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 -
 
 UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME. 
 
 I. 
 FAVORITE AUTHORS: 
 
 A COMPANION-BOOK OF PROSE AND POETRY. 
 Illustrated with numerous steel engravings. 
 
 II. 
 
 HOUSEHOLD FRIENDS FOR EVERY 
 SEASON. 
 
 Elustrated with numerous steel engravings. 
 
 TICKNOR AND FIELDS, Publishers.
 
 FOR EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 
 
 " Good company 
 
 well approved in all." 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 
 1866.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by 
 
 TICKNOR AND FIELDS, 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 UNIVERSITY PRESS : WELCH, BIGELOW, & Co., 
 CAMBRIDGE.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER : Yankee Gypsies ... 1 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL: Dara 16 
 
 THOMAS CARLYLE : Cromwell 19 
 
 T. WESTWOOD : Little Bell 86 
 
 ROSE TERRY: The Mormon's Wife .... 89 
 JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART : Beyond . . . .109 
 JOHN MILTON: Autobiographical Passages. . . 110 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM: Wakening . . . .117 
 EDMUND LODGE : John Graham . . . . 118 
 
 W. EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN: The Burial-March of 
 
 Dundee 128 
 
 GOETHE: Mignon as an Angel . . . . 134 
 
 MRS. GASKELL: The Cage at Cranford. . . .136 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER : Verses on Sir Philip Sidney . 150 
 
 GEORGE TICKNOR : Prescott's Infirmity of Sight . .152 
 
 DANTE : Beatrice 168 
 
 1711073
 
 iv CONTENTS. 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY: A Love Story . . . .170 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR: The Mystic Summer . . . 236 
 
 MRS. JAMESON : Two of the Old Masters . . . 239 
 
 FREDERICK TENNYSON: The Poet's Heart . . 261 
 
 GIORGIO VASARI : Character of Fra Angelico . . 265 
 
 WILLIAM BLAKE : Songs 267 
 
 J. HAIN FRISWELL: Upon Growing Old . . .277 
 
 R. W. EMERSON: The Titmouse .... 284 
 
 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE : Little Pansie . . . 288 
 
 H. "W. LONGFELLOW : Palingenesis .... 805 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT : My Childhood .... 808
 
 YANKEE GYPSIES 
 
 BY JOHN G. WHITTIEE. 
 
 " Here 'a to budgets, packs, and wallets ; 
 Here 's to all the wandering train." BURNS. 
 
 I CONFESS it, I am keenly sensitive to " skyey influ- 
 ences." I profess no indifference to the movements of 
 that capricious old gentleman known as the clerk of the 
 weather. I cannot conceal my interest in the behavior of 
 that patriarchal bird whose wooden similitude gyrates on 
 the church spire. Winter proper is well enough. Let the 
 thermometer go to zero if it will ; so much the better, if 
 thereby the very winds are frozen and unable to flap their 
 stiff wings. Sounds of bells in the keen air, clear, musical, 
 heart-inspiring ; quick tripping of fair moccasoned feet on 
 glittering ice-pavements ; bright eyes glancing above the 
 uplifted muff like a sultana's behind the folds of her yash- 
 mack ; school-boys coasting down street like mad Green- 
 landers ; the cold brilliance of oblique sunbeams flashing 
 back from wide surfaces of glittering snow or blazing upon 
 ice-jewelry of tree and roof. There is nothing in all this to 
 complain of. A storm of summer has its redeeming sublim- 
 ities, its slow, upheaving mountains of cloud glooming in 
 the western horizon like new-created volcanoes, veined with 
 fire, shattered by exploding thunders. Even the wild gales 
 of the equinox have their varieties, sounds of wind-shaken 
 woods, and waters, creak and clatter of sign and casement, 
 1 A
 
 2 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 hurricane puffs and down-rushing rain-spouts. But this 
 dull, dark autumn day of thaw and rain, when the very 
 clouds seem too spiritless and languid to storm outright or 
 take themselves out of the way of fair weather ; wet beneath 
 and above, reminding one of that rayless atmosphere of 
 Dante's Third Circle, where the infernal Priessnitz admin- 
 isters his hydropathic torment, 
 
 " A heavy, cursed, and relentless drench, 
 The land it soaks is putrid " ; 
 
 or rather, as everything, animate and inanimate, is seething 
 in warm mist, suggesting the idea that Nature, grown old 
 and rheumatic, is trying the efficacy of a Thompsonian 
 steam-box on a grand scale ; no sounds save the heavy plash 
 of muddy feet on the pavements ; the monotonous, melan- 
 choly drip from trees and roofs ; the distressful gurgling of 
 water-ducts, swallowing the dirty amalgam of the gutters ; a 
 dim, leaden-colored horizon of only a few yards in diameter, 
 shutting down about one, beyond which nothing is visible 
 save in faint line or dark projection ; the ghost of a church 
 spire or the eidolon of a chimney-pot. He who can extract 
 pleasurable emotions from the alembic of such a day has a 
 trick of alchemy with which I am wholly unacquainted. 
 
 Hark ! a rap at my door. Welcome anybody just now. 
 One gains nothing by attempting to shut out the sprites of 
 the weather. They come in at the keyhole ; they peer 
 through the dripping panes ; they insinuate themselves 
 through the crevices of the casement, or plump down chim- 
 ney astride of the rain-drops. 
 
 I rise and throw open the door. A tall, shambling, loose- 
 jointed figure ; a pinched, shrewd face, sunbrown and wind- 
 dried ; small, quick-winking black eyes. There he stands, 
 the water dripping from his pulpy hat and ragged elbows. 
 
 I speak to him ; but he returns no answer. With a 
 dumb show of misery quite touching he hands me a soiled
 
 YANKEE GYPSIES. 8 
 
 piece of parchment, whereon I read what purports to be a 
 melancholy account of shipwreck and disaster, to the par- 
 ticular detriment, loss, and damnification of one Pietro 
 Frugoni, who is, in consequence, sorely in want of the alms 
 of all charitable Christian persons, and who is, in short, the 
 bearer of this veracious document, duly certified and in- 
 dorsed by an Italian consul in one of our Atlantic cities, of a 
 high-sounding, but to Yankee organs unpronounceable, name. 
 
 Here commences a struggle. Every man, the Mahome- 
 tans tell us, has two attendant angels, the good one on his 
 right shoulder, the bad on his left. " Give," says Benevo- 
 lence, as with some difficulty I fish up a small coin from the 
 depths of my pocket. " Not a cent," says selfish Prudence ; 
 and I drop it from my fingers. " Think," says the good an- 
 gel, " of the poor stranger in a strange land, just escaped 
 from the terrors of the sea storm, in which his little prop- 
 erty has perished, thrown half naked and helpless on our 
 shores, ignorant of our language, and unable to find employ- 
 ment suited to his capacity." " A vile impostor ! " replies 
 the left-hand sentinel. