
 This vast expanse of water is the great reservoir 
 from which the clouds are exhaled, to shelter us 
 20*
 
 230 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 
 
 from the piercing beams of the sun — to cool the 
 atmosphere, and descend on our plains in genial 
 dews and showers — from it proceeds our coohng 
 fountains, the meandering stream, the majestic 
 river and the tremendous cataract — these supply 
 the vegetable world with their chief nutriment, 
 and give to man that pabulum, without which life 
 could not be sustained. 
 
 Let us next attend to the earth itself. We per- 
 ceive it to be diversified with mountains, woods, 
 hills and dales — with rocks, fountains, caverns, 
 rivers and streams. These unevennesses, so far 
 from being blemishes or defects, greatly heighten 
 its beauty. 
 
 Here we see it rise in huge and massy moun- 
 tains, whose rugged sides seem to defy ascent, 
 much less cultivation. There it is scooped into 
 extensive vales, covered with the richest verdure. 
 To this succeeds a wide champaign country, 
 ornamented with meadows — the varied coloured 
 orchard — the golden harvest, and the contented 
 cottage. At a greater distance, we perceive the 
 mountains raise their aspiring peaks, and border- 
 ing our horizon like so many dark majestic clouds, 
 their frozen summits attracting the moisture of the 
 heavens, to pour them in genial dews upon the 
 fertile vales below. 
 
 Let us enter the woods — here we behold the 
 oak, the monarch of the forest — the elm, the 
 pride of spring — the maple, distilling its juices, 
 to supply us with sugar — the luxuriant verdure 
 of the cedar, pine and hemlock — and the fair
 
 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 231 
 
 beech, offering its umbrageous boughs, whilst we 
 make its pohshed bark the depository and conser- 
 vator of some favourite name. 
 
 What a pleasant retreat do the woods afford the 
 beasts of the field from the inclemencies of the 
 winter, or the scorching rays of a vertical sun ! 
 Here we see those vast plants receiving their chief 
 nutriment from the moisture of the earth, supplied 
 with refreshing showers from the heavens, and 
 inhaling the air by their leaves from the surround- 
 ing atmosphere. These supply us with fuel for 
 various uses — timber for our habitations, and serve 
 us also as conveyances to distant climes to supply 
 ourselves with the necessaries and luxuries of life, 
 and convey ours to them. Thus is it, that the 
 various nations of the earth, by a social inter- 
 course, become humanized — imbibe a fellow-feel- 
 ing for each other, and view one another rather in 
 the light of members of one large family, than as 
 nations having no other relation than as beings 
 inhabiting the same globe. 
 
 If we view the ground, we find it enamelled 
 with flowers and shrubs of various sorts. These 
 not only delight the eye by the richness of their 
 colours, and greet the smell with their grateful 
 odours, but serve as food both for man and other 
 animals, and likewise furnish us with various 
 drugs essential to the preservation of our health. 
 
 If we enter the orchard, what an ample demon- 
 stration of our Creator's kindness have we here 
 displayed ! we behold the trees bending to the 
 earth with their luxuriant burthens. Part of their
 
 232 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 
 
 mellow treasures quit their parent tree and aiford a 
 delicious food to the diiferent animals which repose 
 under their shade — the little songsters of the wood 
 perch on the boughs and take their welcomed por- 
 tion of nature's bounty — nay, the flies, and very 
 insects of the air are here supplied by their boun- 
 teous Creator. Not only the trees and the fertile 
 bosom of the earth, but the very atmosphere is 
 impregnated with food for the animalculas which 
 inhabit it. In fact, the whole earth is a vast ma- 
 gazine from which we and they are supplied, as 
 our and their necessities require ; for 
 
 'The Holy Power that clothes the senseless earth, 
 With woods, with fruits, with flowers and verdant grass. 
 Whose bounteous hands feed the whole brute creation. 
 Knows all our wants, and has enough to give us. — Rou-e. 
 
 How extatic is it, when rising in the morning, 
 renovated and refreshed by the balm of sleep, to 
 behold the beauties of the rising orb of day. 
 Aurora comes with all her varied hues — Phcebus 
 mounts triumphant in the east, whilst the lenient 
 air breathes the most delicious odours. The little 
 feathered songsters, concealed in their verdant 
 abodes, delighted with smiling nature, pour forth 
 their melody, borne on the gentle breeze to listen- 
 ing man. At a distance we behold the polished 
 surface of a lake reflecting from her fair bosom the 
 pendant trees which crowd the margin — the fleecy 
 mists, wafted from their parent waters to the moun- 
 tain's top, refract the ruddy beams of the rising 
 5un, and present the most sublimely magnificent 
 scene that can be imagined. The clouds as they
 
 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 233 
 
 gradually dissipate by the dissolving influence of 
 the solar beams, assume the most fantastic shapes, 
 whilst, according to their various densities, they 
 reflect the light in all the vivid and charming 
 colours of the rainbow. What a blind infatua- 
 tion — what a perversion of judgment is it in those 
 curious beings who travel from Abyla and Calpi, 
 to the shores of the Pacific, to see and purchase at 
 enormous prices, various happy imitations of na- 
 ture's beauties, and are yet insensible to such real 
 beauties, and would rather remain in sluggard sleep, 
 than rise and contemplate scenes so far transcend- 
 in? the finest delineations of art. In the verdant 
 meadow we hear the bleating of the flocks — the 
 murmuring of the distant rill — the cooing of the 
 solitary dove — the freshest exhalations of softened 
 nature salute our smell — our eyes are delighted 
 with myriads of wild flowrets, 
 
 'Arrayed 
 In all the colours of the flushing year,' 
 
 and hiding their beauteous blossoms in the sur- 
 rounding verdure. Tliese are scenes worthy phi- 
 losophic contemplation — they are scenes which 
 inspire love for the great Author of their forma- 
 tion, and forcibly shew us how vastly nature 
 exceeds the finest touches of the pencil of art. 
 Retiring from the growing influence of the sun 
 to our chamber, we may here muse on the plea- 
 sures aflbrded us by our morning walk — we may 
 contemplate nature in books — we may amuse our- 
 selves in delineating her beauties on canvass; and, 
 as recollection brings them to our view, the rude
 
 234 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 
 
 sketches of the pencil paint them more forcibly 
 to our mind. These are, to be sure, secondary 
 pleasures, but the ardent and impassioned admirer 
 of nature is far from neglecting them. — When in 
 
 'The western sky the downward sun 
 Looks out efi'ulgent from amid the flush 
 Of broken clouds, gay shifting to his beam,' 
 
 we may once more sally forth to inhale the odours 
 of tlie evening, and mark the progressive influ- 
 ence of the departing sun on the surrounding 
 scenery. The melody of the groves is revived — 
 nature is re-animated from the burning influence 
 of the sun — the ox and the plough-horse cease 
 from their labours — and the honest farmer seated 
 before his door 
 
 'Musing praise and looking lively gratitude,' 
 
 rests his wearied limbs from the toils of the day, 
 and enjoys the sweets of society with his wife, 
 children, and friendly neighbour. And then, how 
 pleasing is it to observe the harmless cows on the 
 margin of the river, returning in formal procession 
 to pay their voluntary tribute to the industrious 
 milk-maid, whilst others, more dilatory in their 
 movements, luxuriously bathe their scorched sides 
 in the limpid waters, and lash with their flowing 
 tails the teazing gad-flies. 
 
 The noisy geese and waddling ducks return to 
 their resting place — nature finally assumes a calm 
 and pleasing tranquillity, undisturbed, save by the 
 screech of the solitary owl, or the mournful notes 
 of the lonely whippero'will.
 
 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 235 
 
 It is at this delightful period that the garden 
 sends forth its most grateful odours — the even- 
 ing zephyrs carry on their wings the sweet 
 scented Callicanthus — the perfumes of the carna- 
 tion and the exhilirating odours of the varied 
 coloured Polianthus. 
 
 The botanist has wandered from bed to bed, 
 contemplating their beauties, their relationship to 
 each other, and arranging them according to their 
 class and order. He now reviews them in his 
 closet, with an eye which discovers a crowd of 
 beauties, of which those ignorant of this charming 
 science are totally unacquainted. 
 
 The vegetable physiologist contemplates them 
 as distinguished by sex — investigates their facul- 
 ties of perception — observes their modes of pro- 
 pagation and fecundation, marks their different 
 ways of inspiration and expiration — their diseases 
 both contagious and infectious — sees them liable 
 to hunger and thirst — and lastly, views them 
 gradually destroyed by age, and yielding to that 
 monarch to which all nature pays the tribute of 
 death. 
 
 Let us go beyond the garden, and pay a moon- 
 light visit to a neighbouring water-fall. In this 
 delightful spot has sportive nature combined every 
 thing pleasing to the eye, or that may in any way 
 inspire sublime emotions — the wild rurality of the 
 scene — the roaring of the waters — the echoed res- 
 ponses from the surrounding rocks, the deep and 
 clustered foliage of trees — here shutting out — 
 there admitting the moonlight, all conspire to
 
 236 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 
 
 delight the beholder. The massy rocks rudely- 
 suspending their naked heads over the rushing 
 waters — the white foaming surges mixing their 
 troubled waves with the lucid stream which flows 
 on with majestic dignity below — added to the 
 sombre shades of the encompassing rocks and 
 trees, form altogether a picture both sublime and 
 beautiful. Sublimity awakens the soul, calls it 
 into action, and fills it with sensibilities the most 
 lively, perceptible and pleasing; and scenes of this 
 kind display the true picturesque, for here is a 
 happy combination of beauty and sublimity, the 
 latter of which never makes a scene picturesque. 
 Landscapes which raise no sublime emotions, 
 are often called picturesque, and this, no doubt, 
 with propriety — but when sublimity is united 
 with beauty, the effect is the genuine picturesque. 
 Would we, then, have this species of beauty in 
 perfection, it is not sufficient that we find massy 
 rocks, grand mountains, and lofty cascades ; but 
 we must have the superadded beauty of trees and 
 of shrubs, in all their varied positions, figures and 
 colours, together with the glowing and mellow tints 
 of the atmosphere, the graceful meanderings of 
 streams, and many other lovely objects — and when 
 these are all combined, the scene is then — a j^ic- 
 ture. These, though more usual in Italy than 
 elsewhere, are still to be often found in other 
 lands. 
 
 There are, perhaps, in the world, iew countries 
 where nature has been more lavish of her beau- 
 ties than in ray own dear America — and few, per-
 
 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 237 
 
 haps, which present so many interesting subjects 
 to the inteihgent traveller. True, we have no lofty- 
 spires, no venerable ruins, no dilapidated castles — 
 but nature presents herself in her primitive garb — 
 in her native grandeur. Why, therefore, should our 
 travelled gentlemen expatiate with so much enthu- 
 siasm on the sublime and picturesque beauties of 
 Switzerland, Scotland, and the confines of Ger- 
 many, while their own country can boast of so 
 much attractive scenery? The answer, I am 
 afraid, is too obvious. They leave their native 
 shores to visit foreign ones, before they have ever 
 journeyed far from their natal habitation, and often, 
 long before they have laid up a store of marketable 
 commodities (I mean ideas) which they may give 
 in exchange for those they receive from foreigners. 
 What is more sublime than the highlands of 
 the North River — what more awfully tremendous 
 than the cataract of Niagara — what more romantic 
 than the vale of Lebanon — what can surpass the 
 solemn and majestic gloom of the surrounding 
 mountains on the Gulph road — the pensive and 
 soothing silence of the groves in some of our 
 glades — the pastoral simplicity of those who have 
 retired from life, into some of the rich valleys of 
 Virginia — or the wild luxuriancv of the meadows 
 of the far west. How pleasing is it to contem- 
 plate that noble spirit of perseverance, which has 
 enabled the laborious husbandman to climb the 
 loftiest mountains, and change the rude garb of 
 nature for the rich habiliments of cultivation — 
 how pleasing is it to behold the verdant hills rising 
 21
 
 •^•jy AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 
 
 amphitheatrically around — to observe the progres- 
 sive influence of the departing sun on the distant 
 Alieghanies, or the bright orb of day rising in the 
 pride of his splendour, gilding them with his 
 ruddy Hght, and chasing the fogs fantastically 
 formed upon their lofty tops ! 
 
 But enough, and more than enough of 
 
 these mawkish reflections upon the beauties of 
 nature, be they in the old or in the new world ! 
 The fact is that sometimes these raptures on the 
 wonders of creation, and especially when committed 
 10 paper, remind me of my childish disappointment, 
 and even loathing, when first, in an apothecary's 
 shop, I tasted largely of mcmnal Its sweetness 
 seduced me to take of it a large lump, and soon its 
 nauseating combination of bitter and of mawkish 
 sweetness, occasioned me to repent my greedy 
 rashness — and so now, I can scarce look back 
 upon what I have indited about mountains, and 
 streams, and rocks, and beasts, and birds, (things 
 most lovely to behold and to think of, but which so 
 often loose their delicate flavours when embodied 
 in words, unless poetical^) without being strongly 
 reminded thereby of my boyish horror of manna ! 
 
 It so happened, however, that on my 
 
 arriving at Antibes, I met at the locanda with a 
 valued female friend, 'all away across the blue 
 waters from America' — and who is one of our most 
 accomplished countrywomen. A thousand remi- 
 niscences of my own dear land rushed into my 
 mind — and her refined soul — her lovely manners — 
 her varied accomplishmentSj all seemed to force
 
 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 239 
 
 upon my iniiid the general superiority, in our 
 country, of that sex over ours ! 
 
 American female beauty, though like the early 
 deciduous blossoms of the fairest flowers, is con- 
 fessedly eminent, as long as it endures, which 
 alas ! like 
 
 'The sand within the transitory glass,' 
 passes so fleetly by us, that we have scarce lime 
 suflicient to note the brilliant, though brief riches 
 of her varied beauties: for, as Spencer saith, 
 
 'If saphyrs, lo ! her eyes be saphyrs plain ; 
 
 If rubies, lo ! her lips be rubies sound ; 
 
 If pearls, her teeth be pearls, both pure and sound ; 
 
 If ivory, her forehead ivory ween; 
 
 If gold, her locks are finest gold on ground ; 
 
 If silver, her fair hands are silver sheen : 
 
 But that which fairest is, but few behold, 
 
 Her mind adorned with virtues manifold.' 
 
 And yet these personal charms seldom endure 
 as in other lands ; but the excellences of her 
 heart and mind grow with her growth, and 
 strengthen with her strength. 
 
 In some parts of our country the disparity be- 
 tween the sexes, in moral as well as in intellectual 
 worth, is very striking: the hardy occupations of 
 the former, leave them but little opportunity to em- 
 bellish mind or manners; and the somewhat recluse 
 and easy life of the latter, invite to study, and to 
 much, comparative, refinement. But, even in those 
 sections of our extensive country, where men are 
 well educated, and in which the accomplishments 
 and graces and polish of life, are not neglected by 
 them, the women, as it seems to me, are often
 
 240 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 
 
 relatively, their superiors in the relations of sister, 
 daughter, mother, friend ! — and fuller of tact, of 
 common sense, of sober judgment, good taste, 
 domestic economy, colloquial talent, purity of 
 diction, and of worldly policy, than their hus- 
 bands, brothers, and male friends are apt to be. 
 Whence, then, arises this absence of comparative 
 merit in our men? — mainly, I think, from the 
 demoralizing tendencies and influences of our ultra- 
 democracy, — the women being, very often, at the 
 opposite point of the political firmament from that 
 of their lords — also, from the trafficking spirit so 
 universal among us — from the necessary toils of 
 the men, who know and feel the evils of a re- 
 stricted purse, and the consequent importance of 
 money-making. Those who are quite at ease in 
 their pecuniary condition, and when they happen 
 to be free of petty ambition, and of the political 
 mania which maddens others, become sufficiendy 
 aristocratic to feel the dignity of human character; 
 and are soon transferred into sensible, refined, 
 graceful, and virtuous beings ; and withal, are far 
 more amiable. I have often thought I could 
 almost gauge a man's purse by the scale of his 
 democracy ; which often becomes flaming, and 
 reaches even the boiling point, when he is poor, 
 and yet sinks to zero, as soon as fortune smiles 
 upon him! — and so it is with all the intermediate 
 degrees. Not that a rich man loves his species 
 less — but that he deals less in fulsome flattery, 
 talks less of the 'rights of man,' of the 'sovereignty 
 of the people ;' and, in fine, of all those topics
 
 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 
 
 ^1 
 
 which widen the too natural breach that severs 
 the various classes of society. Not so with womenj; 
 they indulge in no such crude notions of ultra- 
 politics; but are charitable to the poor, reverence 
 virtue in whom ever found, regard all men by the 
 standard of moral and of intellectual worth, and de- 
 sire to see every son and daughter of Adam hold 
 that position alone in society, to which their merits 
 entitle them. 
 
 And though by our demi-barbarous law, the 
 existence of a woman be merged in that of her 
 husband, and she be sub potestate viri as to more 
 things than her own and his property, she still 
 preserves her native dignity, counsels her husband 
 with the gentleness of an angel, looks into the 
 future for him — and, if adverse fortunes overtake 
 him, she is the first to suggest the means of either 
 bettering their condition, or of maintaining that 
 equanimity so essential to further action. 
 
 The Common Law of England, which is gene- 
 rally ours in all that appertains to woman, is far 
 from being a code of gallantry— no love-sick knights 
 devoted to 'ladies fair,' ever penned a line of it; all 
 is a chronicle of invidious distinctions, of oppressive 
 encroachments on the rights of woman ! Her 
 personal estate vests in her lord, by the very act of 
 marriage — her lands and tenements are for his use ; 
 and, if a child be born, though death remove it the 
 instant after, {provided it be heard to cry infra 
 quatuor muris I) the whole of her real estate vests 
 in the husband during his life, if he survive his 
 wife: and, even if there be trust estate settled 
 21*
 
 242 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 
 
 upon the wife, and vested in trustees for the ex- 
 press purpose of protecting it against the husband, 
 and even against her own acts, and with the hope 
 and expectation that his sohcitations, and his 
 powers, will prove of no avail in converting it to 
 his uses, — yet, still in such a case, our more than 
 barbarous law (in this respect) has decreed, that if 
 the husband and wife unite in a deed to transfer 
 such trust property to pay the husband''s debts, it is 
 a valid conveyance — and even though the trustees 
 had no knowledge of the conveyance, or even 
 when done in disregard of their wishes ! Oh, 
 reform it utterly — seek for wisdom on this subject 
 from the counsels of the Roman Civil Law ; and, 
 as to the wife's estate at least, secure it to her efec- 
 tualli/, so that we may hear no more of the baron^s 
 supremacy, and of the feme coverfs proprietary 
 non-entity ! I think, when knowledge becomes 
 more generally dilfused among us, this blur upon 
 the scutcheon of our legal character, must soon 
 pass away. 
 
 Now, the matter of knowledge reminds 
 
 me of its great excellence, especially where the 
 people are all law-makers, as well as law-breakers, 
 and of the solemn duty of our government to foster 
 it, and of parents to value it beyond all other 
 means of becoming rich ! 
 
 Well doth Sophocles say, 
 
 ' The noblest employment of man is to assist man,* 
 
 for the acquisition, and imparting of knowledge, 
 is certainly the most honourable and pleasurable of 
 our employments. In the pursuit of literature and
 
 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 243 
 
 of science, a philanthropic mind experiences a de- 
 lightful anticipation of tlie pleasure which learning 
 will afford him, as a means of benefiting mankind. 
 A richly cultivated mind, is ever a liberal and 
 generous one ; it delights in the diffusion of know- 
 ledge, and has the greatest satisfaction in enno- 
 bling and ex{)anding the minds of others. Seneca 
 used to say that he would spurn the proffered gift 
 of wisdom, if on condition not to impart it to 
 others ; and Cicero considered the pleasure of 
 instructing others, as one of the principal induce- 
 ments to the acquisition of knowledge. It appears 
 to have been evidently the intention that man 
 should assist man, since by giving him the faculty 
 of speech, it designed him for a sociable being; 
 and there can be no society between ignorance and 
 knowledge. The various degrees of talent or of 
 genius, the natural turn which one man has for 
 one branch of science, or of art, and another for 
 quite a different kind, is strong proof that nature 
 intended that each should cultivate his peculiar 
 talent, and benefit society by the results of his 
 labours. 'Nature has been much loo frugal,' says 
 Mrs. Barbauld, 'to heap together all manner of 
 shining qualities in one brilliant mass'— the poet, 
 therefore, the sculptor, and the painter, should 
 respectively improve his taste and his genius; and 
 all should willingly bring the fruits of their study 
 into the general stock. 
 
 The ancients, as far as they possessed the 
 means, appear to have been very liberal in the 
 communication of their knowledge to the world.
 
 *244 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 
 
 Paulum sepultae distat inertiae 
 Celata virtus, 
 
 says Horace — and his illustrious cotemporary, the 
 Mantuan poet, places in the Elysian paradise, those 
 who, by the invention of useful arts, had instructed 
 and adorned life. 
 
 Inventus — qui vitam excoluere per artes, 
 Quisque sui memores alios fecere merendo. 
 
 The same expansive views are evident in the 
 writings of Addison, in those of Johnson, of Bud- 
 gel, Steel, Hawkesworth, Thornton, Moore; and 
 in the whole list of periodical writers, whose object 
 was more the diffusion of knowledge, the meliora- 
 tion of society, the suppression of vice and folly in 
 whatever garb, and however fashionable, than the 
 hope of fame, or of lucre : and their influence on 
 the manners of the times is their strongest recom- 
 mendation. 
 
 Ridicule is a powerful weapon in the hands of 
 a virtuous and ingenious writer — it has been 
 crowned with success, when the strongest argu- 
 ments, the chastest rhetoric, the zealous effusions 
 of the sage, and of the divine have wholly failed. 
 Ridicule, therefore, has been a constant instrument 
 of attack upon the follies and vices of the day; it 
 must be delicately used, hovi'ever, if it would attain 
 its desired effect; and none should attempt to 
 wield it, but such as have strong sense, as well 
 as genuine wit and humour. 
 
 In our own country that charming little work, 
 known by the appropriate name of Salmagundi, 
 was among the earliest of our satirical prose works.
 
 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 245 
 
 To the language of Addison, the elegant simplicity 
 of Goldsmith, and the pungency of Swift, its classi- 
 cal author united a fertile and chaste imagination, 
 and a rare but subdued humour truly delightful. 
 I love to look back on those primitive times of our 
 literature : it is refreshing to remember how one 
 little work of genuine ridicule, of sound morals, 
 and of chaste style, turned all hearts and minds 
 inward ; compelled them to think on themselves, 
 as well as on their neighbours; thereby refining 
 our manners, and causing us to abjure many pre- 
 scriptive follies. The silly things of high life — 
 the coarseness of social intercourse, — the idle pre- 
 tensions of parvenus — the 'whimwams,' and idio- 
 syncrasies of crusty bachelors, and of splenetic old 
 maids — the ignorance and mendacity of foreign 
 post-road travellers — the absurdities and ineffi- 
 ciency of a windy, wordy logocracy, are dealt with 
 in a manner, so delightfully novel to us at that 
 time, and with a pen so evidently of masters, as 
 produced the happiest effect — whilst the flattering 
 reception of a first work, secured to their country 
 a writer (I may say writers) whose more matured 
 productions have resulted in little else than a 
 continued series of well merited laurels, growing 
 brighter and brighter; and not alone on the brow 
 of their gifted authors, but on the language, litera- 
 ture, and even science of our country. 
 
 Another periodical, somewhat prior in time, and 
 of a different and far more miscellaneous nature, 
 was the Port Folio, a valuable repository of 
 polite and elegant original literature. I love, also,
 
 ^6 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 
 
 to dwell on Dennie's time. No one was more 
 successful in the happy combination of the useful 
 and amusing than this elegant scholar, pure writer, 
 and kind sustainer of nascent talent — and of him 
 it may emphatically be said, 
 
 Omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci. 
 
 From the establishment of the Port Folio we 
 may commence the osra of American taste for 
 literature ; it elicited latent talents, encouraged 
 laudable emulation, diffused a more correct know- 
 ledge of our language, and of good writing, and 
 inculcated a wider taste for the classics, for the 
 fine arts, and for the elegant sciences — in all of 
 which Joseph Dennie's disinterested and unwea- 
 ried zeal, is worthy of all commendation. 
 
 The periodicals of Boston, of New York, and 
 of Baltimore came on in quick succession — the 
 first more learned, thorough, and well written, as 
 there were generally more able scholars among 
 the New Englanders, and more extensive facilities 
 of every kind; and their labours of the pen, more- 
 over, were addressed to a more enlightened, and 
 reading community. And, what a galaxy of fine 
 writers arose upon the foundations raised by these 
 fathers of our literature! What a list of brilliant 
 stars might be given, maugre that some in foreign 
 lands, have said 'who reads an American book?' — 
 but such persons ask not that question now — 
 and if they do, they contradict it by their prac- 
 tice — witness Cooper, Bird, Hall, Sedgwick, Web- 
 ster, Walsh, Sparks, Ware, Flint, Paulding, Griffith, 
 Stevens, Willis, Kennedy, Fay, Abbot, Slidel, the
 
 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 247 
 
 Irvings junior — and that prince of historians, Pres- 
 coTT, and the great mathematician and astronomer, 
 Bovvditch — and some hundreds more ; and hke- 
 wise without naming our small, but rich list of 
 genuine poets I 
 
 It may be truly affirmed, then, that within the 
 short span of about thirty years, our nation im- 
 proved with marvellous rapidity, in sound and 
 beautiful literature, and also in many arts and 
 sciences ; and that, from a mere speck in the 
 horizon, at the commencement of the present 
 century, (for authorship was then scarcely known 
 among us,) we now find theology, medicine, law, 
 mathematics, the mechanic arts, languages, and 
 general literature, signally advanced ; and books 
 on each have been written, which command the 
 warm praises of the ripest scholars of the old 
 world — and indeed, all departments of useful 
 knowledge have flourished, save politics alone ; 
 for that sublime subject hath, past all doubt, 
 been theoretically, as well as practically, on the 
 retrograde, ever since we forsook the lustrous 
 paths of the fathers of our Constitution. 
 
 A large portion of our young men are dedicated 
 to the profession of law, or of medicine. The 
 former especially requires of them the study of a 
 varied knowledge — a thorough command of lan- 
 guage, a good style in speaking, and in composi- 
 tion — all of whicli, as it seems to me, scarce receive 
 the attention from them, which the highest rank in 
 their profession demands. If the improvement of 
 others does not offer them a sufficient inducement
 
 248 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 
 
 to write, the great advantage it would be to them- 
 selves, after they come to the bar, should have its 
 influence. This is to be sure, a selfish motive, 
 and should ever be a secondary one — for I have 
 known many clients to suffer, from their patrons' 
 little acquaintance with the art of composition, and 
 even from their want of general knowledge, how- 
 ever learned they may have been in Coke and in 
 Bacon. 
 
 But some, again, are of an opposite class, and 
 justify their much acquaintance with Sir Walter, 
 with Mr. Bulwer, with Mr. Boz and with Mr. 
 Slick, and their small respect for my Lord Coke's 
 Institutes, by alleging that much study of such 
 dry law, cramps the genius, destroys taste, and 
 vitiates the style! whilst others, too fond of the 
 musty folios and quartos, 
 
 'Tread on flowers of taste, 
 Yet stoop to pick the pebbles from the waste. 
 Profound in trifles, they can tell how short 
 Were iEsop's legs, how large was Tally's wart !' 
 
 Such students will spend weeks in reading Booth 
 on Real Actions, whilst Sehvyn's Nisi Prius lies 
 neglected on the shelf. Pliny's Natural History, 
 or Derham's Pliysicotheology are affectedly conned 
 over, whilst Smellie and Buffon, or even the admi- 
 rable similar works of the present day, are greatly 
 slighted ! With such beings, the old-fashioned phi- 
 losophy of Descartes, the black-letter quartos of the 
 alchemists, the astrologers, and necromancers, the 
 complexities of syllogisms, the metaphysics of per- 
 sonal identity, and the whole lumber of justly-for-
 
 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 249 
 
 gotten learning, are preferred to the masterly treatises 
 issued by the Societies for the diffusion of useful 
 knowledge, and to the graceful and solid literature 
 that does exist, if pains be taken to select it, from 
 amidst the vast issues of the modern press. To 
 such deluded persons, of both classes, I would 
 recommend as a model, the life of Sir William 
 Jones, whose vast mind grasped the system of 
 general jurisprudence, and united with it the 
 whole circle of science, and of polite literature, 
 as also many languages, and several elegant ac- 
 complishments. I would also refer him to our 
 own countrymen, Kent and Story, whose varied 
 learning has so largely embellished their deep 
 researches in the law ; and who never found their 
 genius cramped by the common law; and never 
 permitted an overweening fondness for black letter 
 lore, to dim their vision of the great beauties that 
 environ the paths of lighter authors. 
 
 The observation of Sir William Jones, that 
 'Law is a jealous science, and admits of no asso- 
 ciation with the muses,' has been advanced by 
 some as a justification of their almost total neglect 
 of belle-lettre reading. Any one acquainted with 
 the character of that great man, must readily 
 perceive that he never intended that we should 
 neglect such information, whilst engaged in the 
 study and practice of law — but merely that the 
 fascinations of the literas humaniores, and more 
 especially poetry, are so great, as often to create 
 a disrelish for drier and more abstruse pages of 
 the law, and that, whatever our vocation in life 
 22
 
 250 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 
 
 may be, our primary duty is to cultivate that with 
 a more special devotion. But polite literature, a 
 felicitous elocution, chaste language, varied know- 
 ledge, pure writing, are all essential to the lawyer; 
 and none can ever be so busy, but that he will 
 have many vacancies of time, which may be most 
 profitably employed in the cultivation of these 
 auxiliaries to his science. 
 
 Neque semper arcum tendit Apollo, 
 
 is as true in the law, as in any other vocation 
 whatever. Such recreations from the toils of se- 
 vere study and practice, are commended to us, 
 as well by experience as common sense — they 
 cheer him in his more difficult pursuits, and afford 
 a sweet relaxation, whilst they add largely to his 
 means of usefulness. General literature, and cou)- 
 position, as also translating, are often more useful 
 in restoring the tone of the mind, than a total 
 abstraction from study — for the mind, like a che- 
 mical menstruum, may be saturated with one 
 species of knowledge, and yet receive another 
 with great avidity. Sir William, when he applied 
 himself to the study of law, made that his chief 
 employment, but was far from neglecting the 
 pleasures and advantages of more polite reading. 
 Such excuses, therefore, as are often given by 
 young men, for not more frequently composing, 
 are futile and totally unfounded; and the alleged 
 wmit of time would ill become, as Shenstone says, 
 'even a cobler, with ten or a dozen children de- 
 pending upon a patching-end.'
 
 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 251 
 
 The preceding discussions about the beauties 
 of nature — the superiority of our fair country- 
 women over our own 'lords of the creation' — our 
 crude law respecting their marital rights — the 
 value of knowledge, and the duty to impart it 
 freely — our early and improving literature — and 
 the false views of two classes of our young men, 
 in regard to their studies, all grew out of my 
 long walk over the Appenines, and my delight on 
 meeting at Antibes with one of my valued female 
 friends 
 
 I found myself in a few days thereafter 
 
 in Rome. I had often heard of the lamentable 
 ignorance of the Italians, and even of the generali- 
 ty of their nobles — and that some even of them, 
 could neither read nor write, and yet that they 
 were very happy ! I could scarce credit this ; but 
 my incredulity vanished, upon witnessing in the 
 church of Santa Maria del Popolo, an attempt of 
 a priest during nearly an hour, to instruct some 
 fourteen little urchins in their prayers! The scene 
 wholly baffles description ; and did so outrage all 
 custom and nature, as before understood by me, 
 that even memory and imagination are now at 
 fault fully to realize its details! I do remember, 
 however, that the boys were ?nasters, the master a 
 slave, and a very ass ! They repeatedly threw 
 their hats into his face, laughed and howled terrifi- 
 cally, cast summersets over the benches, pinned 
 papers to his robe, obtained possession of his cap, 
 placed it on their own heads, and then on a small 
 pole, furtively snatched from him his slender emblem
 
 252 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 
 
 of authority and of punishment, caused him to rage 
 and to laugh alternately, and then to scold, and 
 anon to entreat ! At length the time of their dis- 
 missal came, they rushed out of the church with 
 shouts and screams, and their merry laughter 
 might be heard deep down the Corso, and the Via 
 di Repetti! On inquiring of the good-natured 
 priest (who seemed quite exhausted with his la- 
 bours of scolding, laughing, and whipping with 
 ail instrument that could not hurt, and which he 
 applied as softly as if afraid to inflict the least pain) 
 why he did not soundly cudgel the young rebels, 
 he shrugged his shoulders, and mildly but laconi- 
 cally replied, that if he did so, they would not 
 attend at all — that it was with difficulty they could 
 be prevailed upon to come at all — that many of 
 them were the sons of the first people, and others 
 were poor boys who had no other way of learning 
 their prayers ! Here, then, the boys were merry 
 little grigs, with all their des}>erate ignorance, and 
 total want of discipline and of moral culture — the 
 priest seemed to be equally so — and those youths, 
 when they become men, and take possession of 
 their huge, and often comfortless, but ever tasteful 
 palaces, will be found as light-hearted as the gor- 
 geous butterflies that revel in their clear blue sky, 
 and genial atmosphere ! 
 
 Does knowledge, then, increase our hap- 
 piness ? Some are disposed seriously to question 
 this, and would be the more disposed so to do, 
 upon a superficial view of things in Italy. Happi- 
 ness is a relative term, and signifies some satisfac-
 
 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 253 
 
 tion of the soul, induced by some good, or a well- 
 founded hope of acquiring the same. If we are un- 
 conscious of the value of what we possess, or of the 
 vast superiority of the possessions of others, we 
 may be neither happy, nor miserable. But still, 
 the multiplied sources of happiness which a melio- 
 rated state furnishes, above that of a state of na- 
 ture, are so evident, that nothing but a half crazed 
 brain could conceive a doubt of the real advan- 
 tages arising from the cultivation of those faculties, 
 which characterize man as the lord of the creation. 
 The happiness enjoyed by an Indian is merely 
 negative, whilst that of the civilized man arises, not 
 from the mere absence of pain, but consists of 
 something more positive, viz: the pleasures of con- 
 templation, reflection and study, whilst every doubt 
 is answered and every wish gratified. A portion 
 of natural but destructive independence is given 
 up by entering into society, but political conserva- 
 tion, and innumerable other advantages result from 
 the union. 
 
 Whilst it is admitted that the savage is happy in 
 some sense, the superior degree of felicity enjoyed 
 by man in society, is by no means impeached ; the 
 Indian, though an alien to every comfort and lux- 
 ury of civilized life, is no doubt contented. He 
 possesses nearly all that he aspires to, but his aspi- 
 rations being very limited, (as his knowledge is 
 contracted) his happiness is rather the absence of 
 pain, than that internal satisfaction which arises 
 from the possession of good. The content expe- 
 rienced by man in the savage state, is a wise and 
 22*
 
 •254 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 
 
 kind provision of nature : but that this is the 
 natural state of man, and that the approximation 
 to civilization is a recession from that sphere in 
 which nature intended us always to act, is one of 
 those wild chimeras which levels every barrier that 
 distinguishes man from the brute. Nature gave us 
 minds susceptible of improvement. She endowed 
 us with faculties which, if cultivated, secure feli- 
 city. And, as the pursuit of happiness is one of 
 the final causes of our creation, it is impious to 
 suppose that the exercise of those faculties was 
 designed to counteract our endeavours after hap- 
 piness. 
 
 If the state of ignorance is the natural state of 
 man, our modern philosophers must at least admit, 
 that it never had an existence ; and a natural state 
 which never existed, is certainly preposterous ; for 
 neither history, tradition nor analogy, will let us 
 suppose that there ever was a period in which man 
 existed without the smallest footstep of art — for, if 
 the gun be minatural, the bow and arrow is also 
 so. If the luxuries and elegancies of meliorated 
 and polished life be unnatural, so are the conve- 
 niences of savage life when they differ in the 
 smallest degree from those enjoyed by the brute. 
 Our love of learimig, as affording us inexhaustible 
 sources of happiness, is much increased, when we 
 contrast the wonderful art of cultivated man, and 
 the transcendancy of civilized and polislied life, 
 with the ignoble and contracted views of untutored 
 nature. Whether or not ignorance be the natural 
 state of man, there can be no doubt, but that the
 
 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 255 
 
 invention and improvement of the arts and sci- 
 ences, are the only means of mehorating the aspe- 
 rities and evils to which man is heir ; and if this 
 is established, it is madness to call the infelicitous 
 the natural state. 
 
 Let us view the savage of the wilderness. We 
 behold him solitary — exposed to every inclemency 
 of the seasons, diseased, and without the tender 
 attentions of friends and relatives ; or, let us con- 
 template him surrounded with the spontaneous 
 products and luxuries of the earth. They satisfy 
 hunger, but still are tasteless and insipid, for the 
 want of sufficient culinary means — they have no 
 sauces, no stimulating condiments, are often even 
 without salt; but as nature yields them, so are 
 they to be eaten. His roof is the canopy of hea- 
 ven, every shower that descends, every wind that 
 blows, every snow that falls, has no regard for 
 him — but like the brute, he has to seek an occa- 
 sional asylum from the raging tempest, or from the 
 ravenous assaults of the prowling hyena or hungry 
 bear, in some gloomy cavity of the earth or rocks ; 
 and thus he leads a sad dissocial life. 
 
 How different is the state of cultivated man ! 
 surrounded by his friends and relatives, he enjoys 
 in their society the pleasures of social and learned 
 converse. Every sensibility, every passion or affec- 
 tion of his mind is refined. The luxuries of life 
 now minister largely to his comfort and pleasure ; 
 the rocks are hewn into splendid palaces, and the 
 lofty trees into ornamental and useful habitations. 
 The tempest may howl, or the sun dart his rays
 
 256 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 
 
 with all his fury, he is secured from both ; all 
 nature is subservient to him, and all her beauties 
 become visible, and the sources of much positive 
 happiness : in fact, man in his savage state is the 
 object of pity ; but when the powers of his mind 
 are exerted — when his faculties, which before were 
 merely i7i potentia, are brought into action and use- 
 fulness, he then becomes the noblest work of God's 
 creation ; it is then, and then 07di/, we can say 
 with Shakspeare — 'What a piece of work is man ! 
 how noble in reason ! how infinite in faculties ! in 
 form, and moving, how express and admirable ! in 
 action, how like an angel ! in apprehension, how 
 like a God ! the beauty of the world ! the paragon 
 of animals !' — for it is in society alone that these 
 faculties are evinced, and these godlike qualities 
 shewn — and in society alone is happiness to be 
 found. 
 
 So again, the nninstructed eye is entirely insen- 
 sible to numerous latent beauties, which the mirror 
 of philosophy and learning reflects in glowing co- 
 lours on the well informed and expanded mind — 
 on it the beauties of nature and art, the harmony of 
 sounds, the charms of poetry, and the richness of 
 colouring, the grace and masterly designs of the 
 painter, have tlieir due elfuct, and are so many 
 sources of intellectual beatitude. 
 
 In forming a correct estimate of the degree of 
 positive happiness experienced by man in the 
 savage state, we have only to consider men in 
 civil society as possessing the various degrees of 
 knowledge, from a simple peasant to the profound
 
 AN OLLA-PODRIDA, 257 
 
 philosopher. A man unacquainted with the beau- 
 ties of composition, will read the poems of Black- 
 more, who 'writ to the rumbling of his coach's 
 wheels,' with much the same feelings as the sweet- 
 est lines of Pope ; and will experience little more 
 emotion from the imagination of Shakspeare, the 
 delicacy of Addison, the sublimMy of Milton, or 
 the purity of Swift, than from the senseless jargon 
 of newspaper scribblers, or the wretched versifica- 
 tion of some modern poetasters. 
 
 To one unacquainted with the principles of 
 music, a concert soon grows tiresome; or, if enter- 
 tained, he is a stranget to that exquisite satisfac- 
 tion experienced by those who are well acquainted 
 with the theory of sounds. 
 
 So also, he who is unaccustomed to the contem- 
 plation of the beauties of nature, is an alien to the 
 great satisfaction which the mind receives from the 
 picturesque beauties of landscape; but those 
 
 'Whom Nature's works can charm, with God himself 
 Hold converse ; grow familiar day by day 
 With his conceptions, act upon his plan 
 And form to his, the relish of their souls.' 
 
 The vegetable world displays a new creation to 
 the botanist; the formal walks of a garden, where 
 nature appears to have been tortured into stiffness, 
 are not his only resorts, but 
 
 'Led o'er vales and mountains, to explore 
 
 What healing virtue swells the tender veins 
 Of herbs and flowers ; or what the beams of morn 
 Draw forth, distilling from the clifted rind 
 In balmy tears' 
 
 he becomes acquainted with a thousand beauties,
 
 258 AN OLLA-rODRIDA. 
 
 a thousand harmonies which ' 'scape the vulgar 
 unobserving eye.' 
 
 Let us suppose a person surrounded by various 
 specimens of ancient and modern painting, yet 
 totally unacquainted with those points which con- 
 stitute the beauties of this divine art. What would 
 claim his first attention ? The richness of colour- 
 ing no doubt, though the piece might be exces- 
 sively defective in grace and design. So the 
 strongest masses of light, the most perspicuous 
 objects, and the strongest shades, however un- 
 happy in disposition, would perhaps yield him as 
 much pleasure as the finest paintings of the most 
 celebrated artists. But improve his mind, ground 
 him well in the rules of the art, and the various 
 sources of beauty, and then observe his taste, his 
 judgment, his sensibility — he is alive to every 
 beauty of proportion, invention, colouring, etc. — 
 he at once distinguishes the characteristics of the 
 schools, he perceives the wonderful design of 
 Angelo, the character and masterly disposition 
 which distinguishes Raphael, the grace and har- 
 onony of Corregio, and the chaste but inimitable 
 richness of colouring which characterizes Titian. 
 
 All these are valuable sources of pleasure which 
 are only opened to us, by the cultivation of those 
 faculties with which nature hath endowed us. 
 
 Architecture is another of the polite arts which 
 affords both comfort and pleasure. A well pro- 
 portioned house, a richly decorated church, or a 
 magnificent palace, pleases the clown as well as 
 the architect. He perceives the vast superiority of
 
 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 259 
 
 these edifices in point of utility and grandeur to 
 his own cottage, but his sensation is not exquisite, 
 it is rather astonishment than a genuine sensibihty 
 to the beauties of proportion and design. It may 
 be said, tiiat he who is ignorant of the rules of art, 
 will be pleased with every thing, whereas he who 
 knows the sources of beauty, will be so exquisitely 
 sensible to every defect, as to experience more pain 
 than pleasure : there can be no doubt but that the 
 absence of variety where it ought to be found, the 
 want of uniformity or symmetry, and the con- 
 sciousness of the unfitness of the object for its 
 end, produce unpleasant sensations in a cultivated 
 mind ; but this seldom occurs to so great a degree 
 as to be really offensive, and at all events will not 
 justify ignorance of the fine arts considered merely 
 as sources of pleasure. In fact we may justly look 
 for happiness, and for the sentiments of virtue and 
 benevolence in every state, in proportion to the 
 progress of science, and the encouragement of the 
 fine arts. 
 
 From the church of Santa Majia del 
 
 Popolo, which gave rise to this inquiry as to the 
 sources of happiness, I went to the Collegia di 
 Propaganda Fide — and what a diff'erent scene 
 was there, my countrymen! After viewing it for 
 some time, I found myself quite in a dilemma, and 
 was cast all aback, as to my musings about the 
 rude boys, and the incompetent teacher, in the 
 church I had just left; for, in the Propaganda, I 
 found students from nearly every region of the 
 world, gratuitously, and as it is said, thoroughly
 
 260 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 
 
 educated ! There I found blacks from Central 
 Africa, Indians from the wilds of America, Greeks 
 and Persians, Arabians and Egyptians, Turks and 
 Jews, Hollanders and Highlanders, Armenians and 
 Albanians, English and French, Kentuckians and 
 Tennesseans, Syrians and Bulgarians, Germans 
 and lUyrians; and I know not how many more, 
 all instructed m their oiofi languages! In addition 
 to these are taught Latin, Hebrew, Samaritan, 
 Sanscrit, ancient Greek, Italian, Coptic, ancient 
 Armenian, Mandaican, Rezian, the language of 
 the Otiawas, and various others — in all of which 
 tongues and languages, were pronounced and re- 
 cited at their public commencement, orations, 
 poems, <fcc. ! The library is said to contain only 
 about twenty thousand volumes ; and the museum 
 of oriental curiosities is somewhat extensive, and 
 no doubt extremely rare and valuable for their 
 purposes. Let any one, also, listen for an hour 
 to the learned and amiable Mezzofanti, who is 
 said to converse familiarly in no less than seventy 
 languages, tongues, and dialects ! — let him also 
 visit the public libraries ; the Vatican, the Capito- 
 line, Clementine, Chiarimonte, Kercheriano, and 
 the other museums; as likewise the numerous 
 Studios, Colleges, and the other places of instruc- 
 tion, and then account, in the best way he may, 
 for the fact, if it exists, of Italian illiterateness ! 
 The day was nearly spent at the Pro- 
 paganda; but the hour for my return to my 
 lodgings, had not yet arrived; so I resolved on 
 continuing my delightful toils for that day, by a
 
 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 261 
 
 visit to the Palazzo Rospigliosi. I found it built 
 on the ruins of Constantino's baths, by the cardinal 
 Scipio Borghese, from whom it passed to the 
 cardinal Bentivoglio, then to the Mazzarine family; 
 and lastly, to the noble house of Rospigliosi. 
 
 The Casino of the garden contains on the ceiling 
 of its principal saloon, the much celebrated Aurora, 
 by Guido Reni, perhaps the finest fresco in the 
 world. In this inimitable composition, the great 
 master has displayed the whole strength of his 
 invention — the purest taste — the richest and most 
 appropriate colouring — and the utmost skill and 
 accuracy of outline. It is a picture, of all others, 
 that charms the inexperienced amateur, by match- 
 less beauties of form and of colouring, whilst it 
 equally delights the connoisseur and most critical 
 observer, by its fruitful fancy, and the perfection 
 of its artistical execution. It represents Aurora 
 preceding the car of day, gradually unveiling 
 herself, and strewing the earth with flowers. In 
 the front of this lovely figure, and sailing in thin 
 air, is Phosphorus, a personification of the dawn, 
 under the form of a beautiful infant, with a flam- 
 beau, and whose star proclaims the coming day, 
 but whose rays are too weak to dissipate the 
 shades of night, which yet surround the dawn. 
 In his resplendent car, sits Apollo, the god of day, 
 gracefully holding the reins, and guiding his four 
 fiery coursers, which are bounding through the 
 heavens, and dissipating the mists that linger yet 
 about the fair goddess of the morn, and her youth- 
 ful messenger. Attendant upon the god, are seven 
 23
 
 262 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 
 
 lovely and graceful nymphs, supposed to represent 
 the Hours. They are variously attired, full of 
 immortal freshness, and are radiant with delight 
 at the approach of day! But the beauty of this 
 enchanting picture, rests not alone in the exquisite 
 forms I have mentioned; but is greatly heighten- 
 ed by the perfect harmony between surrounding 
 nature, and the action of the piece. The ground 
 of the picture beautifully unites in disclosing the 
 whole design. The clouds of night in distant 
 places, seem but gradually dissolving; those nearer 
 to the goddess, are rolling away ; a golden transpa- 
 rency encompasses Apollo; and on the mountains, 
 beneath Aurora, the streaks of morning light are 
 becoming more and more visible ! The scene is 
 executed in figures as large as life ; and is still in 
 its original freshness. 
 
 The palace has many other paintings by the 
 greatest masters, as also various sculptures and 
 curiosities of great interest — but no one, on the 
 same day, has much heart for any other painting, 
 especially about the hour of five o'clock before din- 
 ner — so, leaving his resplendent majesty, Apollo, 
 to pursue the rosy-fingered goddess, whilst she is 
 strewing flowers in preparation for the gayety of 
 morn, I departed with hasty steps, and with cha- 
 racteristic mortality, well resolved, (in anticipation 
 of the repose of night,) to take a hearty dinner 
 first . 
 
 And this, oh, courteous reader, doth re- 
 mind me of the glorious 'prandium which was 
 ready for our little party of three on that day of
 
 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 263 
 
 mental and of body exhaustion; and of which, in 
 brief words, I must not fail to say something, as 
 we have so long been dealing with the intellec- 
 tuals, that thou, as well as myself, must by this 
 time, be weary and truly wish that this my literary 
 oUa-podrida, were suddenly transformed into a ve- 
 ritable Spanish repast of the same name ! 
 
 Know then that the dinner of that day, 
 
 though no better, or no worse, than those of the 
 preceding days, was yet discussed by us all with, 
 perhaps, more than ordinary unseyitimentality ; for 
 when the mind hath been over-fed, the outer man 
 must soon have generous nouriture. Considering 
 that we had for some hours before been commu- 
 ning with gods and goddesses, and their seven 
 attendant nymphs, we deserved some credit for not 
 insisting on a repast of ambrosia and of neclar. 
 But had even these been present, we should soon 
 have forsaken them on finding the four piping 
 hot courses, which in due succession appeared — 
 as follows : primo, a menestra (vermicelli soup ;) 
 secondo, a slufato, (stewed beef and its savoury 
 appliances;) ierzo, cavoli-fiori, (cauliflower,) and 
 Pollastri (roast chickens ;) quarto, un pajo di 
 piccioni, e due tordi (a pair of pigeons, and 
 two thrushes ;) and lastly, by way of desert, 
 apple-fritters, with its harmonious sauce, and a 
 
 charlotte russe all, all, if thou wilt credit it 
 
 gentle reader, (though making three good dinners 
 for the three hungry diners) for just the sum of 
 one scudo, and six bajocchi, or one hundred and
 
 264 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 
 
 six of our cents — the fraction of six being a 
 daily perquisite for the restaurant's servant! 
 
 'Head of Apicius !' cried I, when first I met 
 in Rome with these sumptuous dinners, for so 
 little of the precious metal, 'how could Vitellius, 
 and Heliogabalus, and other heroes of gourman- 
 derie, almost beggar their empire by merely a few 
 months' eating, as historians do so veraciously 
 maintain?' But, I mean not to answer this ques- 
 tion, lest my olla, on this principle may never 
 end. But when I tliink of these Roman dinners 
 of mine, I cannot help being filled with wonder 
 at the anomalous facts and mysteries of political 
 economy ! — millions of American acres, of the 
 deepest and richest soil, are daily, each crying 
 out, ^come and buy me for a dollar and a quarter^ 
 and yet, in few spots of our globe are even the 
 necessaries of life so dear as they generally are 
 in these United States ! An acre in perpetuity, 
 full of goodly trees, of hill and of dale, of fruits 
 and flowers, and copious streams — and, possibly, 
 of precious metals and minerals to boot, all re- 
 jected as quite too dear at government price ! — 
 but an ill-cooked dinner, with a bottle of alcoholic 
 Madeira, at about the price of fifteen Roman din- 
 ners, is the daily tax of many travellers in our 
 interminable regions ! 
 
 And now, bidding adieu to this 011a- 
 
 Podrida, I may possibly find in the dreams of the 
 night which followed my prandium, (or rather 
 cosna) some topic for my next note.
 
 DREAMING. 265 
 
 NOTE XIX. DREAMING. 
 
 'But what are all your metaphysics worth, if 
 they cannot resolve me the cause of dreaming?' 
 said I, one day to a philosophical gentleman who 
 had been just descanting with as much learned 
 familiarity upon the mind, as if he possessed an 
 accurate map of its minute topography, and un- 
 derstood every spring of its varied and recondite 
 action! This was said by me, moreover, with a 
 brusquerie of manner that indicated my contempt 
 of all transcendentalism, and especially for that 
 so called learning which consists in the use of 
 many esoteric words. The metaphysical gentle- 
 man spoke of the hidden things of the soul, with 
 such a provoking air of acquaintance, that I natu- 
 rally urged him to unfold to me the mysteries of 
 sleep, of reverie, of dreams, and of all such cog- 
 nate topics — but to none of which could he do 
 more than deal in mystic terms, and in many 
 curious facts respecting them all ; and being press- 
 ed for some theory of dreaming based on his inti- 
 mate knowledge of mind, and the very wonderful 
 facts he had disclosed, he cut the knot of his difli- 
 culty thus — 'the action of the mind during sleep,' 
 said he, 'is so extremely lawless, as to evade the 
 wonted scrutiny of mental philosophers — but, when 
 the nature of sleep itself shall be more fully re- 
 vealed to us, the phenomena of dreannng will then 
 become sufficiently plain.' 'This, however, is an 
 humble concession,' rejoined I, 'and especially 
 from one who has been dealing with mind, as with 
 23*
 
 266 DREAMING. 
 
 a familiar instrument wholly within his grasp; for, 
 if the nature of sleep, of dreaming, of reverie, of 
 insanity, and, indeed, of all similar states of the 
 mind, wholly baffle your researches, it seemeth lo 
 me the province of your boasted science is greatly 
 rainished — shorn of its high pretensions, and that 
 doubt upon doubt, as Alp upon Alp, must conti- 
 nually rise before us, with but little hope that we 
 shall ever truly know any thing beyond plausible 
 conjectures.' 
 
 'By no means,' hastily replied our metaphysi- 
 cian, 'would you repudiate all certainty in science, 
 because there is some admitted uncertainty, or, 
 even in some things, a total unacquaintance? 
 Mental philosophers are profitably employed only 
 when they deal with mind as a rational, and 
 therefore accountable existence, which can be pre- 
 dicated of the mind only during its wakeful state, 
 or its equivalent, perfect sanity. We consequently 
 study the mind only during its healthy action, in 
 the hope of any really profitable result — that is, 
 when it is guided by its laws ; and we look upon 
 those fitful or lawless actions into which it is cast 
 by the disarray of its bodily organs, as falling 
 more within the province of physics, than of meta- 
 physics. If then, we do study minds as they may 
 be affected by sleep, by dreaming, insanity, (fee. it 
 is with little hope of becoming really better ac- 
 quainted with the laws of the mind itself, since 
 we hold that this spiritual entity is wholly incapa- 
 ble of disease ; for what is denominated mental 
 derangement is only ostensible — the same as when
 
 DREAMING. 267 
 
 we say the sun rises — and yet the sun remains the 
 same, it being the earth that has revolved — and 
 so as to insanity, the mind continues the same, but 
 its outlets, its organs have undergone a change; 
 and so again with dreaming.' 
 
 'The mind, in truth, has not dreamed,' con- 
 tinued the sturdy metaphysician, 'it may have 
 thought wisely, but the wise thoughts have been 
 cast into disarray by the state of its customary 
 channels — in fine, it is the derangement of the 
 bodily organs, (which are but so many vehicles 
 for the mind) which causes the mind itself to 
 appear affected, since the media of its manifesta- 
 tions are diseased, and not the intellectual entity. 
 Let the physician study these states of the bodily 
 organs, whilst the metaphysician restricts himself 
 to the pure essence ; so that when sleep, (which is 
 a quasi disease brought on by the body's exhaus- 
 tion) or insanity come on, the labours of the meta- 
 physician terminate — for the outlets and avenues 
 of healthy mental action are then closed; and, as 
 to the mental philosopher, the mind is then in a 
 lawless state.' 
 
 An avowal so startling as this, in which truth 
 and error were so strangely blended, and this, too, 
 from 'lips oracular,' as those of my metaphysical 
 friend aspired to be, cast me for a moment all 
 aback ! But the gloss of a wordy jargon, or the 
 high authority of a scholar, cannot always gild 
 with delusive splendour those follies which wis- 
 dom sometimes utters. I have often found that 
 learned men can neither endure an exposure of 
 their limited knowledge of some favourite science,
 
 268 DREAMING. 
 
 nor, still less, the actually crude state of the science 
 itself — and so was it with him ; for though deeply 
 versed in metaphysical lore, from Aristotle and 
 Plato, down to Cogan and Brown, he sought 
 refuge in a folly unworthy of himself, and of his 
 science; and reposed upon a distinction that 
 showed, either the vanity of learning in disciplin- 
 ing the mind to sober judgments, or that no little 
 of what passes for knowledge is really little else 
 than a mere nomenclature, the vehicle of no very 
 definite thought. I tlierefore laconically replied 
 that, 'unmixed pneumatology seemed to me the 
 most idle of human studies ; and, when separated 
 from its natural ally, physics, was as hopeless of 
 profitable results, as would be a rigid divorce of 
 the sexes!' — and so our colloquy ended. 
 
 In' what I have, therefore, to say of Dreaming, 
 I at once disclaim all acquaintance with its origin, 
 and its philosophy. I have no theories, metaphy- 
 sical, physical, or even phrenological to oflfer : and 
 yet, what some have thought, or fancied upon the 
 the subject, need not be wholly passed by — which, 
 with many curious facts respecting dreams, their 
 moral and intellectual influences, and the many 
 wild notions that have sullied this portion of 
 human science, may aflJ'ord some instruction, pos- 
 sibly, some amusement. 
 
 When one poet tells us that 
 
 'Dreams are but interludes which fancy makes, 
 When monarch reason sleeps, this mimic wakes ; 
 Compounds a medley of disjointed things, 
 A mob of cobblers, and a court of kings : 
 Light fumes are merry, grosser fumes are sad ; 
 Both are the reasonable soul run mad.'
 
 DREAMING. 269 
 
 And when another, in nearly similar terms, 
 declares that 
 
 'Dreams are the children of an idle brain, 
 Begot of nothing but vain fantasy ; 
 Which is as thin of substance as the air; 
 And more inconstant than the wind ;' 
 
 we have in these the so caWed philosophy of dream- 
 ing I These notions have been current, and even 
 popular, from the earliest ages; and, with but 
 slight variations, may be found among all nations. 
 And yet, is it by any means true that dreams are 
 the progeny oi fancy alone — that reason is then 
 sound asleep — that merry dreams are generated by 
 temperance, and sad ones by excess ; that light 
 fumes cheer the soul, and grosser ones occasion 
 sadness, and hence give rise to the agreeable 
 fancies of the one class, or to the horrors and 
 glooms of the other? Such notions may suit the 
 philosophy of the poets, but shrink from the induc- 
 tive processes of the more severe searches after 
 truth. Dreams are, indeed, very often the coinage 
 of an idle brain ; fancy is usually predominant m 
 them ; reason is often extremely at fault ; memo- 
 ry utterly faithless, and judgment totally perverted. 
 But, is not the reverse of all these equally true 
 sometuiies? And, if so, what becomes of the 
 theory of dreaming based on this popular philo- 
 sohy? How often are dreams characterized by 
 the most acute reasoning — how minute and vivid 
 is memory — how chaste, yet brilliant is fancy — 
 how solid is judgment — how alive are all the 
 feelings — how pure and sound the morals — how
 
 270 DREAMING. 
 
 almost superhuman is the vision — and how con- 
 sistent is the whole drama of some dreams ! Now, 
 in both these classes of dreams, sleep is perfect 
 and healthful; and yet in the one, the soul is 
 abandoned to the wildest creations of fancy — in 
 the other, every faculty seems endued with preter- 
 natural vigour! The theory of ages, then, must 
 be false ; or, at most, can be invoked only in 
 behalf of some dreams ; and, if so, it seems to 
 be entitled to but little regard. 
 
 Being myself a great dreamer, and so much so 
 as to feel myself entitled to speak ex cathedra, I 
 have come to the conclusion that the very essence 
 of mind consists in thought ; — that it is an ever- 
 thinking entity, equally in action during sleep, as 
 in wakefulness ; and that all men dream as neces- 
 sarily, as the body breathes, (though, on waking, 
 they may instantly forget their dreams;) and fur- 
 ther, that all animals capable of thought, must 
 necessarily dream. 
 
 Were the chronicles of dreaming faithfully given 
 to the world, what a still more curious animal 
 would man appear, than philosophy has yet un- 
 folded him ! From my own experience, I am so 
 sure of this, that should I here note (were it now 
 possible for me so to do) all the curiosa and memo- 
 rabilia of my sleeping existence, it is possible 
 that all the tales of fiction of a century would 
 scarce afford half the wonders that would thus be 
 chronicled ! — dreams of exquisite enjoyment, of 
 unearthly horror, of the crudest fancies, of the 
 chastest imaginings — dreams of unmixed folly, of
 
 DREAMING. 271 
 
 sublime wisdom, of fervid eloquence, of poetry, — 
 dreams of extreme good-nature, of ugly malevo- 
 lence, of violent anger, of passive submission — 
 dreams of the most vivid memory, of the brightest 
 reminiscences; and finally, dreams in which all 
 consciousness of the past was gone — dreams in. 
 which long absent friends and the tenderly 
 lamented dead, were all present before me, but 
 without exciting the least surprise or emotion, 
 and in which 1 conversed with them, as wholly 
 oblivious of their melancholy departure, as if no 
 such events had ever happened ! 
 
 But all this, even if it were possible for me to 
 set them forth with that graphic art which should 
 present them as vividly to the minds of others, as 
 they appeared to mine when wrapt in sleep, still 
 fade away before the remarkable and strictly veri- 
 table fact of the pei^iodical repetitio7i of dreams ! 
 How great was my surprise when I first detected 
 this in myself, beyond the penumbra of a doubt! — 
 for, during five consecutive years, in the month of 
 July, the same dream periodically returned upon 
 me — so that it finally became so 'learn'd and 
 conn'd by rote,' that in the very dream, I recog- 
 nized my old acquaintance, anticipated the coming 
 scenes, dreamed that it was but a dream; and, 
 from this, derived some consolation ! — for the 
 dream was not an agreeable one. This dreaming 
 habit was eventually dispelled only by an exten- 
 sive travel, and it then vanished from me for ever ! 
 
 Some doubting and dozing ass may, possibly, 
 be not only sceptical, but think it folly to record
 
 272 DREAMING. 
 
 the fact ; and, in the spirit of a sleepy philosophy, 
 may sagely ask, 'cui bono?"^ If such an one there 
 be, I shall not argue the matter with him, but 
 simply assure his ass-ship that, if he will but read 
 the annals of dreaming, during a period of more 
 than three thousand years, he will find therein 
 equal marvels with the one now told ; and, I doubt 
 not, he may also encounter sufficient precedents of 
 the like in others, to vindicate me from the impli- 
 cations involved in his shrug of the shoulders, his 
 shake of the head, and those other criterions of 
 deep dubiety ! 
 
 To the more courteous reader, however, I would 
 remark that the gradual fixation of habits, whether 
 physical or mental, is among the most recondite 
 and curious of nature's operations ; and sometimes 
 exhibits such strange freaks, as to excite great won- 
 der — but that these have been so well authenticated, 
 as to banish all incredulity. If to this we add the 
 equally mysterious, but undoubted sympathy or 
 harmony between the world of inanimate matter, 
 and the animal and intellectual economy of man, 
 we are furnished with a series of phenomena that 
 would startle the most credulous, were the facts in 
 the least degree doubtful. Those deeply learned 
 in such facts, and those, on the contrary, who have 
 never treasured up many, are the two classes least 
 liable to doubt; for all nature is so full of wonders, 
 that the learned are often admonished not to 
 doubt — and hence become credulous ; whilst the 
 ignorant possess so few of the elements wherewith 
 they may deliberately doubt, that they likewise are
 
 DREAMING. 273 
 
 apt to be credulous, and to yield submissively to 
 mere authority. From these two causes have 
 arisen many of the superstitions of the learned 
 and the ignorant, with all their train of fancies. 
 
 We sometimes, also, find that among rude na- 
 tions, imagination is apt to gain such an ascen- 
 dancy, that life itself is nearly a perpetual dream ! 
 They sometimes conceive that men are constantly 
 haunted by shadowy forms and visions ; that these 
 are thin and material essences, which unceasingly 
 play around the mind ; and that by indulging them 
 to satiety, they will take their flight, at least for a 
 time, and thus that the disease even of madness, 
 being produced by these ethereal forms, may be 
 mitigated, and possibly cured by them ! On this 
 superstition is it that some nations, with the view 
 of giving vent to the misfortunes of a superabun- 
 dant fancy, establish what they call dream-feasts, 
 during which the visionaries are permitted to do 
 whatever their wildest imaginations may suggest ! 
 And among the Abiponian Indians, a periodical 
 madness is said to exist for a short time, of which 
 those afflicted by it have no consciousness what- 
 ever during their long intervals of sanity ! But 
 what is still more remarkable, and to our purpose, 
 it is further said that the disease may be mitigated, 
 nay cured, by voluntarily anticipating its vagaries, 
 in a mode similar to these dream-feasts ! 
 
 Now, all this would be comprehensible enough, 
 
 or at least it would be more believable, were those 
 
 who are most imaginative when awake, less so 
 
 when asleep ; whereas the fact is generally the 
 
 24
 
 274 DREAMING. 
 
 reverse of this, as those dream the most, who, 
 when awake, are remarkable for their fancy. And 
 yet this is not invariably the case, many leaden- 
 headed persons being instinct with the richest 
 fancies, and much given to poetical creations, as 
 soon as 
 
 'Sleep's dewy wand 
 Strok'd down their drooping lids!' 
 
 Some philosophers have gravely told us that sleep 
 and death are but twin-brothers, that the corporal 
 symptoms of 'tir'd nature's sweet restorer,' are, not 
 metaphorically, but actually and philosophically, 
 analogous to those of deathl — and hence that the 
 spiritual symptoms of both must be, in a degree, 
 the same. According to this idea is it that the 
 mind during sleep is enabled to experience such 
 deep and vivid sensations of pleasure, of pain, and 
 of vision ; for, being then partially disenthralled 
 from its bodily connections, the mind wanders in 
 a state of celestial juvenility ; its perceptions are 
 ardent and clear, and are often so brilliant, and 
 even violent, as to fill tlie soul with unutterable 
 joys, or with unmingled horrors! These, though 
 thus powerful, are sometimes extremely evanes- 
 cent, and the soul's utmost exertions fail entirely 
 to realize any of them beyond a few minutes after 
 sleep has passed off. 
 
 Thus is it that dreams may well be regarded 
 as a presage, though a feeble one, of the soul's 
 condition after actual death; for, if the mind 
 allied to the body, as it still is during sleep by a 
 thousand latent ties, be yet capable of wandering
 
 DREAMING. 275 
 
 amidst the untold beauties of heaven, or the un- 
 imaginable horrors of Satan's domain ; if the 
 soul, in dreams, can realize a youthful world, 
 replete with light, and joys, and the most varied 
 beauties, and all with a fidelity of vision — a clair- 
 voyance which baffles description, and even concep- 
 tion, when we are awake ; and if the soul in these 
 visions of the night, can also experience scenes of 
 menial, and apparently of bodily agony, equally 
 beyond the reach of imagination, or of the powers 
 of memory to portray them during our waking 
 existence, may it not with truth be held that sleep 
 and death have much in common, and that they 
 who through life have dreamed much, and who 
 have carefully noted the phenomena of dreaming, 
 will probably have a juster conception of the bliss 
 and misery of an hereafter, than those are capable 
 of, who but seldom dream, or who are habitually 
 inattentive to these impressive and infinitely varied 
 scenes of our sleeping existence ? I think so, and 
 Lord Byron hath truly said, 
 
 Sleep hath its own world 
 And a wide realm of wild reality ; 
 And dreams in their development have breath, 
 And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy. 
 
 But one of the most remarkable of the pheno- 
 mena of dreaming, and which seems to bring the 
 soul's state yet closer to that of death, is the ex- 
 treme rapidity with which multitudinous events 
 pass through the mind, really in a moment of time, 
 though seemingly in our dreams, only progres-
 
 276 DREAMING. 
 
 sively, and most naturally. In such cases, the 
 events, and feelings, and thoughts, and actions of 
 years, as it were, flit through the brief span of but 
 a few hours, sometimes of but as many minutes ! 
 In them extensive countries are traversed — thou- 
 sands of occurrences seem to follow in orderly 
 sequence — all the alternations of joys and of sor- 
 rows are experienced — momentous plans are formed 
 and deliberated, and executed; and the exciting 
 drama, almost of a life, is regularly gone through — 
 and yet, when the busy sleeper hath been roused 
 from his couch, exhausted by the pressure of so 
 many exciting scenes and events, he is astonished 
 to find, perhaps, that he has been slumbering in 
 his comfortable fauteuil^ only during an half hour 
 after dinner ! 
 
 So again, some have slept for days, others 
 have been in a kind of trance for several weeks, 
 and yet with no note of time, with no cog- 
 nizance of their existence, or with no visions 
 that memory could grasp; and, after these long 
 intervals, they have awoke Avith no more con- 
 sciousness of the past, than if during these periods 
 they had been blotted out of existence, or than if 
 their souls had been entirely separated from their 
 clayey tenements ! In such cases, time seems to 
 have been annihilated, and the soul seems to have 
 returned to the Eternal Fountain of intellectual- 
 ity — and yet we know, physiologically, that its 
 ties with the body have been so perfectly maintained, 
 that there has been no loss of vitality, but rather a 
 gain in the vis insita! May not the eternity which
 
 DREAMING. 277 
 
 follows death, pass on forever with the same un- 
 consciousness of time, however full it may be of 
 visions of bliss, or of horror, as the case may be ? 
 Some have so supposed ; for time and eternity 
 must differ, not only in point of duration, but es- 
 sentially ; the former being that consciousness of 
 portions of eternity, which belongs only to Ji7iite 
 existences ; and the latter, though with the same 
 consciousness of pleasure and of pain, is yet 
 wholly without note of time. Even in the case 
 just stated, of sleep during many days or weeks, 
 the mind, no doubt, was continually thinking; and 
 the sleepers, during their long communion with 
 Morpheus, and the rest, were still subject to joys 
 and sorrows, but with little, if any, note of time — 
 and hence, on awaking, with no power of reminis- 
 cence. But I fear I am getting into metaphysics, 
 which had better have been left to my friend, 
 whose philosophy, in the beginning of my Note, I 
 so little prized, but whose conversation seduced me 
 into this hunting after the marvels of dreaming, 
 and of the invisible world. 
 
 I have often thought that were a long continued 
 series of inquiries instituted respecting sleep; were 
 the visions, and dreams, and reveries, and fancies 
 of persons of all ages, and sexes, and conditions, 
 and countries, carefully and authentically collect- 
 ed — and were all of these arranged, under such a 
 system of classes, orders, genera, species and varie- 
 ties, as a truly Linnajan metaphysician and physi- 
 cian might form, the result of such an inductive 
 process would scarce fail to yield a most curious 
 
 24*
 
 278 DREAMING. 
 
 and profitable chapter in the chronicles of mental 
 philosophy. Plants, minerals, animals — nay, even 
 lightnings, clouds, and snows, have been thus 
 carefully arranged and classified, and why not 
 dreams? Of dreams, there are some which seem 
 to be common to the whole race of man ; and it is 
 not a little curious to note the variations, not in 
 essence, but in minor details, which even the 
 classes of dreams endure, according to the highly 
 civilized, or savage state of the nation to which 
 the sleeping individuals belong. 
 
 It is likewise an amusing and instructive field 
 of inquiry to observe how these nocturnal visions 
 are affected by many adventitious causes, either 
 general or particular — personal idiosyncrasies, as 
 well as outward and more general causes, giving 
 to the classes of dreams appropriate variations ; 
 for the temperament of individuals, from local or 
 merely personal causes, as likewise the general 
 face of a country, as whether mountainous, or 
 champaign, sterile or luxuriant, interior or bound- 
 ing upon the sea, sandy or prairie, warmed by an 
 ardent or a feeble sun, are all but so many causes 
 to vary the same classes of dreams. 
 
 In all nations, and in all states of society these 
 classes will be found. Were I writing a treatise 
 on dreaming, these might be carefully enumerated; 
 but in a mere Note, I may only advert to a few, as 
 for example, to that peculiar sensation, we all expe- 
 rience in dreams, of falling from lofty heights — the 
 skimming over extensive surfaces with the rapidity 
 of a bird, attended with a notion in the dreamer that
 
 DREAMING. 279 
 
 he alone is widowed with this enviable faculty — 
 the flight from some pursuing danger, which ends 
 with the dreamer's being left somewhat in the rear, 
 whilst his more fortunate companions are seen 
 before him in comparative safety — the unexpected 
 and awkward predicament of finding one-self in a 
 state of nudity, or of some other great shame, 
 which sorely mortifies us, and at the very time, 
 too, when most solicitous to appear to advantage; 
 and an hundred others, are dreams experienced by 
 all, be he king or cobbler, sage or fool! 
 
 Another class of dreams, almost equally universal, 
 is that in which the dreamer is invested with well 
 known faculties, but in a very superior degree to 
 that in which he is possessed of them during his 
 wakefulness. We are sometimes endued with a 
 lofty eloquence, rapid, chaste, and commanding — in 
 others we become highly poetical; and, with an im- 
 provisotarial faculty, wholly unknown to us when 
 awake, we seem to revel in its exercise, and to 
 delight others no less than ourselves, in all that is 
 rich, and flowing, and copious in versification, and 
 in all appropriate imagery! How many admirable 
 letters, also, are written, speeches delivered, poems 
 recited, witty replies made, sage advice given — 
 which, could they but be remembered and com- 
 mitted to the faithful page, would raise the dreamer 
 from obscurity to immortality! — a fool, then, awake 
 is not necessarily a fool asleep! — and though 
 dreams do certainly, in general, derive their cha- 
 racter from the mental status of the dreamer, as it 
 is manifested by him when awake, yet it is equally
 
 280 DREAMING. 
 
 certain that the soul, when thus partially relieved 
 by sleep from its thraldom, does sometimes become 
 endued with very transcendant powers, and even 
 with those in high perfection, which are, either 
 wholly denied, or which are remarkably hebetated 
 in the individual, during his waking existence ! 
 
 The ancients, who, from superstitious impulses, 
 were led to pay particular attention to this faculty, 
 have endeavoured to account for the production of 
 dreams, upon various principles, both physical and 
 supernatural : but notwithstanding their religion 
 induced them to investigations, which might have 
 otherwise been neglected, they are very far from 
 an unanimity of sentiment, and are perhaps a 
 greater remove from the truth than the moderns. 
 
 Such dreams as were held the result of divine, 
 or at least of supernatural agency, were of three 
 kinds — first, such wherein the gods^ or departed 
 spirits, appeared to man, in their real and some- 
 times assumed forms — as where Morpheus, the 
 god of dreams, assumed the body of old Nestor^ 
 and appeared to Agamemnon, strongly urging him 
 to give battle to the Trojans — or where the beau- 
 tiful goddess Persephone^ upbraided Pindar, the 
 celebrated lyric poet, for neglect, in having sung 
 the praises of all the other goddesses and preter- 
 mitted her; the poet made her the most friendly 
 promises of future notice, and after death, appeared 
 in a dream to a matron relation of his, and recited 
 a poem composed by him in honour of this roman- 
 tic goddess !
 
 DREAMING. 281 
 
 The second class of dreams, was, that in which 
 future events are figuratively or typographically 
 revealed — such was Caesar's unnatural dream, 
 which was evidently in allusion to his future 
 greatness, when he should hold the empire of the 
 earth, the co7nmon mother of all things animate or 
 inanimate. 
 
 Such, also, are most of the dreams recorded in 
 the Sacred Writ. 
 
 The third kind, was such wherein things which 
 were to happen were fairly and perspicuously deli- 
 neated. 
 
 Nearly of this kind was that of Croesus, the 
 Lydian king, who dreamed that his son, Atys, 
 would be slain by an iro7i weapon — Atys was for 
 a long time forbidden the use of arms, but having 
 at length prevailed upon his father to permit him 
 to hunt down a wild boar, which for a long time 
 had been the terror of the neighbourhood, he was 
 imfortunately slain by his guardian Adrastus. 
 
 Various have been the opinions of the ancients 
 as to the cause of dreams. According to Lucre- 
 tius, they are occasioned by images, or simulacra, 
 emitted by all corporeal things : these floating in 
 the air in vast and miscellaneous abundance, are 
 presented to the soul in sleep, and sometimes 
 during wakefulness — and thus give rise to dreams, 
 and to-day visions. Some have asserted that 
 all dreams have their genesis from the earth, 
 either by its obstructing the passage of the solar 
 light, and thereby occasioning night, which was 
 esteemed a state of the atmosphere particularly
 
 282 DREAMING. 
 
 favourable to the formation of dreams, or from the 
 fumes exhaled from the stomach, which, during 
 the digestive process, were thought to occasion an 
 artificial atmosphere round the body of the sleeper, 
 retarding the motion of the animal spirits, and so 
 affecting the brain, that the accustomed operations 
 of the mind are disturbed ; and wandering unre- 
 strained by reason, or by the force of habit, into 
 the regions of fancy, give birth to these strange 
 representations called natural or ordinary dreams. 
 
 It is obvious that those who were anxious for a 
 true or prophetic dream, would sedulously avoid 
 eating such diet as is not easy of digestion ; hence 
 it became almost a science to ascertain the qualities 
 of the various articles of diet ; but fish, raw fruits 
 of all kinds, beans, and wines, were never in- 
 dulged in by such as were anxious for a true or 
 prophetic dream ! 
 
 Although the false or unproplietic dreams were 
 generally ascribed to the physical operation of food 
 on the brain, yet they were also imputed to the 
 infernal deities or spirits, as is said by Virgil in 
 his sixth ^neid — 
 
 'Sed falsa ad Coelum mittunt insomnia manes.' 
 
 Dreams were also attributed to liUna, or Hecate, 
 who, was the guardian of the night, hence she 
 was always invoked at nocturnal incantations, and 
 her influence was greatly vahicd upon. The god- 
 dess Brizo of Delos, was by others considered the 
 furnisher of dreams ; so also hawks and vultures 
 were esteemed souls encompassed in material 
 forms, and that these souls, upon the dissolution
 
 DREAMING. 283 
 
 of the birds, being divested of materiality, assumed 
 various modifications, and appearing to man whilst 
 asleep, revealed the true or prophetic dreams. 
 
 But of all the opinions as to the probable cause 
 of dreams, enumerated by ancient writers, none is 
 so singular and visionary as that mentioned by the 
 Mantuan poet in his sixth ^Eneid — the delusive or 
 unprophetic dreams being considered by him to be 
 conveyed by various messengers of Somnus, from 
 a spreading elm, situated near the portal of hell, 
 to whose pendant leaves the various dreams are 
 attached, and from thence plucked as necessity 
 requires ! 
 
 'In medio ramos annosaque brachia pandit 
 Ulmus opaca, ivgens quam, sedem somnia vulgo 
 Vana tenere ferunt, foliisque subomnibus hcsrent.^ 
 
 'Full in the midst of this infernal road 
 
 An elm displays her dusky arms abroad, 
 
 The god of sleep there hides his heavy head. 
 
 And empty dreams on every leaf are spread.' — Dryden. 
 
 An infinitude of dreams were considered to 
 attend the person of Somnus. This drowsy god, 
 as Ovid informs us, had three attendants, who, for 
 their ingenuity and perseverance in the discharge 
 of their various functions, have been particularly 
 distinguished from the rest. These were Mor- 
 pheus, Phantasia and Phobetor ; the office of the 
 first was to assume the human form, and to imitate 
 their actions, manners and gestures : this he exe- 
 cuted with such an exquisite versatility of power, 
 that he is frequently, by way of eminence, called 
 the god of sleep, and hence often confounded with
 
 284 DREAMING. 
 
 his great master Somniis. Phantasia had the deh- 
 neation of the inanimate world for his employment, 
 and often presented a luxuriant feast to the pic- 
 turesque imagination ; rocks, fountains, cascades, 
 verdant groves, and purling streams, he frequently 
 so happily united, as to render the scene more 
 exquisitely grand, than the happiest delineation of 
 the pencil, or the finest combinations of nature and 
 art. But at other times, as if entirely bereaved of 
 his judgment, he would picture such an heteroge- 
 neous group, as could not but force a smile on the 
 face of the most stoic sleeper, so violating every 
 rule of proportion, nature and beauty, as more 
 than to incur the satirical remark of Horace, 
 
 'Delphinum appingit sylvis in fluctibus aprum.' 
 
 But this great versatility of genius rendered 
 Phantasia an extreme favourite, particularly with 
 the poets, who, no doubt, deduced many of their 
 finest images from his delineations. 
 
 Phobetor was of a very different cast. He em- 
 ployed himself in assuming the likenesses of the 
 animal but irrational part of the creation, taking 
 frequently that of the serpent, to which he seemed 
 much attached. His office also was the inspiration 
 of terror — hence the incubus, or night mare, with 
 most of our unpleasant dreams, may be placed to 
 his account ! 
 
 But the principal originator of dreams, and the 
 master of these three preceding personages, was 
 Somnus, who as Ovid mentions, had his habita- 
 tion among the Cimmerii, a nation on the western 
 coast of Italy. In this rude and savage country
 
 DREAMING. 285 
 
 was his den or palace, so happily described by 
 this beautiful poet. Around him lay myriads of 
 dreams, of every description, prophetic, delusive, 
 pleasant, terrible, clear, confused, long, short, and 
 in fact dreams of all sorts and sizes, which at 
 pleasure were carried forth either by himself or 
 his messengers ! 
 
 In this palace of Somnus were two grand portals 
 or avenues, through which all dreams were consi- 
 dered to pass. 
 
 Delusive dreams were imagined to pass through 
 an ivory gate, and the 'somnia vera,' or prophetic, 
 through one composed of transparent and well 
 polished horn. 
 
 'Two gates the silent house of sleep adorn. 
 Of polish'd ivory this — that of transparent horn. 
 True visions through transparent born arise, 
 Thro' polish'd ivory pass delusive lies.' — Dryden's Virg. 
 
 Great attention was paid to the characteristics or 
 distinguishing marks of the tnie or divine dreams, 
 and among other things greatly relied on, was the 
 time or period of the night in which the dream 
 happened. The most generally received opinion 
 was, that those dreams which came about the 
 dawn of day are the most distinct, and are entitled 
 to the greatest degree of credence. Of this opinion 
 
 was Horace. 
 
 'Post mediam noctem visus, quam somnia vera,' 
 So also Ovid, 
 
 'Namque sub Aurora jam dormitante lucerna 
 Tempore quo cerni somnia vera solent.' 
 
 Likewise Homer, who mentioning the propitious 
 dream of Penelope concerning Telemachus, then 
 25
 
 286 DREAMING. 
 
 in search of his father Ulysses, particularly relied 
 on it, since it had appeared to her at the early dawn 
 of Aurora. 
 
 This opinion was founded on the principle or 
 theory already mentioned, that delusive dreams 
 owe their genesis to the physical operation of food 
 in the stomach, during the digestive process, which 
 sending forth a cloud of fumes that surround the 
 body, give a hebetude to the intellectual powers, 
 and occasion those disturbing dreams which we 
 frequently have in the early part of the night. 
 
 But in the morning, when the mind is free from 
 any unnatural influence, when balmy sleep reno- 
 vates the body and infuses new life and vigour into 
 the system, this period naturally suggested itself as 
 the time in which the divine or true dreams might 
 be expected to make their appearance. 
 
 The gods of the 'somnia vera,' (as we learn) 
 were not lavish iu their distribution of them : — 
 they required courting, and would neither deign to 
 penetrate the murky atmosphere of animal exhala- 
 tion, nor to make their appearance to such as were 
 clothed in an improper dress or colour ! 
 
 Hence the most usual night dress was white, 
 which was considered to have a considerable in- 
 fluence in giving both perspicuity and veracity to 
 the dream ! 
 
 It would require volumes to recount the many 
 strange and superstitious notions of the ancient 
 world with regard to this faculty ; but the whole 
 of them are the ofispring of ignorance, superstition 
 and credulity.
 
 DREAMING. 287 
 
 The opinion of many of the moderns, though 
 they emanate a beam of truth through this doeda- 
 lian intricacy, are nevertheless frequently marked 
 by extreme folly. 
 
 Mr. Baxter's theory, which is one of the earliest 
 among the modern, is liable to the same objection, 
 of explaining 'ignotum per ignotius,' as is sug- 
 gested upon a review of the ancient opinions. He 
 conceives them to be produced by immaterial 
 beings, whose sole employment is the formation 
 of these delusions; — the mode in which this is 
 accomplished I will not stop to detail, since this 
 hypothesis is so entirely conjecture, and so unsup- 
 ported by evidence or analogy, that it merits no 
 confutation. 
 
 Walfiiis, and others, have held, that in all cases 
 our organs of sensation participate in the imagi- 
 nary transactions which employ the mind during 
 sleep; and that these mental illusions are always 
 in consequence of a previous excitement of the 
 organs of sensation. 
 
 But the principle of this theory, if not totally 
 unfounded, is far from being generally true, since, 
 whilst asleep, we are generally wholly insensible 
 to external impressions, unless they are pretty 
 violent — beside this, where is the necessity of 
 supposing such excitement of the physical organs 
 to uniformly accompany onr dreams, since we 
 know that both the imagination and the fancy 
 form a great variety of scenes, and wander far 
 from surrounding objects and impressions, without 
 there being the smallest excitement of the organs
 
 288 DREAMING. 
 
 of sensation, to create such varied delineations? 
 And yet there have been anomalous instances of 
 dreams being actually produced by artificial means, 
 that is by impressions purposely made upon the 
 sleeper's organs of sensation ; such was the case 
 recorded by Dr. Gregory of one who, in conse- 
 quence of the doctor's application to his feet of 
 bottles with heated water, dreamed he was walk- 
 ing on the hot lava of Mount Etna ! Another 
 instance is mentioned of a blister applied to the 
 head having occasioned the patient to dream that 
 he had been scalped by Indians ! — and Dr. Beattie 
 states the case of one who could be made to dream 
 almost ad libitum, by gently whispering to him ! 
 
 Other physiologists, have attributed dreaming 
 to the irregular motion of the nervous fluid, or to 
 a deficient supply of that fluid to the brain. The 
 brain being the seat of judgment, and of mental 
 sensation, if not duly supplied with this pabulum, 
 will necessarily produce, as they say, that uncon- 
 nected and disorderly scene, which we frequently 
 have whilst asleep: so that the rationality of our 
 dreams is considered to be greatly influenced by 
 the quantum of nervous fluid supplied to the brain. 
 There is certainly a plausibility in tiiis theory, yet 
 it is by no means commensurate to the various phe- 
 nomena of dreaming — and, as soon as the nature 
 of this fluid, if there be such an one, is more fully 
 ascertained, it may possibly assist us in the inves- 
 tigation of this intricate subject. 
 
 That the past occurrences of the day should 
 often be the prominent feature of our dreams, is
 
 DREAMING. 
 
 289 
 
 rational ; and that frequently the curious delinea- 
 tions of the Imagination, using memory during 
 sleep, may be considered as the of&pring of this 
 combining faculty, unattended by the judgment, 
 is what can readily be admitted ; but this by no 
 means solves the many difficulties which present 
 themselves. Innumerable queries may be put, for 
 explanation, by those who have made this a sub- 
 ject of consideration, which baffle all reasoning, 
 and cannot but force the profoundest metaphysi- 
 cians to acknowledge their ignorance. 
 
 If it be true, as is asserted, that some never 
 dream, others not till an advanced period of their 
 lives — that some- never fail to dream, and others 
 dream but seldom, these are phenomena, which 
 at present seem to be wholly inexplicable. 
 
 We often fancy ourselves reading, and so far 
 enter into the nature and spirit of the author, as 
 to be able distinctly to remember, and even to 
 recite, the language and ideas of the composition! 
 
 That we dream of nothing but what has re- 
 cently (or even a long time past) occurred, or made 
 its impression, is denied by constant experience ; 
 so neither is judgment always asleep; for many 
 dreams preserve a perfect unity and connected- 
 ness throughout, and are frequently as well told, 
 and rational tales, as could have been composed 
 by the author, during the brightest moments of 
 his wakefulness. 
 
 The great variety of scenes, pictured to us, 
 during sleep, and which succeed each otiier with 
 the rapidity of lightning, though, there be no trace- 
 25*
 
 •290 DREAMING. 
 
 able relation, is, as I have before remarked, a 
 phenomenon, highly curious. I have before now 
 found myself in a theatre, listening with all ima- 
 ginable interest, to the eiiaction of a tragedy, and 
 the next moment, have been in a carriage in the 
 streets of London, perfectly divested of the feel- 
 ings excited by the performance of the actors ! — 
 such a rapid flight from one thing to another, so 
 unlike it, cannot be accounted for upon any prin- 
 ciple of association of ideas — but this is a minor 
 difficulty, in comparison of others — one of greater 
 magnitude presents itself, which is the astonishing 
 power of the imagination, in delineating scenes in 
 all their natural colours, upon a scale truly sub- 
 lime, and frequently very far surpassing any reality, 
 when the same faculty (the possessor being awake) 
 refuses to furnish the plainest image, or a scene 
 any way different from those in real life: for many 
 persons, quite of a Boeotian imagination, have 
 dreams of which even a Milton might have been 
 proud. Some men are icits in their sleep, who, 
 during wakefulness, are insufferably dull — others 
 have the acumen of genius, who, when awake, 
 are men of very ordinary talents. A friend of 
 mine, who, from experience, justifies the correct- 
 ness of these remarks, declared to me, that the 
 finest imagery to be found in his compositions 
 were given to him in his dreams, and that for 
 the two last years, he has been accustomed to 
 write down every fine idea, or sublime image, 
 which his imagination vouchsafed during sleep! 
 Mr. Coleridge's Kubla Khan originated in this
 
 DREAMING. 291 
 
 way. He fell asleep after reading of the Khan's 
 splendid palace, and of his stately garden ten miles 
 in circumference ! and during a sleep of a few 
 hours he composed several hundred lines ; which, 
 on waking, he instantly committed to paper ; and 
 its fragmentary form is owing to the dream having 
 faded away before he could record it ! Mathema- 
 ticians, also, have been known to solve difficult 
 problems in their sleep, which they had hopelessly 
 abandoned when awake; and to this faculty musi- 
 cians are likewise sometimes indebted for their 
 finest passages. 
 
 But one of the most remarkable of the pheno- 
 mena of dreaming is the revival of forgotten lan- 
 guages ; for dreamers have been known to con- 
 verse with some familiarity in a language, with 
 which they have scarce any recollection, or avail- 
 able knowledge when awake ! 
 
 Many physicians have considered dreams to take 
 place only when the sleep is disturbed; and Haller 
 has even gone so far as to consider them sympto- 
 matic of disease, disturbing the repose of the sen- 
 sorium, and thereby debilitating both mind and 
 body. And our own enlightened countryman, the 
 late Dr. Rush, proceeds a step further, and regards 
 a dieam as a transient paroxysm of delirium, and 
 delirium as a permanent dream ! But were I to 
 judge from my own experience, I should unhesita- 
 tingly deny all of these positions : for, a continued 
 and dull sleep, unaccompanied by these pleasing 
 vagaries of the imagination, have been found so far 
 from renovating, that I have experienced a debility
 
 292 DREAMING. 
 
 and languor, similar to that resulting from morbid 
 "wakefulness. Disagreeable dreams certainly do 
 accompany bodily disorders, and during a febrile 
 diathesis, our dreams are also more frequent, and 
 almost universally of a sombre cast ; but the con- 
 verse of this is by no means true — that whenever 
 we have numerous or unpleasant dreams, the body 
 is in a disordered state. Be this, however, as it 
 may, pleasant or indifferent dreams are positively 
 healthy, are perfectly compatible with an invigo- 
 rating and refreshing sleep, and indeed, are fre- 
 quently found to be, as it were, a tonic to the 
 mind, occasioning one to rise in the morning in 
 better health and spirits, than might have been the 
 case, had the usual succession of these delightful 
 illusions been denied to him. 
 
 The general cast, or nature of dreams, is, no 
 doubt, very considerably influenced by a diffe- 
 rence of temperament. A man of a sanguine tem- 
 perament, will, by no means, have the same class or 
 description of dreams, as the phlegmatic — this obser- 
 vation is perhaps equally applicable to the moral as 
 to the physical temperament of man. Plutarch says, 
 that a fair argument may be drawn from a man's 
 dream, as to his temper, and general disposition; 
 and another ancient writer is of opinion, that a 
 wise and virtuous man will be alike himself, even 
 in his sleep. Of the general correctness of this 
 observation there can be but little doubt. 
 
 Our dreams frequently aflbrd us a good moral 
 lesson. By them we may learn to eschew many 
 indiscretions, and to avoid the encroachments of
 
 DREAMING. 293 
 
 evil habits. — The feelings excited in our dreams 
 by the follies and crimes we have committed, often 
 leave deep impressions, and serve to guard us 
 against the further commission of actions, which, 
 in our sleep, gave us so much uneasiness. 
 
 Shall I be pardoned, if in illustration of 
 
 their moral influences, I break the continuity of 
 my discussion by an example, somewhat in the 
 fashion of a little tale ? If so, kind reader ! come 
 on with me ; but, if not, pass on to what I have 
 further to say concerning the strange things that 
 appertain to my subject. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 Marcellus and Parthenia were the pride of 
 the village in which they lived ; he possessing in 
 an eminent degree every amiable virtue of the 
 heart, that conciliated affection, and of the mind, 
 that gives weight in society — and she, as lovely in 
 form and complexion as the morning dewy rose, 
 and in spirit, as gay and angelic as even poet's 
 fancy could portray. Possessed of an ample patri- 
 mony. Marcel! lis at an early age, seemed to have 
 consummated all earthly bliss, in receiving the 
 affections and hand, of this loveliest and best of 
 women. A few years glided on, more in ecstasy 
 than in sober happiness — every succeeding morn 
 affording some new source of bliss, derived from 
 perfect health, from youth, fortune, talents, and from 
 the affection of every poor villager around them ; 
 and the pure respect of the more intellectual, who 
 visited their homestead.
 
 294 DREAMING. 
 
 Two beautiful boys, the offspring of their ten- 
 der love, gave to Parthenia and her doting hus- 
 band, the promise of long continued joys in them, 
 after life's more buoyant current should grow 
 sluggish, and when heaven's reversion in close 
 and sweet prospect, should mitigate the pain of 
 separation ; and to this was added a conscious- 
 ness, that their elegant and exemplary life were 
 gradually refining the taste, and the morals of 
 the more humble and less intellectual people, with 
 whom they so kindly communed. Such was 
 the state of these congenial and virtuous souls, 
 united by the holiest of ties, and encompassed 
 with the smiles and benisons of God and of man. 
 
 But, in a fatal hour, Marcellus glided into the 
 company of a class of persons known as geiitle- 
 men gamesters, who were said to play merely joowr 
 passer le temps^ and for small sums, only suffi- 
 cient to add a little interest to the game — and so it 
 really was at first, when Marcellus appeared among 
 them. But the demon of avarice was not late in 
 appearing, and amusement was finally changed 
 into an engrossing, and immolating employment ! 
 Under the mask of friendship, which still con- 
 tinued, they were undermining each other's hap- 
 piness, destroying domestic felicity, and entailing 
 wretchedness and penury on those whom they 
 tenderly loved — on wives, children, and friends ! 
 It was Marcellus' nature, and his greatest misfor- 
 tune, to suspect no one — full of virtuous impulses, 
 he could not see the faults of others: winning or 
 losing gave him, at first, neither pleasure nor pain ;
 
 DREAMING. 295 
 
 Others around him were falUng into the abyss more 
 rapidly, but still not more surely than he was : 
 some of them were deeply unprincipled, they flat- 
 tered him with unwearied attentions, often de- 
 ceived him by apparent generosity; the habit was 
 becoming in Marcellus insensibly confirmed — and 
 he began to tolerate many things which, in the 
 commencement, would have filled his soul with 
 anguish. 
 
 A liberal hospitality was extended by all these 
 friends towards the gentle Marcellus, which, as 
 he thought, must necessarily be reciprocated. His 
 house was thrown open to them — it became a 
 scene of elegant festivity, then of less refined dis- 
 sipation, and eventually, an arena of disgusting 
 and terrific gambling — and Marcellus in the course 
 of the year, was found as avowed a gambler as any 
 of his companions ! 
 
 His sensible and devoted wife mourned not in 
 silence over his obvious change ; she often won 
 him for a time, by her tender appeals ; she poured 
 balm into his wounded soul ; she sustained him 
 in the dignity of his character, as husband, father, 
 and citizen; she argued, but railed not; and she 
 often flattered herself the victory had been achieved. 
 But these were delusive calms in an ocean now 
 given to storms — ruin was glaringly and frightfully 
 pendant over them — and even the servants and 
 children saw the impending desolation, and united 
 with Parthenia in their griefs. The devoted wife 
 and mother fervently implored heaven, friends, 
 children, and husband to avert the mischief — and,
 
 296 DREAMING, 
 
 with every means which love, reason, shame, grief, 
 and interest could invoke, she still resolved to win 
 him from his fatal malady. But all were tried in 
 vain ! His property was nearly gone, his health 
 much impaired, his heart in a degree indurated — 
 and the constitution and inner soul of the pure 
 and lovely Parthenia were so wasted, that death 
 would have been a welcome messenger. But 
 Providence, who is ever a God of means, ordained 
 it otherwise. 
 
 Marcellus, after his wonted dissipation, re- 
 turned as usual to his wife in the dead of night, 
 threw himself upon his bed ; and exhausted with 
 the scenes he had just passed through, soon 
 fell asleep. The pangs of an accusing con- 
 science haunted him in his dreams, with a 
 vividness and a stern reality, to which he had 
 been for months wholly a stranger in his waking 
 hours; and, in his dreamy wanderings, his 
 wretched mind finally brought him to the cells 
 of man deprived of reason. Propitious visions ! 
 Fancy pictured to him, at first, the many mingled 
 horrors that grew from sudden poverty — he distinct- 
 ly saw hunger, under the form of a perishing man, 
 contending, stealthily, with a famished dog, as to 
 who should gain a loathsome bone ! — thirst he saw, 
 with parched lips, sucking the last remnants from 
 a filthy cup she feebly held ! — childrefi, with hag- 
 gard eyes, were dying in their impoverished mo- 
 thers' arms ; and, at a distance, he distinctly beheld 
 sumptuous halls, full of imperial magnificence, 
 and with numerous tables groaning with luxu-
 
 DREAMING. 297 
 
 rious viands, and garnished with every dehcious 
 delicacy, and beautiful device, that taste could 
 yield ! This scene suddenly changed, and he 
 found himself in the midst of maniacs ! Com- 
 miserating the unhappy situation of these wretch- 
 ed beings, all of whom were wandering at liberty 
 in the corridors of the extensive building, he 
 thought their loss of reason, and their present 
 miseries, proceeded mainly from poverty, which 
 had been suddenly brought upon them ; and then 
 his fitful mind instantly transferred him and the 
 maniacs from these corridors, into the presence of 
 the sumptuous halls! — and he saw them struggling, 
 from hunger, to gain admission into these gorgeous 
 apartments — the feast was all before them, but the 
 lofty glass doors, through which they viewed it, 
 were barred against them ; and they, with him- 
 self, were soon excluded even from this delight- 
 ful vision, and were cast out into the court, there 
 to mingle with the famished dogs, and with the 
 men who contended for the miserable bones, and 
 with those who were maddened with thirst, and 
 were licking the exhausted cups of their last drops! 
 The scene once more changed ; and from the 
 open corridors, Marcellus passed from cell to cell, 
 the doors of which yielded for his entrance. Pan- 
 demonium, with its unmitigated horrors, seemed 
 there assembled — many in those cells were furious, 
 and bound with chains — others laughed unnatu- 
 rally and incessantly — some wept without intermis- 
 sion — some lacerated their bodies, others mourned 
 in silence. At length, in a more loathsome cell 
 26
 
 298 DREAMING. 
 
 than any, a lovely female, apparently the victim 
 of sullen and quiet despair, arrested his attention ! 
 At the first sight of Marcellus, she hastily turned 
 away, and then reclined her sickened limbs upon 
 a miserable bed of straw. Curiosity being keenly 
 awakened, Marcellus entered the cell ; the female, 
 in tattered garments, and with one side of her face 
 blooming in youthful health and freshness, whilst 
 the other was haggard, sallow, and emaciated, gave 
 him a hurried glance, then suddenly hid her head 
 in the folds of her mantle, and perseveringly refused 
 reply to any of his anxious inquiries ! 
 
 The singularity of a face that on the one side 
 beamed with happiness and beauty, and on the 
 other bore so many ugly lineaments of extreme 
 misery, stimulated his curiosity to the highest pitch. 
 Turning round to one of the keepers, and with a 
 heart throbbing with sensibility, he inquired into 
 the cause of her deplorable condition, and espe- 
 cially as to the phenomenon which so strangely 
 blended the manifestations of health and joy, with 
 those of disease and of grief! 
 
 'The villany of a husband,' replied the keeper, 
 'lost to every sentiment of virtue and of love, re- 
 duced himself and family from affluence to penury, 
 from bliss to misery — beggared his children, and 
 drove to desperation and to madness this virtuous 
 and most lovely of women. In her angelic face, 
 on its right side, you may see her as she was at 
 nineteen; and on the other side, what she has 
 come to at twenty-seven, through the gambling 
 dissipations of her now cruel, but once virtuous
 
 DREAMING. 299 
 
 husband.' At this instant, the unfortunate female 
 raised her head, and stood unveiled before them. 
 Great God ! what were the feelings, what the 
 agonies of Marcellus, when, in this wretched ma- 
 niac, he recognized his adored, his much injured 
 Parthenia ! All description fails — his feelings were 
 burning lava — and he instantly awoke ! In the 
 ecstasy of joy, and of renovated love, he embraced 
 his wife, overwhelmed with happiness to find it all 
 a dream ! 
 
 Marcellus communicated to Parthenia the har- 
 rowing scenes he had just witnessed in his dream 
 — and solemnly vowed to abjure for ever his late 
 practices, and wholly to abandon his false friends. 
 This he has done. The brightest rays of happi- 
 ness again play around them — Parthenia's health 
 is perfectly restored, and the shattered remnants of 
 their once ample fortune, give an annual increase, 
 and furnish them with that elegant but moderate 
 competency, which secures, to the virtuous, un- 
 mixed happiness. 
 
 For those who love the facts of philosophy, bet- 
 ter than the tales of a rather dull fancy, proceed we 
 now to the residue of what we have to offer con- 
 cerning the matter in hand. Suffer me here to 
 premise, however, that I do verily opine, an author, 
 of all others, is the most apt to be an egregious 
 ignoramus as to what may, or may not, please his 
 readers. It is nearly, if not quite in)possible, for 
 any reader whose likings run into some particular
 
 300 DREAMING. 
 
 channels, to imagine that when he himself turns 
 author, his readers will take no interest in the 
 objects of his long cherished tastes : and yet so it 
 may well be. 1 do remember one of the black- 
 letter volumes, of the days when alchemy, and 
 judicial astrology flourished, speaks thuswise of 
 dreaming — the author nothing doubting but that 
 his readers would wholly agree with him. 'It's no 
 wonder,' saith he, 'if a discourse on such sublime 
 subjects as the entertainment of our souls during 
 the body's nocturnal repose, and when they have 
 shaken otf, for a time, the fetters of the senses, 
 and are upon the wing in the suburbs of eternity, 
 it is no wonder, I say, if a discourse on the secret 
 intercourse of spirits with humanity, and on the 
 wonderful communications of Deity to his ser- 
 vants, in dreams and in visions, should be both 
 
 acceptable, and in some kind useful.' May I 
 
 be permitted, courteous reader ! so to think of mine? 
 My misgivings are great, in these our days of 
 stimulating literary condiments, at a time, too, 
 when an author is no author at all, unless he be 
 the parent of many volumes of most exciting tales, 
 and permitting moreover, two-thirds of them to be 
 sacrificed to the enrichment of a hungry, selfish, 
 unintellectual, monopolizing, set of publishers and 
 booksellers, before the poor inditer of these fictions 
 is permitted to pocket a single carlino of emolu- 
 ment! — I say my misgivings are, indeed, great, 
 as to whether any of these notes will please 
 either readers, or book-venders — and, in particular, 
 whether the subject of dreams, in our degenerate
 
 DREAMING. 301 
 
 day, will have sufficient interest to arrest their 
 now morbid, and mawkish attention — for, doubt- 
 less, Miss Papilla and her intellectual companion, 
 Whiskerandos, will contemn all of these Notes as 
 quite too philosophical ! 
 
 But, I have told thee in my preface, that I have 
 embarked on this troublous sea of authorship, and 
 that I mean to steer my frail bark, by my own 
 small rudder, and by my own careful observations 
 upon the literary atmosphere, regardless of the 
 calms, and of the storms, from whatever source 
 they come, during my perilous voyage — hoping, 
 withal, for more favourable breezes hereafter, and 
 for more hospitable ports, than are to be looked 
 for, either in these our days, or in these our mer- 
 cantile regions. 
 
 This digression ended, I find that the musty 
 old author, just quoted by me, whose name I can- 
 not give, as he disdained all fame, present or post- 
 humous, and therefore revealed it not, has seen 
 fit to arrange dreams into three cardinal divisions, 
 viz: SiDERiAL, Spiritual, and Complexional. 
 
 To the first class, or those dreams which he attri- 
 butes to siderial influences, he gives seven orders, 
 as the dreamers are supposed to be more or less 
 affected by the then known seven planets, includ- 
 ing the sun and moon, and excluding our earth. 
 Mercurial dreams are confused, fanciful, and ram- 
 bling — Lunar are fickle, lying and foolish — those 
 of Vejiics are instinct with love, and the amiable 
 aff'ections — Martial dreams are fierce and war- 
 26*
 
 302 DREAMING. 
 
 like — Jovial are mild, grave, and thoughtful — 
 Saturnine are sad, dull, and frightful ; and lastly, 
 Solar dreams are gorgeous, varied, replete with 
 worldly honours, and all the fruits of riches! 
 
 But these siderial dreams, as well as the science 
 of astrology, (to which they are so closely allied) 
 are now consigned by the enlightenment of our 
 age, to merited contempt and oblivion. 
 
 As to the second class, or spirittial dreams, they 
 are referred by this author to the four sources of 
 Deity — of good angels — evil angels — and of the 
 prince of darkness : — in respect to all of which, 
 it may be remarked tliat most good men, of all 
 ages, have believed that Deity has sometimes 
 vouchsafed thus to commune with the soul of 
 man — and, as to the doctrine of diabolical influ- 
 ences on man, whether when asleep or awake, he, 
 as I presume, is a bold man who would utterly 
 repudiate them. 
 
 And lastly, as to the class of coniplexional 
 dreams, they are referred to the theory of the live 
 temperaments of man, in respect to the general 
 truth of which theory, there can be little doubt, 
 nor can it be questioned but that dreams often 
 originate in, and are often greatly varied by these 
 temperaments. 
 
 The ancients had a strange fancy in regard to 
 the apparitions that may appear to us, either in 
 dreams, or in day visions. They supposed that 
 all ghosts or apparitions are material, but com- 
 posed of extremely attenuated elements — that the 
 soul of man, during sleep, or wakefulness^ can
 
 liREAMING. 303 
 
 never perceive a pure spirit; and hence that 
 angels, the devils, his imps, and finally, all imma- 
 terial beings, are obliged to clothe themselves in 
 these refined bodies, that they may become visible 
 to man, even in his dreams. They further sup- 
 posed that all human beings have two bodies ; the 
 one the outward, gross, and visible tenement; the 
 other the elemental, thin, and demi-spiritual body, 
 proceeding fi-om what, in after times, was called the 
 radical moisture ; and that all of the beings seen 
 in our dreams, are these refined bodies, either of 
 departed beings, or of such from among the spiri- 
 tual world, as are commissioned to assume these 
 forms. It was also supposed by them, that when 
 in our dreams and day visions, we see these spec- 
 tres, it is never with our gross and visible eyes, but 
 that our communion with them is always through 
 the medium of the thin, and elementary body — 
 and finally, that as long as the radical moisture 
 remains existent after death, so long may the appa- 
 ritions or ghosts of that body exist, and be visible 
 in this world — and that, as this moisture gradually 
 diminishes, by time or otherwise, so will the ghost 
 become weaker, and weaker, until it vanishes 
 wholly, by becoming a pure spirit! 
 
 On the basis of these notions was it, that the 
 ancients so often consumed their dead bodies to 
 ashes, that they might at once, so effectually de- 
 stroy the radical moisture, as to give peace to souls, 
 and prevent their assuming the thin covering, and 
 thus molest the living by their apparitions ! But 
 the Egyptians, of course, saw, and now see more
 
 304 DREAMING. 
 
 ghosts than other people, since they preserved their 
 defunct bodies, with such special care : and the 
 spectres of the twenty miUions of mummies, sup- 
 posed to be still existent in the cemeteries of 
 Thebes, and of other cities in that ancient land, 
 will enable our travellers to encounter a ghost, or a 
 phalanx of them, ad libitum ! 
 
 The superstitious practice, also, which is some- 
 times used, of compelling one charged with mur- 
 der, to touch the wounds of the deceased, origi- 
 nates in this theory — for, in such case, the notion 
 was that certain effluvia hover around the body for 
 a time ; and that by uniting together, they com- 
 pose those spectra that wander among the ceno- 
 taphs, the dormitories of the dead, and the like 
 places ! These, though generally invisible from 
 their extreme tenuity, are supposed to become visi- 
 ble to the murderer, the instant he touclies the 
 wounds — because, then, the effluvia with an ex- 
 treme energy, issue from the sally-ports of a lin- 
 gering, but wholly unseen life, unite into form, and 
 fly, at once, into the murderer's face ! 
 
 In like manner, as 'tis said, dogs, and other ani- 
 mals, possess the faculty denied to man, of recog- 
 nizing by these spectra, the murderer of a master, 
 or of a friend. To the same idea, likewise, we 
 may refer the fact, that persons of gross and wick- 
 ed appetites are peculiarly subject to demoniacal 
 possession; by which is to be understood, not 
 merely that they have many bad thoughts, and 
 evil propensities, but that the Evil One, or his 
 messengers, take actual possession of them. And
 
 DREAMING. 305 
 
 this is supposed to arise from their demi-spiritual 
 bodies becoming themselves grosser and grosser, 
 through their own wickedness — opening thereby 
 to the foul-fiend an entrance, by which he is 
 enabled to exercise a more direct and intense com- 
 munion with the soul — and hence spring the many 
 horrid sights, the agonizing dreams, the swarms of 
 vain and torturing thoughts, of shocking desires, 
 of blasphemous imaginations, and the apparently 
 resistless crowd of enmities against God, in spite of 
 the severe conflicts, which the same souls are con- 
 scious of, as being waged against these demons, 
 by spirits of an opposite nature ! If the Catade- 
 mons, or lovers of evil angels, be denominated 
 'Legion,' because of their vast number, so, like- 
 wise, are there myriads of protecting or good ones ; 
 and hence, in our dreams, and also in our waking 
 hours, all life seems but a perpetual warfare be- 
 tween the Spirits of Evil, and the Spirits of Good — 
 between Ebony and Topaz ! 
 
 It was a matter of no small consequence, in 
 times of yore, to know the insignia of their ghost- 
 ships; and especially, to be able to distinguish 
 with certainty, the guardian spirit from the evil 
 one. And though the outward and visible signs of 
 these gossamer beings, were often no very sure cri- 
 terions, yet all seemed to agree on two, as infalli- 
 ble, — to wit, that a good angel never assumed the 
 shape of a woman — and that a bearded angel was 
 ever to be accounted as an evil one! Woman is 
 the 'weaker vessel;' she, moreover, 'brought death 
 into the world, and all our woe;' and yet, as she
 
 306 DREAMING. 
 
 has behaved herself since that time tolerably well, 
 and certainly far better than man hath done, it 
 would seem a strange slur upon her now, to sup- 
 pose she can never assume the office and garb of a 
 good angel ! and, as for the reproach cast thereby 
 upon beards, they have been very generally held in 
 high veneration, though it must be admitted that 
 the face without one, appears milder, and that 
 some modern ones have very diabolical aspects ! 
 
 The Greeks and Romans, in their most polished 
 times, were generally bearded; and when one of 
 the popes, in after times, shaved his off, the Greek 
 church regarded it as a great apostacy ! We also 
 find the prophets and apostles uniformly bearded 
 by the painters; and though Aulus Gellius states 
 that criminals were never permitted to appear with- 
 out beards, the weight of authority is certainly on 
 the side of their being very generally received as 
 an honourable appendage. I am, therefore, at a 
 loss for a valid reason as to this belief that a good 
 angel was never found in woman's lovely form — or 
 in that of a man with a graceful, flowing beard — 
 mats en voild, plus quHl ti'en faut. These, how- 
 ever, are deep subjects, in which, though there 
 have been many wild imaginations, still, he is no 
 keen observer of the human heart and mind, who 
 would cast them wholly off as worthless dross. 
 
 I have several times alluded to the extreme rapi- 
 dity of thought in dreams, the infinite variety and 
 combinations of their events, and how, in them, 
 the transactions of a life, are compressed into the 
 brief minutes of a short sleep ! Mr. Addison illus-
 
 DREAMING. 307 
 
 trates this idea in so beautiful a manner, that I do 
 not hesitate to insert it, as follows : — 'In the Koran, 
 it is said that the angel Gabriel took Mahomet out 
 of his bed one morning, to give him a sight of all 
 things in the seven heavens, in paradise and in 
 hell, which the prophet took a distant view of; 
 and, after having held ninety thousand conferences 
 with God, was brought back again to his bed. All 
 this was transacted in so small a space of time, 
 that Mahomet, on his return, found his bed still 
 warm, and took up an earthen pitcher which was 
 thrown down at the very instant that the angel 
 Gabriel carried him away, before the water was all 
 spilt ! 
 
 'A sultan of Egypt, who was an infidel, used to 
 laugh at this circumstance in Mahomet's life, as 
 what was altogether impossible and absurd ; but, 
 conversing one day with a great doctor in the law, 
 who had the gift of working miracles, the doctor 
 told him he would quickly convince him of the 
 truth of this passage in the Koran, if he would 
 consent to do what he would desire of him. Upon 
 this, the sultan was directed to place himself by a 
 huge tub of water, which he did accordingly ; and 
 as he stood by the tub amidst a circle of his great 
 men, the holy man bid him plunge his head into 
 the water, and draw it up again. The king accor- 
 dingly thrust his head into the water, and at the 
 same time found himself at the foot of a moun- 
 tain on the sea shore ! The king set himself to 
 think on proper methods for getting a livelihood in 
 this strange country. Accordingly, he applied
 
 308 DREAMING. 
 
 himself to some people whom he saw at work in a 
 neighbouring wood. Those people conducted him 
 to a town that stood at a little distance from the 
 wood, where, after some adventures, he married a 
 woman of great beauty and fortune. He lived with 
 this woman so long, that he had by her seven sons, 
 and seven daughters. He was afterwards reduced 
 to great want, and forced to think of plying in the 
 streets as a porter for his livelihood. One day, as 
 he was walking alone by the sea side, being seized 
 with many melancholy reflections upon his former 
 and his present state of life, which had raised a fit 
 of devotion in him, he threw off his clothes, with 
 a design to wash himself, according to the custom 
 of the Mahometans, before he said his prayers. 
 
 'After his first plunge into the sea, he no sooner 
 raised his head above the water, but he found him- 
 self standing beside the tub, with the great men 
 of his court about him, and the holy man at his 
 side ! He immediately upbraided his teacher for 
 having sent him on such a course of adventures, 
 and betrayed him into so long a state of misery 
 and servitude, but was wonderfully surprised when 
 he heard that the state he talked of was only a 
 dream; that he had not stirred from the place 
 where he then stood ; that he had only dipped his 
 head into the water, and immediately taken it out 
 again ! The Mahometan doctor took this occasion 
 of instructing the sultan, that nothing was impos- 
 sible with God; that he, with whom a thousand 
 years are but as one day, can, if he pleases, make
 
 DREAMING. 309 
 
 a single day, nay, a single moment appear to any 
 of his creatures as a thousand years.' 
 
 From the foregoing tale we may learn that an 
 whole age, nay, even that of our world, may be as 
 a single moment with all spiritual existences ; or 
 that the eternity which comes after death, may be 
 without any true note of time, myriads of years 
 being but as a moment, and moments, on the con- 
 trary, filled with the events of ages. 
 
 Another remarkable feature in dreams, and one 
 nearly identical with the preceding, is, that they 
 generally relate to things as present; they deal 
 little with ihQpast, or with the future! all is a per- 
 petual 710W ! — for, if we are in the presence of Noah 
 and the prophets, or of Caesar and Bonaparte, they 
 are all our cotemporaries, and we their associates, 
 with no consciousness of .the past, and of course, 
 with no surprise at the strange anachronisms ! 
 This fact is full of intimations of the soul's pro- 
 bable stale when wholly severed from the body ; it 
 harmonizes with all the marvels recorded of dream- 
 ing, and shows that sleep is the connecting link 
 between life and death ! If the soul be, indeed, a 
 ray from the source of eternal power, it seems, 
 during sleep, to be an emanation, that delights in 
 freedom, and revels in its partial exemption from 
 the toils of place and of time. In this state it am- 
 bles, as it were, on the very confines of eternity, or 
 swims in the vast abyss, reminded of its mortal 
 alliance, (like the falcon to its master,) only by the 
 slender leash that binds it. 
 27
 
 310 DREAMING. 
 
 This enlargement of the privilege of the soul 
 during sleep, tliough small compared with that 
 which follows death, is yet sufficient to place be- 
 fore it very many of its past actions, as things 
 essentially present ; and hence it is that minds, 
 insensible to remorse when awake, are sometimes 
 suddenly stimulated to deep repentance, by the 
 lively presentation during sleep of the events of 
 their life — events that had been nearly erased from 
 their memory ! But how greatly more astounded 
 must the soul be, after the total dissolution of its 
 connection with time, to find itself at once in the 
 presence of all the sinful actions and thoughts of 
 its worldly existence, all of them naked and bare, 
 and the whole concentrated in a clearly visible, 
 fearful, and perpetual noio ; and this, too, with no 
 one oblivious appliance, present, or hoped for, that 
 can mitigate, in the least, the loathsome sight ! — 
 for, as to all men, '■their works do follow them^ 
 none, no not one of them, is missing, but all are 
 actually and eternally before them ! 
 
 I know that flimsy thinkers, have ever been dis- 
 posed to treat with ridicule, the least idea that sleep 
 and dreams, (both so natural) can ever shadow 
 forth the things of an after life. Philosophers of 
 old have rightly said that superstition is odious to 
 the gods; and equally so is unmeaning incredulity. 
 But that sensible belief, which takes a middle 
 course, and which, by a wise tnoral alchymy^ 
 extracts from the numerous facts of dreaming, 
 some wholesome lessons, is an homage which a 
 well ordered mind should willingly pay to Him
 
 DREAMING. 311 
 
 who causeth the soul to think^ and the heart to 
 /ee/, no less during our nocturnal, than our daily 
 existence ; and such a sensible belief will find that 
 philosophy and religion are equally consentaneous 
 to the idea that sleep and dreams are sometimes 
 designed to teach man, more intimately, the nature 
 of his soul ; and that at all times, they have been 
 occasionally used by Deity as the vehicle of useful 
 presages, appertaining either to this, or to the other 
 world. 
 
 If then, in dreams, we perceive that the soul is 
 very apt to deal with all things as if present, and to 
 take no note of tiine ; and if we likewise find that 
 in nearly all prophecy, the matters are dealt with as 
 if actuallij present, the inference is a rational one 
 that the soul of the dreamer, as well as of the pro- 
 phet, has been, for the time, partially absolved from 
 corporeal ties, and that it wanders more at large 
 into that state of existence where matter, place, 
 and time are unknown. Moses, no doubt, saw as 
 a visible now, the past, present, and future ! He 
 saw the transactions of the creation — of the fall of 
 man — of the flood, as things present to him ! So 
 Christ is said to be a Lamb ^slain'' from the foun- 
 dation of the world, and yet the actual event occur- 
 red more than four thousand years after — it being 
 seen by the prophet, eight hundred years before it 
 took place in time I When Isaiah says ^Babxjlon 
 is fallen,'' he contemplates it as sl presc7it event, 
 and when the same prophet speaks of Cyrus, one 
 hundred and forty years before the temple was 
 destroyed, and fully two hundred years before his
 
 312 DREAMING. 
 
 birth, he deals with this founder of the Persian 
 monarchy as if then in being, and with the events 
 to be accomplished by him, as if then existent ! 
 The Scriptures are full of such expressions — and 
 how could it be otherwise ? for a prophet, in the 
 act of his holy vocation, must necessarily be inde- 
 pendent of, and, so to speak, out of time; and must 
 see as a spirit, which deals not with time. Hence 
 arises the general idea that the dreams of the aged 
 are more veracious — and, in correspondence with 
 this opinion is the equally usual one, that the 
 opinions of those who are on the eve of dissolu- 
 tion, are likewise more prophetic ; and still further, 
 the very current belief among the moderns, as 
 well as the ancients, that morning dreams are the 
 somnia vera, — the true dreams. 
 
 There can be no doubt of the fact, that the 
 thoughts of our sleep exert a larger influence on 
 those of our wakefulness, than is generally sup- 
 posed — and one very remarkable fact little noted 
 by metaphysicians, proves this. The fact to which 
 I allude is not a mere mental idiosyncracy, but 
 is truly a feature in the human mind. The phe- 
 nomenon is thus mentioned by Baron Smith : 'In 
 connection with the phenomena of memory, may 
 I be here permitted to take notice of a certain 
 mystery or marvel which has occasionally pre- 
 sented itself to me, and in voucher of the exis- 
 tence of which I have the experience of others, in 
 addition to my own? I mean that strange impres- 
 sion, which will occasionally come with unex- 
 pected suddenness on the mind, that the scene
 
 DREAMING. 313 
 
 now passing, and in which we share, is one 
 which, in the very words, with the same persons, 
 and with the same feeUngs, we had accurately 
 rehearsed we know not where before ! It is the 
 more extraordinary of those sensations, (and is one 
 which will occur,) wherein what is going forward, 
 there is nothing remarkable or of particular inte- 
 rest involved. While we speak, our former words 
 are ringing in our ears, and the sentences which 
 we form are the faint echoes of a conversation had 
 in olden time! Our conscious thoughts, too, as 
 they rise, seem to whisper to each other that this 
 is not their first appearance in this place. In 
 short, all that is now before us, seems the ap- 
 parition of a dialogue long departed — the spectral 
 resurrection of scenes and transactions long gone 
 by. Or we may be said, by the momentary gleam 
 of a flash of reminiscence, to be reviewing, in a 
 mysterious mirror, the dark reflections of times 
 past, and living over, in minute and shadowy 
 detail, a duplicate of the incidents of some pre- 
 existent state !' 
 
 But this unconscious indebtedness, of our active 
 and vigilant life, to the forgotten scenes and 
 thoughts of our sleeping hours, \vas probably first 
 alluded to, at least in more modern times, by Sir 
 Walter Scott, in his Guy Mannering — for so 
 Dugald Stewart thinks. That great mental phi- 
 losopher gives the credit to his highly gifted 
 countryman, of having first revealed to our dis- 
 tinct notice, this strange reminiscence. The pas- 
 sage in the novel, is that in which Bertram ex- 
 27*
 
 314 DREAMING. 
 
 presses his mysterious feelings at viewing the 
 castle of Eilangowan, from which he had been 
 stolen when quite a child — and is as follows. 
 'Why is it that some scenes awaken thoughts, 
 ■which belong as it were to dreams of early and 
 shadowy recollection, such as my old Bramin 
 Moonshie would have ascribed to a state of pre- 
 vious existence? Are they the visions of our 
 sleep that float confusedly in our memory, and 
 are recalled by the appearance of such real objects 
 as in. any respect correspond to the phantoms they 
 presented to our imagination ? How often do we 
 find ourselves in society which we have never 
 before met, and yet feel impressed with a myste- 
 rious and ill-defined consciousness that neither the 
 scene, the speakers, nor the subject is entirely 
 new; nay, feel as if we could anticipate that part 
 of the conversation which has not yet taken place?' 
 
 We have reason then, to believe, that the lost 
 thoughts of remote periods of our life — those of 
 our earliest infancy — those of our dreams, still 
 float vaguely in our minds; and, that they aflect, 
 more or less, the current of our wakeful existence, 
 often imparting to it dim and confused remem- 
 brances, which, in weak minds beget superstition, 
 and which in strong ones, never fail to create 
 some surprise. 
 
 On the whole, it is most certain, as one of the 
 black-letter writers hath it, that the 'Soul of Man 
 is a Mystery, breathed out of the grand Mystery — 
 a Ray of the Eternal Sun — which, when absolved 
 from the pollutions of the flesh, is then capable of
 
 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 315 
 
 communicating with good spirits, and of being 
 united to its divine original.' This being certainly 
 so, it follows that, whilst it is the province of wis- 
 dom to steer clear of the follies of those who would 
 be learned beyond what is given to man, it is 
 equally a duly to seek for light wherever it may be 
 found. 
 
 He, therefore, approves himself wise, who neither 
 reposes on all that hath been said of dreams, nor 
 scornfully rejects the whole, as savouring too 
 much of religion — of superstition— and of over- 
 curious learning. 
 
 NOTE XX. THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 
 
 'THE ROBBERS.' 
 
 Few things so simultaneously tend to form and 
 evince the manners and genius of a people, as their 
 public and accepted amusements. Whilst the pre- 
 vailing taste is indicated by the encouragement 
 accorded to public spectacles, these have powerful 
 and pervading influence on the general and indivi- 
 dual mind, by no means unworthy the attention, not 
 only of the moralist, but of the statesman. 
 
 It is not my wish to be enrolled in the catalogue 
 of disputants either for or against the moral, intel- 
 lectual, and political influence of the drama, for I 
 think the dilliculty has been formed by the honest 
 but contracted and overheated zeal of the enemies 
 of the buskin on the one hand, and tlie indiscrimi- 
 nating and morbid attachment of its admirers on 
 the other. The sound judgment and truth in this
 
 316 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 
 
 as well as most other matters lie, as I conceive, in 
 the mean — since the drama is a good which contains 
 within its very hearts core the seeds of its own 
 corruption and dissolution. It is a good, which if 
 wisely used, might be extensively and permanently 
 beneficial ; but its excellencies amble on the very 
 confines of vice and licentiousness, its virtues as- 
 sociate too much with their opposite vices, and its 
 collateral ill effects frequently more than counter- 
 poise its direct and legitimate tendencies. The 
 drama in its purity would be a school of virtue. 
 Sound morals conveyed through the medium of 
 interesting incidents, enforced and radicated by the 
 charms of eloquence and oratory, heightened and 
 located by scenic representation, cannot fail to 
 make impressions deep and lasting, for 
 
 'What we hear 
 With weaker passion will affect the heart, 
 Than when the faithful eije beholds the part.' 
 
 From the history of nations we may infer that a 
 love for the drama is a dictate of nature, for no 
 people have been found so rude as not to have 
 fostered this species of divertissement. 
 
 The passion for the drama has its foundation in 
 our inherent fondness for novelty and fiction ; or 
 in the more legitimate and lively interest which is 
 taken in faithful delineations of the natural and 
 affecting incidents of real life. The social and 
 moral sympathies never fail to be excited, and the 
 heart and understanding to be interested and im- 
 proved, in proportion as the incidents and language 
 of the drama approximate those of common life ;
 
 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 317 
 
 and nothing but a diseased judgment, a vitiated 
 taste, or a corrupt heart can give a preference to 
 the exhibition of murders, assassinations, poison- 
 ino-s, parricides, fratricides, ghosts, wizards, witch- 
 es, hobgoblins, fiends, bandits, robbers, &.c. with all 
 their horrid concomitants, to the natural and gra- 
 dual development of those incidents which as they 
 belong to humanity, and do occur, are calculated to 
 excite our sympathies ; and as they but seldom 
 happen are sufficiently novel to rivet our attention, 
 and agreeably agitate our social feelings. 
 
 It may be advanced as a physical truth, that 
 whatever gently exercises the mind or body, with- 
 out fatigue, affords a pleasing sensation. The 
 drama, therefore, if one of the objects be pleasure, 
 should never do violence to the moral feelings, 
 should never overstep the modesty of nature. 
 Probability, or, at least, possibility, should be kept 
 in view. The imagination should not be forcibly 
 exercised, but we should 
 
 'Hold the golden mean, 
 Keep the end in view, and follow nature.' 
 
 If Utility be an object, contemplated by the 
 drama, nature and truth should never be forsaken 
 for the wild and airy fictions of the imagination. 
 But whilst we entertain this opinion, we conceive 
 that all the faculties of the soul are reciprocally 
 dependent, and impart strength and vigour to each 
 other. The operations of the judgment are no 
 doubt quickened and assisted by the imagination, 
 and nothing can be more unphilosophical than the
 
 318 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. • 
 
 doctrine of a state of hostility between the various 
 faculties of the mind. We are therefore, not un- 
 friendly to the imagination, but only to its deli- 
 riums ; for this faculty, of all others, needs restraint, 
 as it is most liable to deterioration, and when once 
 diseased, becomes dangerous to its associates, and is 
 often found their tyrant and destroyer. We could 
 therefore wish that 'Moi/icr Goose,^ ^Brazen Mask,^ 
 ' Valentine and Orson,^ ' Ci7iderella,'' ^Hercules and 
 Omphale,'' ' The Flying Dutchman^ '■Mazeppa^ 
 '■Aladdin^ and a hundred other melo dramas, 
 should less frequently appear. So, likewise, that 
 all those tragedies in which poisonings and parri- 
 cides, robberies, seductions, horrid vices, and all 
 the black catalogue of the worst of human atroci- 
 ties crowd in thick succession upon us, and depict 
 our species as fiends principally intent on each 
 other's misery and destruction — should never be 
 exhibited. In the representation of these kind of 
 scenes, every legitimate object of the drama is 
 abandoned; for, we suppose, that no other object 
 would be avowed but utility and pleasure. Man 
 never improves by presenting his vices in gigantic 
 stature. The mitid, in such case, is too much 
 occupied to permit the heart to feel, and the de- 
 formity and unnatural bulk of the vice is such 
 that the mind itself rejects it as a fiction. So, 
 also, to a mind endued with any reason, delinea- 
 tions of this description, afford no pleasure; or, at 
 least, the pain to a feeling heart, more than coun- 
 terpoises the agreeable emotions; or, perhaps, the
 
 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 319 
 
 most which can be accorded to them, is an alterna- 
 tion of pleasurable, and very painful sensations. 
 But if. these kinds of representation alford little 
 or no pleasure to rational and feeling minds, it 
 may, perhaps, be admitted, that a considerable por- 
 tion of an audience have neither much reason nor 
 feeling I If this be the case, it affords an addi- 
 tional motive why the stage should be chastened ; 
 why its corruptions and impurities, its obscenities 
 and bad taste, should undergo a radical reform. 
 The drama, then, is a good thing, much and con- 
 stantly abused, and I cannot but lament that an 
 institution so eminently calculated to foster and 
 disseminate virtue, should so frequently stray from 
 this salutary object, by the enactment of plays 
 which shock every moral feeling, suffuse the cheek 
 of modesty with overwhelming blushes, represent 
 man as a monster of iniquity, render vice trium- 
 phant in the very act of vice, clothe depravity with 
 the habiliments of high-minded honour — and con- 
 nect with it neutralizing virtues, that the character 
 may thus find by stealth, a passport into our affec- 
 tions ; treat the presence and the name of Deity 
 with irreverence; ascribe io fate and io blind neces- 
 sity, what is the result of a base heart, and of (he 
 conduct of 3i free agent ; make love paramount and 
 triumphant over every virtue which graces the 
 more pure and tender sex ; place on the lips of a 
 young, and lovely woman, sentiments at all times 
 shocking, but peculiarly so when uttered at the 
 very moment of resigning her soul into the hands 
 of her Creator! — and yet all this, and much more
 
 320 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 
 
 can be said of that abandoned^ detestable^ wicked 
 and incongruous play, called ' The Robbers.'' 
 
 What can be the motive for the frequent repeti- 
 tion of this sacrilegious and horrid play, we have 
 at all times been at a loss to imagine. Utiliti/ is 
 entirely out of the question ; pleasure, as we con- 
 ceive, equally so. We know that there is a certain 
 anomalous principle in our nature which occasions 
 us to take pleasure in the contemplation of scenes 
 of affliction, in which the spectator would ever 
 desire to avoid a participation. But this principle 
 will not bear us through this shocking play, for it 
 is a principle modified by another, which has been 
 before mentioned, viz: that pleasure whether men- 
 tal or sensual, is the result of a gentle exercise 
 (without fatigue) of the organs of the body, or 
 faculties of the mind; so that the pleasure derived 
 from the exhibition of the affliction of others, is 
 immediately superseded by pain, when the imagi- 
 nation, sympathy and moral feelings are so vio- 
 lently acted upon, as they unquestionably are in 
 the play of The Robbers. 
 
 Few have attended the exhibition of this tra- 
 gedy, without some shock to their feelings, and a 
 transient resolution never again to see it; for that 
 pleasure which is occasioned by scenes of afflic- 
 tion, (as a sensible writer observes) is to be ascribed 
 to a compound feeling, arising from the five sources 
 of curiosity — sympathy — a degree of mental exer- 
 tion — the idea of our own security — and from the 
 interesting situations which occasionally happen in 
 real life ; but pain must predominate when nothing
 
 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 321 
 
 but human vice and depravity are presented, and 
 every generous, honourable, and virtuous principle 
 is violated. 
 
 Legitimate tragedy, according to Aristotle, and 
 more modern judicious authors, through the me- 
 dium of embellished language and a degree of terror 
 and pity, must induce a refinement and melioration 
 of our passions. That the 'Robbers,'' is calculated 
 either to excite even pity, or to refine and melio- 
 rate the passions is what we utterly deny, for 
 there is no character in the piece, (except perhaps 
 the Count de Moor) that is not very objectionable, 
 and the sentiments, with a few bright exceptions, 
 can excite nothing but alternate terror and disgust. 
 
 Schiller, the author of this celebrated piece, has 
 frequently been compared by his warm admirers 
 to Shakspeare, and this play of the Robbers to 
 Richard III. We are very favourably impressed 
 with the genius of Schiller, and have no hesitation 
 in admitting that he has given us, in this very 
 piece, considerable evidences of it. Our objections 
 to the play are chiefly of a moral nature, we con- 
 sider it destitute of utility, and so artfully contrived 
 and ingeniously wrought up, as to be extremely 
 pernicious in its tendency. 
 
 Neither time nor inclination admit of a critical 
 and minute analysis of the merits and demerits of 
 this play, but if any good may result from our 
 animadversions, it will be necessary to point out 
 somewhat definitively, though briefly, our objec- 
 tions. 
 
 28
 
 322 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 
 
 The pivot on which the incidents of this piece 
 rest, is the doctrine of fatahty. Tins, as is ob- 
 served by the translator, 'pervades the whole piece, 
 and influences the conduct of the chief agents in 
 the drama.' It requires but little knowledge of the 
 human mind, and certainly no philosophical acu- 
 men to discern the pernicious results of the admis- 
 sion of that doctrine which ascribes a fixity and 
 unalterable nature to the course of human events; 
 which makes man a mere machine, acting in irre- 
 versible subordination to the agency of a superior 
 power; which ascribes to virtue and vice neither 
 merit nor demerit, but attributes to the agent a 
 passive subjection to irresistible impulses. This 
 doctrine is the veil which is designed to cover the 
 black and heinous iniquity of Charles de Moor. 
 It is the [flattermg unction^ which is to soften the 
 pains of a harrowed conscience — it is the source of 
 pity and commiseration for Charles's sufferings ; 
 and here, then, is the great evil resulting from the 
 admission of the principle. 
 
 IBut the friends of Schiller say, that this fatalism 
 did not weaken his moral sensibility or his con- 
 sciousness of the itnputability of his crimes ! We 
 admit that it did not entirely extinguish humanity ; 
 nature would occasionally dawn through the dark 
 covering of his crimes, and remorse take entire 
 possession of his soul. But still, we find him to 
 rest his crimes on the impious, but to him some- 
 what soothing belief, that he was the 'instrument 
 of vengeance in the hands of the Almighty for the 
 punishment of others.' The government and laws
 
 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 323 
 
 of his country are to sleep, whilst he, the guiltiest 
 wretch of all, presumed to judge and punish guilt! 
 
 'Now hear me, sir,' (says this honourable villain to the 
 commissary of his injured country) 'hear Moor the cap- 
 tain of these incendiai'ies. It is true I have assassinated 
 a count of the empire. It is true I have burnt and 
 plundered the church of the Dominicans. It is true I 
 have set fire to your bigoted town, and blown up your 
 powder magazine. But I have done more than all that. 
 Look here, (holding out his hand) at these four rings of 
 value ! This ruby I drew from the finger of a minister 
 whom I cut down at the chase, at his prince's feet. 
 He had built his fortune on the miseries of his fellow 
 creatures, and his elevation was marked by the tears 
 of the fatherless and the widow. This diamond I took 
 from a treasurer-general, who made a traflBc of offices of 
 trust, and sold honours, the rewards of merit, to the 
 highest bidder. This camelion I wear in honour of a 
 priest, whom I dispatched with my own hand for his 
 most pious and passionate lamentation over the fall of 
 the Inquisition. I could expatiate at large, sir, on the 
 history of these rings, did I not already repent that I 
 have wasted words on a man unworthy to hear me.' 
 
 But Moor, as we shall see, did not even restrict 
 himself to this abandoned principle of taking the 
 sword of justice into his own hand. 
 
 Admitting that the doctrine of fatalism, as incul- 
 cated in this play, does not extinguish conscience 
 and remorse, it is still highly deleterious ; for if 
 once a villain conceives himself damned past all 
 redemption, where is the restraint upon his fiend- 
 like passions : where is the boundary to his atro- 
 cities? Besides this, the principle of fatality is
 
 324 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 
 
 generally found to accompany vice, not virtue. 
 The fatalist does not conceive himself destined to 
 act the part of innocence and unblemished virtue. 
 But sufficient has been said of this dangerous 
 feature of the play. 
 
 The next which may perhaps be worthy atten- 
 tion, is Charles de Moor's soliloquy on suicide in 
 the forest scene of the fourth act. After the com- 
 mission of crimes at which nature recoils, and 
 the genial current in our veins should pause, 
 Moor and his fiend-like associates stretch them- 
 selves on the ground, in the forest of Bohemia, 
 to rest their wearied limbs. Though night's sable 
 curtain hung o'er the wcrH, and all without was 
 tranquil, sleep could find no welcome, peace no 
 entrance into Charles' bosom ; all his black enor- 
 mities stared him in the face, and self-slaughter 
 appeared, to his distracted soul, the only antidote ! 
 
 Moor. — 'Good night' (to his companions) 'forever — 
 a long, long night! on which no morrow e'er shall 
 dawn. Think you that I will tremble ! never, never. — 
 Shadows of the dead, the murdered, rise ! no joint of 
 me shall quake. Your dying agonies, your black and 
 strangled visage, your gaping wounds — these are but 
 links of that eternal chain of destiny wliich Avound itself 
 around me from my birth — which hung perhaps upon 
 the humours of my nurse, my father's temperament, 
 or my mother's blood. Why did the great artifiter 
 form, Uke Perillus, this monster whose burning entrails 
 yearn for human flesh? (draws a pistol.) This little 
 tube unites eternity to time ! This key will shut the 
 prison door of Ufe, and open wide the regions of futu- 
 rity. Tell me, oh tell ! to what unknown, what stranger
 
 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 325 
 
 coast thou shalt conduct me ! The soul recoils and 
 shrinks with terror from that awful thought ; while busy 
 fancy fills the scene with horrid phantoms — No, no ! 
 man must not hesitate. Be what thou will, thou Avorld 
 without a name, so that this self remains ; this self 
 within. For aU that is external what has it of reality 
 beyond that form and colour which the mind itself 
 bestows? — I am myself my heaven or my hell,' (look- 
 ing towards the horizon) 'If he should give me a new 
 earth, some blasted region banished from his sight — 
 where I alone inhabited, companion of eternal night 
 and silence, this mind, this all creative brain, would 
 people the hideous void with its own images — would 
 fill the vast space with sweet chimera — forms, that 
 all eternity were scarce sufficient to unravel them. — 
 But perhaps it is by ever-varying scenes of misery in 
 this ill world, that step, by step, he leads me to an- 
 nihilation. Oh that it were possible to stop the current 
 of that after life, as easy as to break the thread of this ! 
 thou may'st reduce me into nothing — but of this liberty 
 I cannot be deprived,' (cocks the pistol, raises it, and 
 suddenly stops.) 'And shall I then rush to death 
 through a slavish dread of living here in torment ! No ; 
 I will bear it all, and brave the malice of my fate,' (puts 
 up the pistol.) 'JMy jn-ide shall conquer sufferance. 
 Let the destiny of Moor be accomplished.' 
 
 Moor then declined self-slaughter only because 
 it argued in him 'a slavish dread of living here 
 in torment.' 
 
 Another prominent defect in the moral of this 
 piece is the paramount influence which is ascribed 
 to love. It was wisely intended by Him who im- 
 planted this principle in our nature, that it should 
 28*
 
 326 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 
 
 be strong ; that as the source of most of our joys 
 it should meliorate the heart, soften it to the in- 
 fluence of virtuous sentiments, chasten it from all 
 selfish motives; and, that amidst the sad vicissitudes 
 of life, it should invigorate the mind to steady and 
 honourable perseverance in warding off from the 
 possessor of our affections the causes of infelicity. 
 But love should never triumph over virtue, never 
 extinguish from the soul that paramount obliga- 
 tion which is due to God and to society. But we 
 find that Amelia, after a full development of her 
 lover's vices, that he was a savage murderer, and 
 the chief of a more savage band, rushes, neverthe- 
 less, into his arms, exclaiming, 'murderer! — fiend! 
 whatever thou art — angel to me ! I will not let thee 
 go.' And the concluding scene is still more ob- 
 jectionable, for she dies with a shocking sentiment 
 expiring on her lips ! 
 
 Moor. — 'On deeds like these we pause not 'till they 
 are done. I'll think on this — hereafter!' (stabs Amelia.) 
 
 Robbers. — 'Bravo, most noble captain ! thy honour is 
 discharged — thou Prince of Robbers!' 
 
 Moor. — 'Now she is mine, she's mine forever — or, 
 that hereafter is the dream of fools ! I have foiled my 
 destiny — in spite of fate I have brought home my bride, 
 and with this sword have sealed our wedding vows.' 
 (To Amelia with tenderness) 'was it not sweet, my 
 Amelia, to die thus by thy bridegroom's hand ?' 
 
 Amelia. — (Stretching out her hand to him) 'Oh most 
 sweet!' 
 
 Here love is made to triumph over death, the 
 grave, eternity, and God; and without any com-
 
 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 327 
 
 pensative motive, or principle whatever; and is, 
 therefore, as destitute of philosophy, as of virtue. 
 We will notice a few more vices in this play, 
 and then proceed to a brief consideration of the 
 character of some of the prominent personages. 
 In this drama we have an instance of cool and 
 aggravated parricide. We have presented to us 
 the shocking spectacle of a brother executing dead- 
 ly vengeance on his brother ; of an aged and doat- 
 ing parent suddenly expiring from the unexpected 
 disclosure of his son's enormities ; of a murderer 
 assuming to himself an attribute of Deity; and 
 we see an Earldom bequeathed as the recompense 
 of successful villany ! 
 
 Moor. — (taking the hands of Kozinski and Switzer, 
 and addressing himself to Switzer.) 'These hands I 
 have deep imbrued in blood — that be my offence not 
 thine! here with this grasp I take what is mine own. 
 Now Switzer, thou art pure ! (raises their hands to 
 heaven with fervour) 'Father of heaven here I re- 
 store them ; they will be more fervently thy own than 
 those who never fell.' An Earldom becomes mine this 
 day by heritage, a rich domain on which no malediction 
 rests — share it between you : become good men : good 
 citizens : And if for ten whom I have destroyed, you 
 make but one man blest, my soul may yet be saved !' 
 
 Let me now proceed to note a slight sketch of 
 the principal characters in this tragedy. 
 
 As the exhibition of vice, in her most hideous 
 mien, appears to have been the author's favourite 
 design, we will consider Francis, and not Charles 
 de Moor, as the hero of the tale. We do not
 
 328 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 
 
 recollect to have ever met with a more perfect and 
 finished character in abandoned villany, in cool, 
 ingenious, artful, systematic wickedness than Fran- 
 cis de Moor. In this 07ie character we have an 
 assemblage of all that is cruel, infamous, relentless 
 and atrocious in the human heart. No other than 
 Schiller's creative imagination could have formed 
 such a monster — as Francis stands before us, in 
 his soliloquy at the commencement of the second 
 act. 
 
 [Francis de Moo?- alone in his apartmeni.] 
 Francis. — -'I've lost all patience with these doctors. 
 An old man's life is an eternity. Must my towering 
 plans creep the snail's pace of a dotard's lingering hours ? 
 Could not one point out a new track for death to enter 
 the fort? Kill the body by tearing the soul! Ay, that 
 were an original invention : he that could make that dis- 
 covery were a second Columbus in the empire of death — 
 think on that Moor. 'Twere an art worthy to have thee 
 for its inventor ! How then shall we begin the work ? 
 What humble emotion would have the force to break at 
 once the thread of life! Rage? No; that hungry wolf 
 surfeits himself and regorges his meal. Griefs. That's a 
 worm that lingers on the flesh, and mines his way too 
 slowlv! Fearl No; hope blunts his dart and v/iU not 
 let him strike his prey : What ? Are these our only exe- 
 cutioners ? is the arsenal of death so soon exhausted ? 
 hum, hum ! (musing) no more ? ha ! I have it ; terror 
 is the word — terror! reason, religion, hope — all must 
 give way before this giant, fiend; and then — should he 
 even bear the shock — there's more behind — Anguish of 
 mind, come aid the imperfect work ; repentance, gnaw- 
 ing viper of the soul — monster, thou dost ruminate thy
 
 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 329 
 
 baneful food, and thou remorse, that livest on thy 
 mother's flesh, and was'nt thine own inheritance : and 
 you, even you, ye blissful years o'er past, display your 
 charms to memory's retrospect, and poison with your 
 sweets the present hour; ye scenes oi future bUss com- 
 bine to wound — show him the joys of paradise before 
 him, and hold the dazzUng mirror out to hope, but cheat 
 his feeble grasp ! Thus let me play my battery of death — 
 stroke after stroke incessant — till nature's mound is bro- 
 ken, and the whole troop of furies seize the soul, and 
 end their work by horror and despair; triumphant 
 thought! — So now — the plan's my own: now for the 
 work.' 
 
 The character of Francis is well sustained, and 
 uniform throughout the play. But the delineation 
 of such iniquity, ripe and in full maturity when 
 first presented to us, can be productive of no good. 
 The character is unnaturally wicked ; but if natu- 
 ral, let us remain ignorant of it as long as possible; 
 for by the admission of such characters, the drama 
 familiarizes us with them, and thereby renders 
 vice less odious. Maximilian de Moor, the un- 
 happy parent of this noble pair of brothers, is a 
 very neutral character, neither formed to instruct, 
 to please, nor to excite even pity. He evinces 
 great weakness in suffering himself to be duped 
 by the artifices of his son Francis, whose charac- 
 ter he well knew, and especially as they were 
 directed against a favourite and beloved son, with 
 whose few virtues he was perfectly acquainted. 
 Here also we find a parent's infirmity the cause 
 of his child's desperate depravity !
 
 330 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 
 
 In the character of Charles de Moor we find a 
 strange assemblage of high-toned honour, and lack 
 of principle, of filial love, and filial irreverence, of 
 misanthropy, and a morbid feeling for the unme- 
 rited suflerings of his fellow'-subjects, of fatalism 
 and compunction, of genius and folly, of manly 
 virtue, and deadly vice ? But that complexity of 
 character, that wildness and romance, that elevated 
 honour, that sickly humanity, that dignified cou- 
 rage, and that brilliancy of mind which Charles 
 possessed, in union with qualities of a very oppo- 
 site nature, are what render him so dangerous. 
 The author if he desired to fascinate to vice, knew 
 the human heart too well, not to amalgamate with 
 iniquity, some of the luring, brilliant and captivat- 
 ing qualities of the heart and mind. Charles may 
 insinuate himself with all his heavy load of vice, 
 into our affection, but Francis is too glaringly 
 deformed by sin to ever claim an entrance. That 
 there is in reality this dangerous fascination in the 
 character of Charles there can be but little doubt : 
 for its influence has been felt, as appears by the 
 acknowledgment of the translator that 'the eff"ects 
 of this tragedy were so powerful, and as some 
 thought so dangerous, that in several states its 
 representation was prohibited by the legislature.' 
 Why then, we may ask, translate and dilfuse it? 
 
 We are likewise informed that 'after the repre- 
 sentation of this tragedy at Fribourg, a large par- 
 ty of the youth of the city, among whom were 
 the sons of some of the chief nobility, captivated 
 by the grandeur of the character of its hero
 
 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 331 
 
 (Charles de Moor) agreed to form a band like his, 
 in the forests of Bohemia ; elected a yonng noble- 
 man for their chief, and pitched on a beautiful 
 young lady for his Amelia, whom they were to 
 carry off from her parents' house to accompany 
 their flight ! To the accomplishment of this 
 design they had bound themselves by the most 
 tremendous oaths ; but the conspiracy was dis- 
 covered, and its execution prevented.' And in 
 our own country, we regret to have it in our 
 power to say that we have heard great and un- 
 qualified expressions of admiration of the charac- 
 ter of Charles de Moor ! 
 
 Let us now turn from the view of so much 
 depravity, and, in the contemplation of the beau- 
 tiful Amelia, endeavour to find some cheering rays 
 of virtue amidst this, hitherto, general and imper- 
 vious gloom of vice. Here, too, alas! we are dis- 
 appointed ! Who could have imagined that in so 
 fail', so lovelij a tenement, aught but the virtues, 
 the loves, and the mental graces could find admis- 
 sion? But as the author intended to present us 
 * with the black side of the picture of humanity, we 
 must content ourselves, and view Amelia's charac- 
 ter as we find it. 
 
 Never was Pope's sentiment that 'most women 
 have no character at all,' more strikingly exempli- 
 fied than in Amelia, who camelion-like, changes 
 with the varying scenes, and in the space of a feAV 
 weeks exhibits a variety of dispositions very irre- 
 concilable with each other.
 
 332 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 
 
 In the opening scene with Francis, she appears 
 to us in the character of a masculine, determined 
 woman, sensible of her injuries, resolute and able 
 to assert them, incensed to the highest degree, and 
 mature for vengeance. 
 
 Amelia, (surveying Francis with a long look.) 'Is it 
 you ? You here ! whom of all mankind I most desired 
 to see.' 
 
 Francis. 'Me ? is it possible ; me of all mankind !' 
 
 Amelia. 'You sir, even you. I have hungered — I 
 have thirsted for the sight of you. Stay I conjure you. 
 Here prisoner; let me enjoy my highest pleasure, let me 
 curse thee to thy face.' 
 
 Francis. 'I love thee, Ameha— as my soul I love 
 thee.' 
 
 Amelia. 'Well, if you love me, Can you refuse me 
 one small request ? 
 
 Francis. 'I can refuse thee nothing, were it even my 
 hfe ' 
 
 Amelia. 'Well then, I ask what you will grant with 
 all your soul, (proudly.) I ask you to hate me ; I 
 should die for shame, if, while I thought on Charles, I 
 could for a moment believe thou didst not hate me. 
 Give thy promise, villain, and begone.' 
 
 In the scene in which she next appears, Amelia 
 is subdued by love, tenderly yielding to its endear- 
 ing influences, spreading roses on the bed, whilst 
 anxiously watching the slumbers of the father of 
 her Charles ; in the same scene she again becomes 
 a masculine heroine, and then, anon, in her inter- 
 view with Herman, she is the woman all, artless, 
 unsuspicious, and easily deceived ! In the garden 
 scene, in the third act, during her interview with
 
 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 333 
 
 Francis, we find her serious, prudent, gentle, vio- 
 lent, inalignant, terrible I 
 
 Amelia. See'st thou now, villain ! (drawing his sword 
 from him) 'what I can do ? I am a woman, but a 
 Avoman roused — dare to come near me, and this steel — 
 my uncle's spirit shall guide it to thy heart ! Fly me 
 this instant. ■ 
 
 In the colloquy she holds in the gallery, with 
 the supposed Count de Brand, she gravely philoso- 
 phizes on the fleeting nature of earthly bliss' — and 
 evinces to the Count much feeling, when he draws 
 her attention to the portrait of Charles, then before 
 her in the guise of Count de Brand. She reveals 
 the fact of her lingering love for him, and in her 
 soliloquy a few minutes after, she discovers her 
 incipient love for this Count I alternating with her 
 resolution that 'Charles shall ever be buried in her 
 heart, and never shall human being fill his place !' 
 Schiller would say, with Shakspeare, 
 ^Frailty, thy name is woman,' 
 
 for though Hejman had just informed her that her 
 lover still lives, in her next interview with the 
 Count de Brand, she loves him quite! The Count 
 presses with ardour her lily hand to his lips, and 
 Amelia false to Charles, tells him 'his kisses burn 
 like fire.' The Count tenderly embraces her, re- 
 poses his head on her bosom, she blushes, prays 
 heaven to forgive the Count for making her re- 
 creant to Charles ! She then gives him the rijig 
 that Charles had presented to her, and exclaims 
 'Oh Charles ! now strike me dead, my vows are 
 
 broken! Charles reveals himself, Amelia faints 
 29
 
 334 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 
 
 and the curtain drops! Such then is Amelia! and 
 a more worthless, whimsical, silly, and odious 
 lady, can scarce be well imagined — for though 
 there be weak and shameless women, the infamous 
 moral inculcated by these scenes with Amelia, is a 
 gross slander on the sex, and is no true picture of 
 what would be likely to occur with' one of her 
 rank, and with one so tenderly raised as she. 
 
 Were the drama uniformly such as is represented 
 in this play, it were better to put the torch to every 
 theatre in the land ; for, under the influences of 
 such tuition, our young women would scarce know 
 how to blush, and our young men would rather take 
 counsel of the two De Moors, than of the Mentor 
 of a Telemachus. A word now as to Coleridge's 
 
 'REMORSE.' 
 The principal merit of dramatic poetry is derived 
 from its subserviency to the faithful, impressive 
 and glowing delineation of man in his most inte- 
 resting relations. Its professed object is the melio- 
 ration of the heart and affections, by the presenta- 
 tion (in a small compass) of a vast variety of inci- 
 dent, character and sentiment. If the drama be 
 thus contemplated as the mirror reflecting at one 
 view the ever varied scenes of life; as the polished 
 speculum in which we discover, with certainty, the 
 resemblance of all that endears man to man, or 
 that weakens or severs the ties which unite him, 
 it cannot but claim an ample portion of public 
 esteem and patronage. 
 
 The modern drama, like the illusions of sleep, 
 regardless, in a degree, of the unities, either of
 
 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 335 
 
 action, time or place, presents to our view a com- 
 plication of incidents, illustrative of the direful 
 consequences resulting from the unguarded and 
 licentious indulgence of our passions ; places be- 
 fore us in all their native loveliness, the charms of 
 virtue, and the hideousness of vice ; depicts in a 
 bird^s-eye view that which in real life is often dif- 
 fused over a vast expanse of time and space ; and 
 represents to us in combination, numerous circum- 
 stances from which the reflecting mind, b)' a spe- 
 cies of moral alchemy, may extract useful lessons. 
 All this is the professed and legitimate object of 
 the drama ; and were it uniformly adhered to, it 
 Avould be a powerful means of virtuous inculcation. 
 To this concentration of action, manners and 
 sentiments, are we to attribute the efficiency of the 
 drama, as it is that which chiefly distinguishes it 
 from real life. The drama is seldom a copy from 
 any particular view in life, but is formed by a 
 judicious selection and happy combination in one 
 picture, of various scenes, so mixed and artfully 
 blended as to be productive of no incongruity. 
 But whilst this liberty of picking and culling from 
 the great storehouse of life, is accorded to the 
 dramatic poet, it is only for the purpose of placing 
 before us, in harmonious union, things which have 
 a natural congeniality. Like the sculptor, he may 
 take the eye from one, the arm from another, the 
 neck from a third; but they must all adjust in fit 
 proportions to each other, else, instead of a paragon 
 of beauty, we should have naught but deformity. 
 To delineate with truth and vigour a variety of
 
 336 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 
 
 characters; to preserve throughout the piece that 
 consistency and unity of character which makes 
 them upon all occasions, act, speak and think as 
 they respectively should do, and to blend nume- 
 rous incidents so as to have an obvious relation to 
 each other, is a task of no minor difficulty, and is a 
 point to which few, very few, attain. 
 
 It is manifest that the above remarks rather apply 
 to what is acknowledged by all should be the state 
 of the drama, than to what has in reality, generally 
 been attained by dramatic writers. 
 
 The poetry of the drama, has, by universal con- 
 sent been placed in the scale of poetic dignity, next 
 to the epic, and we doubt not that as respects utility, 
 (were it what it could be,) it would be entitled to a 
 still more elevated position. But the epic has but 
 seldom been degraded either to the base purpose of 
 contaminating morals, disseminating false and dan- 
 gerous opinions in religion, government or man- 
 ners, or to the hasty acquisition of a pittance to 
 answer the cravings of daily want, or to supply 
 the senseless profusion of inconsiderate spendthrifts. 
 Melpomene and Thalia have been invoked by any 
 and all who fancied tliey could wield 
 
 'A pen, 
 That mighty instrument of little men,' 
 
 and this art, so difficult and nice, which demands 
 so long an apprenticeship to observation of men 
 and manners, and which requires such an intimate 
 acquaintance with the human heart, its springs and 
 principles of action, this art we say (as Socrates
 
 THOUGHTS OX A PLAY OR TWO. 337 
 
 speaking of government used to say) is in the 
 hands of a//, every one presuming himself qualified 
 for the undertaking! Hence it is that we not un- 
 frequently see the apparent phenomenon of au 
 entire audience yielding to the influence of Mojjius 
 when every passion of the human mind had been 
 arrayed to lead the heart into captivity. Hence it 
 is that the marvellous and impossible have super- 
 seded the natuird and possible. Hence it is that 
 Dr. Hurde has ventured to say that 'the sole and 
 contemptible aim of comedy is to excite laughter.'' 
 Hence it is that religion, and the clergy, decorum 
 and sound morals, government and orthodox poli- 
 tics have all, at times, endured the severity of dra- 
 matic misrepresentation and caricature, and hence 
 it is that real life has frequently, by a shameful 
 inversion, taken its hue and character from the 
 stage, instead of the drama from it. 
 
 But let it not be supposed that these prefatory 
 remarks are the immediate consequence of a peru- 
 sal or attendance upon the representation of Mr. 
 Coleridge's 'jRcmorse,' Far from it: they are the 
 result of a general contemplation of the situation 
 of the dramatic art. 
 
 The piece before us is by no means deficient in 
 dramatic merit ; on the contrary, it has numerous 
 beauties. 
 
 As action^ or the combination of incidents, is the 
 very soul of tragedy, it demands, in dramatic cri- 
 ticism, a primary attention. The manners^ or that 
 which evolves the characters of the agents ; and 
 the se?iti7Jie7its, by which their opinions and inten- 
 29^^
 
 338 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 
 
 tions are developed, are certainly subordinate: for 
 neither manners nor sentiments are essential to 
 tragedy; or rather the effect is produced principally 
 by the fable; whereas, if the incidents of this fable 
 be unnatural or uninteresting, no substitute can be 
 found in either the language, sentiments or man- 
 ners of the piece. 
 
 In the constitution of a good play it is not only 
 requisite that the fable or action should be simple, 
 but it should gradually and naturally evolve itself. 
 The attention of the audience should not be put 
 into continued requisition to unravel the tale, and 
 to discover the connection and operation of the 
 incidents on each other. By simplicity of the fable 
 or action we do not mean to exclude a variety of 
 incidents, provided they all have an evident con- 
 centration to that point on which the peripitia or 
 catastrophe rests ; but by simplicity we mean such 
 a unity of action, though composed of numerous 
 incidents, as contains no collateral, subordinate 
 and independent events, introduced merely as 
 episodes. In this respect we think Mr. Coleridge's 
 'Remorse' entitled to much praise. But though 
 the action or fable of this piece be simple, it 
 does not, as we conceive, easily and gradually 
 evolve itself, as it is usually represented. But this 
 arises from the injudicious omission (in representa- 
 tion) of certain passages, rather than from a defect 
 in the production itself. We would here remark, 
 that the practice of pruning or curtailing is gene- 
 lally rather too liberally indulged in, either for the
 
 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 339 
 
 reputation of the dramatic author, or the eifect 
 upon the audience. 
 
 From the title of this play we would suppose 
 that its author principally intended to exhibit the 
 sad and melancholy, but instructive operation of 
 that gall of a wounded and lacerated conscience 
 remorse: and that he designed to place before us 
 a character alternately yielding to the basest pas- 
 sions of the heart, and to the agonizing effects of 
 remorse, — to represent one in whom 
 
 'The stronger guilt defeats the strong intent, 
 And lilce a man to double business bound, 
 Stands in pause where he shall first begin. 
 And both neglects.' 
 
 But we do not find precisely this character in 
 Ordonio. — Remorse is said to be composed of 
 shame from a sense of the impropriety of past 
 actions, of grief for the effects of them, of pity 
 for those who suffer by them, and of the dread 
 and terror of punishment, from the consciousness 
 of the justly provoked resentment of all rational 
 creatures. 
 
 In Ordonio, the intended murderer of his bro- 
 ther Alvar, and the real assassin of Issidore, we 
 find a man corrupt to the heart's core, capable of 
 any crime his purposes might demand, and but 
 seldom yielding to the subduing influence of con- 
 science and remorse, except when his feelings were 
 particularly excited by some momentous incident, 
 or very pointed remarks of those around him. 
 When these occur he shows the raging of the 
 storm within. A brother's murder presses sorely
 
 340 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 
 
 on him ; but sunk thus deep in guilt, remorse gives 
 way, and new crimes suggest themselves as neces- 
 sary to extricate him from his difficuhies. Ordo- 
 nio's character is certainly drawn with a bold pen- 
 cil, but would have been much better had he occa- 
 sionally evinced uncalled for, or in the way of 
 soliloquy a sense of the deep damnation of his 
 guilt. The fact, however, is that Ordonio's re- 
 morse was at all times but short lived, the mere 
 ephemera of a moment, called into being by the 
 pressure of the cloud which was gradually thick- 
 ening around him. It was not that species of 
 remorse which effects a change of character and 
 life ; it had rather more of dread and teiror in its 
 composition, than oi grief and pity. True, as the 
 author says, 
 
 'Remorse is as the heart, in which it grows : 
 If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews 
 Of true repentance, but if proud and gloomy. 
 It is a poison tree, that pierced to the inmost 
 Weeps only tears of poison!' Act I. — Scene 1. 
 
 The scene of this drama lies in Granada, in the 
 reign of the second Philip, just after the edict inhi- 
 biting the wearing of the Morescoe costume, and 
 at the close of these bloody wars which terminated 
 the empire and influence of the Arabs in Spain. 
 The Marquis Valdez, a venerable and worthy old 
 gentleman, had two sons, Alvar and Ordonio. 
 Alvar, the elder, graced by every manly and en- 
 dearing virtue, tenderly loved Teresa, an orphan 
 heiress who lived under the protection of his
 
 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 341 
 
 father-, and his attachment was ardently recipro- 
 cated. 
 
 Ordonio, in whose heart every species of vice, 
 seemed to find its genial soil, viewed with malig- 
 nant dislike his brother's superiority, and envied 
 him the happiness he enjoyed in the affections of 
 the lovely Teresa. 
 
 This unnatural brother, conceiving that Teresa 
 might be his, if Alvar were but removed, formed 
 the shocking design of murdering him, through 
 the instrumentality of Issidore, a Morescoe chief- 
 tain, who was kept ignorant of the fact that Alvar 
 was Ordonio's brother. Alvar, in his defence 
 '■fought valiantly,'^ both Issidore and his accom- 
 plices, and finally escaped. After an absence of 
 several years, in which he endured imprisonments 
 and toils, he returns to his native land, and visits 
 the scenes of his former happiness, with his adored 
 Teresa. During Alvar's absence, the aged Valdez, 
 deceived by the arts and hypocrisy of Ordonio, 
 who had persuaded him that Alvar had been cap- 
 tured within his own sight by an Algerine pirate, 
 and had subsequently perished in a storm, used 
 much entreaty with Teresa to forget Alvar, and 
 bestow her heart and hand on his virtuous and 
 worthy brother Ordonio. 
 
 Unsuccessful in his legitimate endeavours to 
 secure the affections of Teresa, Ordonio had resort 
 to stratagem. Availing himself of the supersti- 
 tions of the times, he called the arts of sorcery to 
 his aid, in order to assure Teresa of Alvar's dcatli, 
 and thereby to reconcile lier to his wishes. Alvar
 
 342 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TAVO. 
 
 who lived in disguise, and had gained the reputa- 
 tion of a sorcerer, was employed by Ordonio for 
 this very purpose. Alvar, however, so arranged 
 his wizard plans, as to discover to Valdez and 
 Teresa in the presence of Ordonio, that he had 
 fallen by the hand of an assassin, and had not 
 perished in a storm. Ordonio's veracity, thus 
 called in question, together with his incautious 
 agitation create suspicions. He precipitately leaves 
 them, suspecting Issidore as the author of this con- 
 trivance, and that he had revealed his secret to the 
 sorcerer. Alvar is immediately hastened to a dun- 
 geon by the familiars of the inquisition for 'foul 
 sorcery,' and Ordonio invites Issidore to a cave, 
 claiming his protection against the arm of danger. 
 Ordonio there murders Issidore, and thence pro- 
 ceeds to the dungeon with a view of despatching 
 the sorcerer, and thus to rid himself of those to 
 whom alone his secret was known. 
 
 Teresa had gained admittance into the dungeon 
 a few minutes before Ordonio's entrance. Alvar 
 discovers himself to Teresa, and a most tender and 
 affecting interview ensues. On Ordonio's appear- 
 ance Teresa secretes herself. Here a deep feeling 
 colloquy follows between these brothers, and at 
 the instant as Ordonio raises his dagger to the sor- 
 cerer's breast, Teresa rushes out, '■Ordonio I its thy 
 brother.^ Here the catastrophe commences. Hor- 
 ror, anguish of mind, and remorse, in full array, 
 present themself to the distressed, tortured Ordo- 
 nio. Self murder is hailed as the only relief; but 
 the foul deed was prevented by the generous and
 
 THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 343 
 
 amiable Alvar, who yet loved his brother, and 
 would have saved his life and ^honour,'' had not at 
 this moment the distracted Ahadra, the wife of the 
 murdered Issidore, rushed in and stabbed Ordonio. 
 Here the curtain drops, leaving us under the pleas- 
 ing prospect of Alvar's union with Teresa, and 
 their becoming the solace and comfort of their 
 aged father. 
 
 Alvar's uniformly amiable character, his forgive- 
 ness of the many wrongs he had sustained from 
 his brother, and his tender and honourable feelings 
 in the highly interesting scene with him in the 
 dungeon, is contrasted, with a master hand, with 
 the malignity and vice of Ordonio. Alvar is re- 
 stored to Teresa and happiness, at the moment in 
 which Ordonio meets that fate which even in this 
 world very generally attends those who stray far 
 into the very paths of vice. 
 
 'Hence learn what blessings wait on virtuous deeds, 
 And though a late, a sure reward succeeds.' 
 
 3^> 
 
 NOTE XXI. THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 
 
 The lives of some men, from youth to old age 
 illustrate so forcibly the advantages of Impudence, 
 that I am disposed, with Menander, to rank it 
 among the greatest of deities ; and, from my inner 
 soul to lament that I have ever blushed, and that 
 nature had not given me even more than the as 
 frontis triplex. Moreover, when I do remember 
 that Holy Writ hath declared 'the race is not to 
 the swift, nor the battle to the strong,' I naturally
 
 344 THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 
 
 inquire, what is left, then, but sure success to the 
 impudent? and the chronicles of all past time, as 
 well as my own reason, do respond — 'thou hast 
 said it.' Nay, it seemeth to me as if 'twere a 
 golden law of nature, not only that he who buries 
 his talent shall languish in obscurity, but also, 
 that he who fails impudently and importunately to 
 blazon forth all that he hath, and more, and to 
 usher into broad day light, with every meretricious 
 garniture, his very all, is surely destined to pass 
 down the stream of time, as worthless rubbish ; 
 and, in the great abyss of eternal forgetfulness to 
 remain, a poor martyr to the purest of nature's 
 products — modesty ! 
 
 Be, then, my theme the proud advantages, the 
 radiant glories of unalloyed, disembodied, prolific 
 Impudence — of that callous sort which hath its 
 seat deep in the soul, which forms part of our 
 inmost nature, takes but its light complexion from 
 adventitious causes, is ever harmonious with itself, 
 and which triumphs equally over circumstances, 
 and the would-be shadowing influences of superior 
 minds ! 
 
 Some do, indeed, gain many a point by modes- 
 ty, clad in Impudence's habiliments ; but I sing of 
 that mysterious influence which nature doth to 
 some impart, and which commands success, appa- 
 rently, sine assetitatio7ie, sine blanditiis, sine dica- 
 citaiej sine audacia ferrece frontis ; and this, the 
 highest order of its attributes, points it out as the 
 only kind of Impudence the prince of Greek come- 
 dies would have ranked among the greater deities !
 
 THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 345 
 
 The inferior sorts of Impudence, though admirable 
 in their kind, and truly useful in their way, need 
 too much of industrious cultivation, and of man's 
 feeble art, to claim omnipotence : but, where nature 
 hath truly laid deep her brazen foundations, and 
 thereon hath been raised a goodly superstructure, 
 the result of long experience in the art, the castle 
 of Impudence thus raised, becometh impregnable — 
 all arms are silenced, and the lord thereof hath 
 crowds of suppliant worshippers, who grant unto 
 him freely, in the ratio of the enormity of his 
 demands ! 
 
 For who, let me ask, accordeth any thing to 
 mere anticipators, nay, even to diffident askers? 
 And, on the other hand, who so bold as to refuse 
 something at least, to the importunate demands of 
 the daringly impudent? — very few, I ween; for all 
 experience teacheth that the multitude pileth bless- 
 ings and honours upon the adventurous, the fortu- 
 nate, and the self-adulating, as Pelion upon Ossa, 
 and Ossa upon Pelion ; and that the crowd doth 
 love to exaggerate the successes of such, quite as 
 much as these hardy-faced personages do love to 
 loom so largely ! It is so, and yet even more than 
 this, for, some of the most renowned charlatans 
 the world hath ever known, were made so, partly 
 by the flattery of the plebs. The noble distinction 
 of being essentially and ex natura impudent, be- 
 longeth only to a blessed few, and when to this 
 be added their own industry in this line, and the 
 hosannas of the multitude, so sure to follow, they 
 30
 
 346 THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 
 
 then do truly become Menander's deities, and the 
 most brilliant among fortune's favourites. 
 
 IMiere are, indeed, instances where modest merit 
 liath become a favoured child of Impudence, vaunt- 
 ing as loud as any, after it hath made some happy 
 hit, and for which it hath been long and inordi- 
 nately praised — but genuine, lordly Impudence is 
 that which starts into life full grown, and with 
 brazen armour, regardless of teachings and train- 
 ings, reposes on nature's high endowments ; and, 
 with magic skill, embalms all flatteries, and anni- 
 hilates all frowns ! 
 
 When I take a retrospect of the chronicles of 
 Impudence in all ages, nations, tribes, families, and 
 individuals, and find how much it hath been men- 
 tally idolized by them ail, I am lost in wonder that 
 temples and altars have not been openly raised to 
 it, and that no avowed god hath therein presided, — 
 for, when poets, and others have spoken of it as 
 a great deity, they simply meant that it well de- 
 served so to be regarded. In more modern ages, 
 and in our own day, the triumphs of Impudence 
 were, and are, equally signal, as may be seen in 
 the marvellous history of the necromancers, of 
 the astrologers, alchemists, empyrics, panacea- 
 venders, and in the golden accumulations of those 
 whose trifles have been grandiloquently puffed ; 
 and lastly, in the contrasted neglect and poverty 
 of those whose great inventions change the face of 
 nature, annihilate time and space, convert mere 
 operatives into philosophical thinkers, cause the 
 desert to bloom, and which are fast elevating
 
 THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 347 
 
 unknown nations to rank and happiness ! It is 
 incontrovertible, tlien, that a holy alliance of Im- 
 pudence with even a new invented razor-strop, a 
 shining blacking, a nonpareil shot-measure, or a 
 wonder-working potato-parer, is of far more worth 
 to its possessor, than man's noblest contrivances, 
 if unhappily associated with that worthless out- 
 cast — Humility. The former do prosper in wealth, 
 and revel in the loud applauses of the many ; 
 whereas the latter do languish in sore disappoint- 
 ments, in comparative obscurity, and sometimes, 
 in the most galling poverty ! Commend me then, 
 to hardy, naked, callous Impudence: for Modesty 
 is an arrant simpleton in all such matters, as it 
 often enriches the world, whilst it starves itself 
 and progeny ; Avhereas unmitigated Impudence 
 doth knock unceasingly at every door, claims as 
 its due ten-fold that it receives, and receives a 
 thousand-fold more than its deserts. 
 
 It seemeth to me as if a volume would scarce 
 suffice to exhaust the praises of Impudence — and 
 yet there be a few mawkish people in the world, 
 who would retain and practise the old-fashioned 
 notions of humility! I would ask such ill-judging 
 people to tell me, if they can, why scandal, when 
 cast in profusion on the brightest character, is so 
 sure to leave some stains? Is it not that the 
 courageous impudence Avhich could attack such 
 characters, implies with many, that there must be 
 some fault, where so much hath been so boldly 
 asserted? So, also, look at the sanctimonious 
 visage of some arch Injpocritc, the people will
 
 348 THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 
 
 measure his piety by the length of his face, and by 
 the open display of his numerous self-denials — 
 turn, then, to the politician^ and the more of a 
 demagogue, the more of a favoured patriot is he — 
 observe likewise the would-be-ora^or, the louder 
 and more wordy, the more eloquent is he — and 
 the scholar, the more mysterious, transcendental 
 and esoterically wordy, the more deeply learned is 
 he — and the laioyer, the more he floats in the 
 public gaze, vociferates in courts, asseverates his 
 opinion, and compliantly assents to the mere 
 wishes of his clients, the wiser, and deeper and 
 more skilful is he ! — then the merchant, the more 
 money he spends, the more to spend justly hath 
 he,— and to the parvenu, the larger his hatch- 
 ments, and arms of pretensions, the more ancient 
 and honourable his pedigree. Nay, pass not by 
 even the fine lady, the more made up of artificial 
 appliances, talkative, exacting, and omnipresent, 
 the more i)opular and irresistible is she! Go to 
 the opera, the squallynis carry the night — to the 
 theatre, the mouthing bellowers are the most ap- 
 plauded — to a zoological garden, the monkeys sure- 
 ly carry off the palm — to the circus, the cloum is 
 infallibly the hero of the whole ! In fine, all life 
 teems with the glories, the admirable successes 
 of pretension, of humbug, and of immortal Im- 
 pudence. 
 
 Impudence, then, must be a positive virtue; it 
 must be that very summum bonurn, which, being 
 sought during ages, hath escaped the scrutiny of 
 closet philosophers, though practised with match-
 
 THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 349 
 
 less triumph, by the ilhterate, and though the 
 worldly Uterate have not scrupled to acknowledge, 
 and sometimes ardently to pursue it! Is it not, 
 therefore, passing strange that, in this our day of 
 mental illumination, when any thing is an art, 
 and every art a science, Impudence, the most pre- 
 cious of them all, should not have been regularly 
 indoctrinated, and systematically taught in our 
 primary schools, colleges, and universities, that it 
 should not have been lectured on by the itinerants, 
 and even professorships endowed for its thorough 
 inculcation, both as to its principles and practice? 
 Give me, then, the degree of Impudenticc Doctor, 
 rather than that of LL. D., or of J. U. D! since 
 the degree I would seek bringeth with it siibstmice, 
 the others a sickly hope, as little palpable as the 
 thin air of an half exhausted receiver, and often 
 more worthless than the caput inortuum at the 
 bottom of a crucible ! Were the gods to give me 
 back my past life, I should study this most august 
 of the sciences, with an intense devotion, as being 
 the nucleus, the punctum saliens, yea, the very 
 heart's core of all attainable eminence in the uses 
 of all human knowledge. 
 
 Impudence of the purest sort, doth truly inspire 
 confidence, invigorate the mind, dis])el gloom ; 
 and doth compensate its votaries with even more 
 than usury for their exertions. It doth illustrate, 
 perpetuate, and widely diffuse one's fame ; it doth 
 greatly enlarge the circle of one's friends, and 
 astound and confound all jealous enemies ; and 
 eventually, it doth seduce them all to become the 
 30*
 
 350 THE ADVANTAGES OP IMPUDENCE. 
 
 horns, the trumpets, the cymbals of our surpassing 
 merits — the wiUing agents for the furtherance of 
 our numerous conquests ! How 'stale, flat, and 
 unprofitable,' then, is modesty along side of im- 
 pudence ! How sickly, puling, and inefficient the 
 former, how salient, vigorous, and sempiternal the 
 latter! Doth not Modesty starve herself and her 
 children — and where is her courage, her talent, 
 her genius, her practicalness, her tact? She hath 
 none, absolutely none : but Impudence is confess- 
 edly valiant, is instinct with the means of rendering 
 all things profitable to its possessor, and seemingly 
 useful to others; is familiar with every narrow lane 
 and dirty corner of the human heart, and is equally 
 at home in all the broad avenues; and, in both, 
 il walks proudly before mankind, as one conscious 
 of true worth, and of native dignity! Infinite in 
 tact, boundless in common sense; and familiar 
 with the follies of man, Impudence is sure to 
 make them all, in some form or other, willing 
 ministers, retainers, lackeys, and puffers in the 
 great scheme of her successes ; and fails not to 
 see them all eminently prosperous therein ! Sure- 
 ly, therefore, the philosophers must have made a 
 sad blunder, a vast mistake herein — but all this 
 comes of their reading books, instead of the great 
 volume of human life ! 
 
 The poets have approved themselves far wiser 
 on the subject; for, what saith Hudibras, the 
 sagest among these poetical authorities? 
 
 He that hath but impudence 
 To all things has a fair pretence ; 
 And put among his wants but shame. 
 To all the world may lay his claim.
 
 THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 351 
 
 In the same vein doth Oldham discourse when 
 he saith, 
 
 Get that great gift and talent : Impudence, 
 Accomplish'd man's supremest excellence, 
 'Tis that alone prefers, alone makes great. 
 Confers all wealth, all titles and estate ; 
 Gains place at court, can make a fool a peer, 
 An ass a bishop, vilest blockheads rear. 
 
 Look, moreover, at the sons of the Emerald 
 Isle, wheresoever found, and, be they lawyers, 
 physicians, merchants, soldiers, or poor ditchers! 
 Do they not edge all others out, and prosper 
 themselves when and where others would lan- 
 guish and starve, perhaps, for a maravidi? And 
 how Cometh this, but that 
 
 Hibernia fam'd 'bove ev'ry other grace 
 For matchless intrepidity of face, 
 
 turns with becoming impudence, every misfortune 
 into a joke ; quizzes grave philosophy into smihng 
 complacency; puts on a bold, plausible, unper- 
 turbed exterior; looks one steadily in the face; 
 manfully asseverates his claims; vindicates his 
 opinions against all facts, and all truth — and 
 comes off a chuckling conqueror ! Whereas the 
 proud, but modest and blushing Englishman, in 
 the like case, and especially if in misfortune, care- 
 fully examines iiis stock of marketable ideas, and 
 if these be found comparatively few and worth- 
 less, dreams not of assuming virtues not his own, 
 and modestly shrinks into absolute retirement, 
 there to starve, rather than to live on the rich 
 bounties ever provided for the truly impudent! 
 Now, which of the two is the wiser? I pause
 
 352 THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 
 
 not for a reply, every sound mind must render 
 the verdict in favour of that most sterling and 
 productive of all the virtues — Impudence. 
 Contemplate, further, all those numerous 
 
 ' Thieves of renown and pilferers of fame,^ 
 
 who have suffered others to toil, that they might 
 reap the fruits ; or those, who availing themselves 
 of the credulity of man, have indited in their 
 closets, ingeniously contrived travels into non-exis- 
 tant lands, or of their experience in countries they 
 had never visited, or invented wondrous tales con- 
 cerning those they had seen — have not all such 
 been revellers in good fortune ? Observe, also, those 
 who have written plays, as of Will Shalcspeare, 
 and luxuriated for a time, in the vast ocean of his 
 fame; or those who have manufactured antiquities, 
 chuckled and triumphed in the archaiological re- 
 searches of the virtuosi, giving thereby double 
 proof of the great advantages of Impudence, in 
 that the deceiver and the deceived, especially pro- 
 fited by their self-created pretensions ! And look 
 still further at how admirably those who unblush- 
 ingly have taken to themselves the entire works 
 of others, which had been lost to the knowledge 
 of the world, and boldly published them as the 
 offspring of their own brains! or those who pur- 
 posely criticize, with unsparing severity, the most 
 illustrious works, and thus cause many to suppose 
 the critics themselves must be truly great; or those 
 who unmercifully damn a book they had never 
 read, under hope that their own meagre productions
 
 THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 353 
 
 on a similar topic, may the more readily succeed ; or 
 those who secretly review, most leniently, of course, 
 their own works ! — all these will be found in the 
 thriving sons of Impudence. Contemplate, more- 
 over, those who translate from foreign languages 
 the flowers of unknown authors, and garnish 
 therewith their own impoverished pages; and those 
 whose wits are ever set upon deceiving mankind 
 by that cunningly devised impudence which de- 
 stroys, perverts, or mangles the fame of others by 
 patronizing reviews, but which, by incomprehensi- 
 ble generalities, praises, and yet by numerous insi- 
 duous means, turn their author into a very poor 
 thing; or, finally, those who, by the like artifices, 
 divert the renown of others into their own chan- 
 nels, or gain to themselves a lustre by an incessant 
 meddling with illustrious names ! — all of which 
 persons do daily reap the legitimate fruits of impu- 
 dence, showing thereby their own deep acquain- 
 tance, with man's unsearchable cullibility, and 
 their own admirable tact in culling to themselves 
 very many advantages ! 
 
 Such men have been strangely called impostors ! 
 Are they not rather philosophers of the highest 
 order ! for if even unsuccessful in the end, how 
 much have they previously gained, and how surely 
 do they all live in after history, when the names of 
 the modest are clean gone ! Who, for example, 
 would have ever heard in our day, of George Psal- 
 manazer, that most 'renowned man of impudence,' 
 who after finding the life of a wandering vagabond 
 profitless, boldly struck out into a new path of such
 
 354 THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 
 
 wondrous shamelessness, as astounded all men 
 and women too, of that day and generation ; and 
 for a time, gained to himself many laurels, a good 
 deal of money, and an imperishable name for all 
 after ages ! 
 
 He was from the south of France. Educated 
 for a short time in a Jesuits' college, he assumed 
 the habit of a pilgrim, and subsisted on casual 
 charities. Among strangers, then, he conceived 
 the daring scheme of wholly abandoning his iden- 
 tity, and thereupon changed his country, his habi- 
 tudes, dress, and, in part, his language, giving out 
 that he was a heathen native of an island, then but 
 little known, called Formosa! For this purpose, 
 he invented an entire new language, came to En- 
 gland as a convert to Christianity, translated the 
 church catechism into his Formosan tongue, and 
 published a history of this Formosa, in which, 
 with much ingenuity, he described the people and 
 their country, with all requisite details ; invented 
 an appropriate religion, with all its ceremonials; 
 practised for the curious, its various uncouth exer- 
 cises, exhibited a prayer book in his own language, 
 with alphabetical characters to be read from right 
 to left ! translated passages from classic authors, 
 into the language of his own invention ; ale raw 
 meats with a becoming gout: stoutly, and most 
 brazenly contended in broken French, with a 
 learned Jesuit, then late from China, who had less 
 faith in the Formosan, than others had ; sold va- 
 rious editions of his books ; obtained by his sole 
 influence, for his coadjutor, one Innes, an English
 
 THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 355 
 
 clergyman, some church preferment; procured for 
 himself the privileges of the University of Oxford — 
 and thus gloried and revelled in his matchless 
 impudence! The bubble, indeed, burst at last; 
 but hath not Master Psalmanazer, secured immor- 
 tality for himself? — and did he not, even after, as 
 well as before the eclaircissemeiit, reap an abun- 
 dant harvest of signal advantages? He surely did, 
 for his name became quite too famous, not to at- 
 tract those harpies, the booksellers ; and his auto- 
 biography, also, gave him, and of course them^ 
 both money and fame, which never fail to attend 
 those, who, shaking off old-fashioned notions of 
 conscience, and of truth, worship at the altar of 
 impudence, with befitting fortitude. 
 
 Let Impudence, then, be the pole-star of every 
 man, of every age, and of every profession ; it 
 never yet has failed of rich success, and never 
 can — so long as man remains a weak, silly, undis- 
 criminating being — so long as art can deceive inno- 
 cence — so long as the multitude hath more foolish 
 than wise men to make up their numbers : but if 
 destiny irrevocably restricts any one to associations 
 with the virtuous, and the truly wise, my counsel 
 then is to have no dealings whatever with this 
 thing called impudence — for it is then an aquatic 
 plant in an arid soil, a bubble in an exhausted 
 receiver, an odour with no present olfactories, a 
 glaring colour to a blind man ; and, in fine, a thing 
 wholly out of its sphere and elements ; and as 
 such, destined to withering contempt, and to cer- 
 tain death ! 
 
 THE END.
 
 WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 Samuel Colman, No. S jlstor House, Broadway, New York, 
 has for sale the following works, by David Hoffman, Esquire, 
 and he submits a few notices of each work. 
 
 'Thoughts by A. Grumbler, of Eromitlab.' 1 vol. pp. 374. 
 
 Ocf^This is the first of a series of volumes on an infinite variety 
 of topics — the design of the series being somewhat intimated by 
 the author in his preface and dedication to the 'Peep into my Note 
 Book' — the second in the series. 
 
 The following notices indicating the very favourable manner in 
 which the first small edition of the 'Grumbler,' was received, 
 though issued anonymously, have induced the author to allow the 
 publication in New York of a second, in order that the work may 
 be more generally difiused according to the apparent demand. 
 
 NOTICES OF THE GRUMBLER. 
 
 'The work is divided into two parts, each into chapters and 
 sections. In the first division are treated City Manners in Erom- 
 itlab, as Baltimore is termed. He here descants, with much pleas- 
 ing information, on the prevailing follies of the day, and beautifully 
 holds up to reprobation many of the follies that have crept into the 
 good city of Eromitlab. The article entitled 'The Mchemical 
 Theory,' is specially worthy the reader's attention. The second 
 division is devoted to our national manners, &c. So rare, indeed, 
 is the appearance of a work containing such a fund of tliought on 
 'Men, Manners, and Things,' that we perceive in its publication a 
 return of mental sanity in book-makers, and book-readers. The 
 production does honour to him as a philosopher — patriot — and 
 philanthropist. We therefore hope that this work will spread far 
 and wide — as a censor moi-um, it will serve to root out many false 
 notions — as an exemplar of pure and classical English, it will 
 remain as a model for imitation in many respects — and as a valua- 
 ble fund of varied learning, it will prove eminently useful.' 
 
 [Baltimore Chronicle. 
 
 A well merited tribute is paid in the annexed article from the 
 Christian Statesman, published at Washington, to the admirable 
 work of an estimable author. 
 
 Anthony Grumbler, of Grumbleton Hall, Esquire. — 
 The popular volume, of which the author has assumed the fore- 
 going nom de guerre, has been attributed to Mr. David Hoffman, 
 an eminent lawyer of Baltimore, of which city, under the back- 
 ward reading of 'Eromitlab,' the writer admits himself to be a resi- 
 dent. The rumour is alluded to thus plainly, because it has not,
 
 A NOTICES OF THE GRUMBLER. 
 
 SO far as we know, been contradicted ; and because, whether true 
 or otherwise, it can detract nothing from Mr. Hoffman's hij^h repu- 
 tation, albeit that has been earned by etibrts of a very different, 
 and of a far more elaborate character. The 'Miscellaneous Thovgkts' 
 of Squire Grumbler, teach principles of religion, morals, politics, 
 and literature, so sound, that they may well have emanated from a 
 Doctor of Laws. They abound also in interesting descriptions of 
 manners. One avowed purpose of these essays being to chastise 
 follies, individual and conventional satire was now and then to be 
 expected ; but it is never malicious. It is 'the wit that loves to 
 play, not wound.' Indeed, the writer's benevolence is quite as 
 conspicuous as his skill in composition. And this is saying a great 
 deal ; for a book of more literary merit has not, perhaps, been pro- 
 duced by any gentleman of the long robe, since the publication of 
 Butler's Reminiscences. It bears, however, no affinity to that 
 work; being a series, or rather an aggregation, of reflections on a 
 variety of subjects, with appropriate illustrations. We are happy 
 to learn from the 'Prefatory Epistle,' that the public may expect 
 to hear from the author again. 
 
 The Jurist has the following notice of the recently published 
 work of an estimable and talented fellow-citizen. 
 
 LAW AND LITERATURE. 
 
 JVIlSCELLANEOUS THOUGHTS ON MeN, MaNNERS AND THINGS. 
 
 By Anthony Grumbler, of Grumbleton Hall, Esquire. 
 Baltimore ; pp. 374. 
 
 Cognizance of a work like the present would hardly seem to fall 
 within the limited jurisdiction of a law journal, unless the person 
 of the author gave a jurisdiction which could not be founded on 
 the subject-matter. When we mention David Hofi'man, Esq. 
 the able and accomplished author of the Course of Legal Study, 
 as the party now in court, all doubt must cease with regard to 
 the present extension of our critical cognizance. In England 
 we have the brilliant example of Sergeant Talfourd, who, amidst 
 the numerous calls of an arduous profession, with added parliamen- 
 tary duties, has kept alive an exalted taste for literature, and pro- 
 duced works, in this more genial department, which the world will 
 not willingly let die. In our country, we take pleasure in adding 
 Mr. Hoifman's name to the list of those, who, while serving at the 
 highest altars of Themis, have found time to sacrifice to the muses. 
 The present volume is a most agreeable and instructive collection 
 of thoughts on men, manners and things, expressed in choice and 
 polished words, and well calculated to mitigate the hardy skepti- 
 cisms and radicalisms, which have so strongly tempered our pre- 
 sent age and community. The portions on the judiciary (pp. 213, 
 21G,) and on the legal profession (pp. 322, 327,) will be very inte- 
 resting to the lawyer. The whole volume we commend, in the 
 fullest manner, to the candid attention of the reader. With greater 
 space we should venture stronger terms of praise ; but we feel 
 persuaded that the reputation of the distinguished author will chal- 
 lenge for this little book, a notice far beyond the influence of our 
 humble page.
 
 NOTICES OP THE GRUMBLER. 3 
 
 Having; already assumed jurisdiction of the learned author for 
 one purpose, we shall take advantage of his present /persona standi 
 in judicio, and, by a sort of ac etium process, open some further 
 matters with regard to him. We avail ourselves of the present 
 opportunity to renew our testimony to the great merit and useful- 
 ness of Mr. Holfman's legal works. On former occasions, the 
 Legal Oullines and Course of Legal Study have both been fully 
 examined and commended in the pages of this journal. To the 
 latter work, we take pleasure and pride in acknowledging our early 
 and constant obligation ; and we should not do our duty to the 
 profession, particularly to the student, if we moderated our lan- 
 guage. Mr. Hoffman is a benefactor of his profession. More 
 than all others, he has contributed to elevate its standard of learn- 
 ing and morals, to encourage the young aspirant for its honourable 
 rewards, and, as a consequence, to extend its just influence in the 
 community. The practiser, absorbed in the daily calls of busi- 
 ness, and the young student, for whom the 'gladsome light of 
 jurisprudence' is now shining forth, 'may both derive aid, direction, 
 and encouragement from this work. There is no single work in the 
 whole range of the law, which, with so much interest, imparts so 
 much good. If the student can afford to buy but a single book, let 
 it be Hoffman's Course of Legal Study, which in itself is a small 
 library, besides being a key to a large one. If we lived in an age 
 when learning was its own exceeding great reward, and a coatless 
 scholar could hope to encounter with composure the stare of the 
 world, we should be disposed to repeat, of this work, what the 
 great Cujas said of Paul de Castro : Qui non habet Paulum de 
 Castro, tunicam veiidat, et emat. 
 
 (From the National Intelligencer.) 
 
 In the ripeness of his professional fame he has found opportu- 
 nity to prepare a work less grave, though, in its way, scarcely less 
 instructive than his former compositions. The 'Thoughts' of this 
 agreeable 'grumbler' are the thoughts of an acute mind, invigo- 
 rated by professional discipline, and enlarged by liberal studies 
 and intercourse with the circles of fashion, as well as of business. 
 The manner in which the task is executed is sufficient, of itself, 
 to vindicate his brotherhood against the sneer of Hume, that 
 lawyers 'are seldom models of science or politeness ;' a remark 
 prompted by the distaste of the great historian for the occupation 
 lor which he was originally intended. 'I found,' he confesses in 
 his charming autobiography, 'an insurmountable aversion to every 
 tiling but the pursuits of philosophy and general learning; and 
 when they fancied I was porini; upon Vocl ;vnd V^inneiis, Cicero 
 and Virgil were the authors which I was secretly devouring.' 
 
 The 'Miscellaneous Thoughts' are made to consist of two divi- 
 sions ; the first, called 'city manners, characters and things ;' the 
 second, 'national manners, characters and things.' This classifica- 
 tion is, perhaps, somewhat arbitrary. Many of the sketches in the 
 first division, instea<l of being peculiar to city life, are even more 
 extensive in their application than some of those under tlie second 
 head. This, however, if it be a fault, is one quite venial ; and the 
 ingenious author will probably be ready to show, that it is one
 
 4 NOTICES OF THE GRUMBLER. 
 
 which is inseparable from the subject. His particular plan is 
 novel. The celebrated 'characters' of Theophrastus are mere out- 
 lines, to be filled up by the judgment or caprice of the reader ; and 
 the popular work of our own day, called 'Lacon,' is chiefly epi- 
 f^rammatic. Onr friend Grumbler is more indulgent to his readers. 
 Though mindful of the good old maxim, that 'brevity is the soul 
 of wit,' he is not so inconveniently curt as to mystify others, but 
 states his proposition so distinctly, that, if they are puzzled about 
 his meaning, themselves only can be blamed. In many instances, 
 the proposition is familiarized by an example ; in some, it is so 
 expressed as to require none ; and, in others, the example is itself 
 the proposition, but in the most graphic form in which the propo- 
 sition could be exhibited. His idea of combining, so to speak, a 
 picture with a precept, is a manifest improvement on the plan of 
 former works, to which his own bears a generic resemblance. 
 
 The writer seems as clearly to perceive, as he is successful in 
 obviating, the difficulty of preventing his characters from being 
 received as satires on individuals. 'AH history,' he remarks, in 
 closing some observations on tliis point, 'sheweth that in such 
 matters, as are herein contained, there are minds so conscience- 
 stricken as to be wholly incapable of reading them without apply- 
 ing to themselves the characters designed for a class ; and should this 
 be verified in the present instance, I have but one reply — if they be 
 applicable, they whom the cap fits should be grateful for the salu- 
 tary reproof — if not, they slander themselves,' 'Man,' he adds, 'hath 
 ever been so much the sport of prejudice, of custom, and habit; so 
 many opinions come to him with the hoary locks of time, or in the 
 more captivating attire of novelty, and fashion is so lordly a prince, 
 his mandates being practised without any inquiry as to the reasona- 
 bleness thereof, that there be few who can endure to look upon the 
 resplendent face of unveiled truth ; and the many have, therefore, 
 an unseemly way of considering those as impertinent pretenders, 
 a,nd intruders upon their rights, who essay to rebuke their follies, 
 and to breathe 'into the torpid breast of daily life' their chiding 
 counsels. And this, especially, is the case, if the reproof be 
 lengthened into essays or dissertations, without many of those 
 verdant spots by which they seek to relieve themselves from the 
 cheerless and arid wastes of moral instruction.' 
 
 (From the New York Star.) 
 
 'Among the writers of America whose pens are contributing to 
 the agreeable recreation and moral improvement of their country- 
 men, we mention with pride David Hoffman, Esq. of Baltimore, 
 This distinguished barrister, after a life well spent in his profes- 
 sion, and the attainment of a high reputation by his legal acquire- 
 ments and published works, has retired upon an elegant compe- 
 tency, and devotes his leisure to the production of a series of moral 
 essays, the first of which appeared under the incognito of 'Miscel- 
 laneous Thoughts, by Anthony Grumbler, Esq.' We are pleased 
 to learn from the Baltimore American that he has now in the press 
 a continuation of these under the title of 'A peep into my Note 
 Book.' The subjects treated of are of a domestic character, and
 
 NOTICES- OF THE GRUMBLER. 
 
 all have a pure moral bearing, and are full of entertaining and 
 sprightly anecdote — to which we must be permitted to add that 
 they are characterized also by a vigorous and correct style, with 
 thoughts that evince a close and accurate acquaintance with man- 
 kind, and extensive erudition. We hail Mr. Hoffman as one of 
 our first moral essayists.' 
 
 (From the AtheniFum ) 
 
 'The Grumblings are generally laconic, and some have a quaint- 
 ness and humour about them which is peculiarly agreeable, whilst 
 others have a terseness and force, which would have done honour 
 to CoLTOX himself. 
 
 The author has evidently not passed his life at Grumbleton 
 Hall, — he shows the refined taste of a scholar — the polish of a 
 gentleman — and the ease of one who has mingled much in society, 
 without falling into the errors which he exposes!' The two last 
 articles of the volume, entitled 'Delicate Reproof of Swear- 
 ing' — and 'Squire Grumbler's Solicitude for, and Fare- 
 well to His Book,' we should like to insert, would our limits 
 permit.' 
 
 (From the Philadelphia Gazette.) 
 
 This is evidently the production of a sound mind, and a master 
 of the sententious. He does not, however, impress by antithesis, 
 like Lacon ; he is a maker of proverbs and short essays, to many 
 of which may be promised a long duration. The author writes 
 with ease and with spirit ; objects which by the common eye are 
 neglected, are to him provocatives of sensible and salutary thought, 
 in morals, manners, and the didactics of life. The writer reasons 
 briefly, but acutely ; and appears to be one who, if occasion should 
 serve, could exercise his powers successfully on the abtrusest 
 topics. His motto, which he derives from Osborne, is a good 
 expositor of the volume : — 'As St. Austin saitli of short and holy 
 ejaculations, that they pierce heaven as soon, if not quicker, than 
 more tedious prayers ; so I have reaped greater benefit from con- 
 cise and casual remarks on miscellaneous topics, than from long 
 and voluminous treatises, relating to one and the same thing.' 
 
 (From the Merchant.) 
 
 Miscellaneous Thoughts on Men, Manners and Things, 
 BY Anthony Grumbler, of Grumbleton Hall, Esq. is the 
 title of some three hundred pages; treating, as the title imports, of 
 men, manners, and things, in short notices, which evince that the 
 writer is familiar with society, and has studied the subjects on 
 which he writes. 
 
 (From Dunglissoii's Medical Intelligencer.) 
 
 'There is much truth in the following pertinent observations 
 from the pen — if we mistake not — of a distinguished lawyer, David 
 Hoffman, Esq. of Baltimore. The whole work, in which they
 
 6 NOTICES OF THE GRUMBLER, 
 
 appear, is well worthy of attentive perusal. It is evidently the 
 production of one accustomed to observe accurately and to reflect 
 deeply.' 
 
 [We omit the extract, entitled 'The Medical Profession.'] 
 
 (From the American.) 
 
 'There is no difficulty in making extracts from a book, every 
 leaf of which, from title page to colophon, merits the reader's 
 attention — but he will thank us, we are sure, for directing his 
 notice to the work by so agreeable a foretaste of its merit as the 
 following. [The extract entitled ' Threading a Needle an Emblem 
 of Truth,'' we omit.] 
 
 (From the Portland Orion.) 
 
 'Upon running our eyes again over the work, we find we have 
 by no means republished the most interesting portions, and there- 
 fore propose to continue our selections, till we have given our 
 readers a fair specimen of Mr. Anthony Grumbler's visions and 
 original cogitations. [Here followed numerous extracts.] 
 
 Oi5- This work has been strongly noticed by the North American 
 Review — by several British Journals and Reviews, in all, by more 
 than fifty notices. 
 
 S. COLMAN 
 
 Has also for sale a few copies of the author's legal works, 
 entitled 
 
 LEGAL OUTLINES, 
 
 complete iu one volume, pp. 675 — with a letter addressed to 'British 
 Students.' Also, his 
 
 COURSE OF LEGAL STUDY, 
 
 Second edition — re-written and much enlarged, in two volumes, 
 paged through, pp. 876. Ci3="The recommendations of this work 
 have been so remarkably strong in tlie United States, Germany, 
 and France, that the entire edition would doubtless have been 
 exhausted, bad the work been published— only a comparatively 
 few copies having been diffused. This work is now, for the first 
 time, fully before the public. 
 
 ***The author has nearly ready for publication a new work, 
 entitled 'Selections from the Chronicles of Cartaphilus, 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW, 
 
 Embracing a period of nearly nineteen centuries.' The first series 
 in two volumes, will embrace the life of this extraordinary per- 
 sonage, from A. D. 27, to A. D. 800
 
 PUBLISHED BV 
 
 JAMES KAY, JR. & BROTHER, Philadelphia. 
 HOFFMAN'S 
 
 COURSE OF LEGAL STUDY, 
 
 ADDRESSED TO 
 
 STUDENTS AND THE PROFESSION GENERALLY. 
 
 Second Edition — Re-written and much enlarged, in two volumes, 
 paged through, pp. 876. 
 
 The work is now under the sole agency of Kay &, Bkother, to 
 whom Booksellers throughout the Union will please apply. 
 
 recommendations of the first edition. 
 
 This work is recommended in the strongest terms by Chief 
 Justice Marshall, Mr. Justice Story, Chancellor Kent, Judge 
 Spencer, De Witt Clinton, Professor Stearnes, Chief Justice Tilgh- 
 man, Mr. Justice Washington, Mr. Justice Story, the Hon. Daniel 
 Webster, and by more than 200 eminent lawyers of this and other 
 countries. It has been elaborately reviewed by the North Ameri- 
 can Review, the Analectic Magazine, and by many other periodi- 
 cals. The British and Continental Reviews speak of it in the 
 highest terms, and the entire edition was exhausted in eighteen 
 months. 
 
 Judge Duvall considers it 'a most valuable acquisition to the 
 practitioner, and to the student it is inestimable.^ 
 
 Judge Story says 'It is truly delightful to me also to perceive 
 that the author does not confine the student to the mere walks of 
 the Common law : but he has drawn him to the noble studies of 
 the Admiralty, Maritime and Civil Law. The work is an honour 
 to our country, and if its precepts are steadily pursued by the 
 profession, I think it will not be rashness to declare that the next 
 age will exhibit an American bar not excelled by any in Europe. 
 No present could be more acceptable than a work which enables 
 young men to see the paths oi legal science, and points out so 
 many excellent instructions to guide and cheer them on their 
 journey.'
 
 8 NOTICES OF THE LEGAL STtTDT. 
 
 The North American Review of 34 pages, concludes with sayings 
 'In quitting the work we have not the shghtest hesitation to de- 
 clare that it contains by far the most perfect system for the study 
 of the law that has ever been offered to the public. We cordially 
 recommend it to all lawyers as a model for the direction of all 
 students who may be cominilted to their charge; and we hazard 
 nothing in asserting that if its precepts are steadily pursued, high 
 as the profession now stands in our country, it will attain a higher 
 elevation, an elevation which shall command the reverence of 
 Europe, and reflect back light and glory upon the land and the 
 law of our forefathers.' 
 
 Chancellor Kent says, 'Whoever follows its directions will 
 be a well read and accomplished lawyer. Many of the depart- 
 ments of the science to which the student is pointed suits my taste 
 exactly. 
 
 De Witt Clinton says, 'The design is judicious, and the 
 execution most felicitous. It contains a mass of information and 
 learning seldom equalled, and is an invaluable guide to legal 
 knowledge.' 
 
 recommendations of the second edition. 
 
 The Foreign Reviews of England, France, and Germanj', have 
 favourably noticed this work. 
 
 The London Legal Observer bestows on it a full review, and 
 remarks, 'It will be observed, that here the student will find either 
 instruction, or the means of obtaining instruction, on evei-y subject 
 bearing directly or indirectly, nearly or remotely on all the vast 
 field of jurisprudence. We think Mr. Hoftrnan has made an im- 
 portant contribution to the stock of works on the study of the law. 
 His book is written with great force and correctness, in an excel- 
 lent tone of moral feeling, and with a constant view to the well- 
 being and dignity of the profession.' 
 
 Le Droit, a Parisian legal periodical, after speaking of the 
 German, English, and American modes of study, remarks, that 
 'Although Mr. Hoffman's work was written for American readers, 
 yet French lawyers may consult it with the greatest advantage. 
 They will find therein the merits and defects of almost all the 
 authors upon this science, either of England, America, or the 
 Continent of Europe, pointed out with clearness and precision. 
 They will find faithful epitomes of their works, and frequent 
 biographical notices replete with interest and learning.' 
 
 MoNS. FoELix, in his Rewe Etranqere et Francaise, has an 
 interesting review of this work, in which he gives the author great 
 credit for this and also for his 'Legal Outlines,' and expresses 
 great admiration of that portion of the former which relates to legal 
 morals or professional deportment. 
 
 The American notices of this second edition are equally nume- 
 rous and laudatory. The Jurist commences with saying, 'This 
 is one of the most elegant and interesting law works that the press-
 
 NOTICES OF THE LEGAL STUDV. if 
 
 of England or America has put forth, since the days of Sir William 
 Blackstone. The perusal of it has afforded the same gratification 
 to the writer as he derived from the unique, and masterly treatise 
 on the principles of pleading by Mr. Sergeant Stephen. There 
 is a freshness and originality throughout the pages of these two 
 volumes, that prove its author's mind to be thoroughly imbued 
 with legal lore, and expanded and adorned by the most liberal and 
 diversified studies.' After the Reviewer has thoroughly examined 
 the volumes, the editor adds his sanction thus, 'We cannot forbear 
 expressing our hearty concurrence with the views of the above 
 able and learned article, and adding our humble tribute of admira- 
 tion and praise of Mr. Hoffman's work. The Course of Legal 
 Studij is a book, which should be in the hands of every student, 
 and on the table of every practitioner. Mr. Hoffman is eminently 
 the studenVs friend, and "his advice and encouragement cannot fail 
 to cheer the desponding, to excite the indolent, and to confirm the 
 ambitious and ardent in the arduous studies before them — 'I never 
 read the old song of Percy and Douglass,' says Sir Philip Sydney, 
 'without feeling my very heart stirred as by the sound of a 
 trumpet;' nor do we believe that the law student, whose mind and 
 heart are properly attuned to the calls of duty, can read Mr. Hoff- 
 man's book without feeling an impulse, scarcely less moving, than 
 that which stirred the bosom of the accomplished knight, and 
 which he has with such stirring language expressed.' 
 
 (From the National Gazette.) 
 
 Hoffman's Course of Legal Study. 
 
 A friend, a member of the bar, has just shewn us this new work. 
 It is in two beautiful royal octavo volumes; and is, in point of 
 point of paper, type, and mechanical execution, a credit to the city 
 of Baltimore, whence it emanates. To judge from the varied con- 
 tents of the two volumes, and from what has been communicated 
 to us in reference to them, it would seem that the profession of our 
 country owe the eminent lawyer who has written them, a large 
 debt. Mr. Hoffman has been among the first and most efficient in 
 introducing liberal and expanded views of Law Studies throughout 
 the Union, and in promoting legal education. The first edition of 
 this work, published more than fifteen years ago, in one volume, 
 has, we are told, done great good, by spreading out as on a map, 
 the devious and toilsome paths through which the student is com- 
 pelled to struggle, in order to attain a scientific and suitable know- 
 ledge of the law. That edition was exhausted within two years 
 after its publication. It strikes us, from a hasty survey of the 
 pages of the Legal Study, that it is replete \\ith rich and instruc- 
 tive matter, and abounds with information that the student, who 
 wishes to become an accomplished and elegant lawyer, should not 
 be devoid of. The mature student and practitioner too, must find 
 in the stores that the laborious and industrious author has thus col- 
 lected, mach that will grace and increase his learning. We find 
 the names of the most eminent lawyers and judges of the country 
 in the catalogue of those who have expressed their sense of the 
 value and importance of the labours of Mr. Hoffman in thia 
 department of legal education.
 
 10 NOTICES OF THE LtGAL STUDY. 
 
 The Baltimore American, in noticing the various articles of the 
 January number of the North American Review, says : 
 
 'Article fourth is (especially to the legal student) an interesting 
 notice of 'Hoffman's Course of Legal Study,' as enlarged, anS 
 lately presented to the public in a second edition. This paper 
 awards high, but without doubt, deserved praise to the author of 
 the work under consideration, for the marked ability of its execu- 
 tion. As touching its general scope and character, the Reviewer 
 observes, that the members of the profession of the law owe a 
 debt of gratitude to Mr. Hoffman, for his endeavours to elevate 
 it, by the comprehensive course of liberal studies, which he has 
 presented to its students. But yet more honourable is the award, 
 and yet more justly valued should be the testimonial of the Re- 
 viewer, in the following remarks, which, as they comprise a lesson 
 of high value in themselves, we gladly transcribe : 
 
 'We should be guilty of gross inpistice to Mr. Hoffman if we 
 omitted to mention, with the highest commendation, the tone of 
 moral feeling, which breathes from every page of his work. He 
 loses no opportunity to impress upon the mind of the youthful stu- 
 dent, that it is not enough for him to be a good lawyer, and a good 
 scholar, but that he must also be a good man, and that the highest 
 attainments are imperfect, without that delicate moral sense which 
 feels a stain like a wound, and that resolute moral strength which 
 makes a man submit to be torn in pieces rather than do what he 
 knows to be wrong. His remarks on Professional Deportment are 
 conceived and written with an energy and glow, which remind us 
 of some of the most eloquent passages in the ethical writings of 
 Cicero.' 
 
 The Princeton Review, and Biblical Repertory, contains a 
 detailed notice of this work, in fifteen pages, and speaks of it in 
 the same tone of stro-ng commendation. 
 
 (From the Baltimore American, of September, 1839.) 
 
 Messrs. Editors : — A late number of the London Law Maga- 
 zine, which has just reached this city, contains for its leading arti- 
 cle an elaborate review of a Baltimore book, 'A Course of Legal 
 Study,' by our distinguished townsman. David Hoffman, Esq. 
 The article throughout is highly complimentary, though not with- 
 out such occasional censure as gives it the stamp of an impartial 
 and candid judgment. It is truly gratifying, amid the many harsh 
 things which it has been too much the habit of British Reviews to 
 say of us, to find that cis-atlantic scholarship in the law meets 
 with just praise, and that the names of Kent, Story, Hoffman, 
 and others, are associated with honourable mention in the same 
 category with the most distinguished jurists of England, and the 
 Continent. I extract the first page of the review, in the latter part 
 of which the 'Legal Study' is compared with Dupin's Camus. 
 
 'It is a general opinion amongst our readers that we have already 
 devoted more space to Mr. Warren's lucubrations than they are 
 worth, and as his complete misconception of the nature and exi- 
 gencies of the profession, and the impracticability of his peculiar 
 plan of study — the two radical all-pervading errors of his work—
 
 NOTICES OF THE LEGAL STUDY. 11 
 
 have been satisfactorily exposed, it certainly seems useless to pro- 
 ceed with a systematic review. Our more immediate object, 
 therefore, is to introduce the enlightened American whose work is 
 .named at the head of this article, and then afford the rising genera- 
 tion the benefit of sundry promised hints and suggestions of our own. 
 •The work Mr. Hoffman's most closely resembles is M. Dupin's 
 edition of Camus, in which the course to be adopted by the legal 
 aspirant is marked out, the various rights and duties of the practis- 
 ing advocate are explained, and the leading books on the codes or 
 systems of almost every country in the world, known to possess a 
 code or system, are enumerated. But there is this material diffe- 
 rence — M. Dupin makes no pretension to a critical acquaintance 
 with an immense majority of the authors named by him, and gives 
 the student little or no aid whatever in making a selection from 
 the mass. Mr. Hoffman, on the contrary, has evidently perused 
 with care the various works comprised within the most compre- 
 hensive of hi? courses, and is consequently not merely prepared 
 with information as to the comparative merit of any given publi- 
 cation as a whole, but can tell which parts, chapters or sections 
 are most worthy of attention, and which it may be advisable to 
 skip. For example, the contents of Coke's Reports are carefully 
 distributed under the respective heads of real property, pleading, 
 mercantile law, &c.; the precise point decided in each case being 
 stated, and its bearings and consequences followed out. 
 
 LEGAL OUTLINES. 
 
 This work of the author has met with an equally strong praise. 
 The volume has now assumed a new form, the author having relin- 
 quished for the present, the design of adding the other two volumes. 
 It is now presented as a single volume, and a perfect work, being 
 thus published with a view to its re-publication in England, and 
 contains an address to British law students. There are but a few 
 copies remaining of this work, either in its late, or in its present 
 form. 
 
 Mr. Hoffman's Literary Works are likewise for sale by KAY 
 k BROTHERS. 
 
 Philadelphia, September, 1839.
 
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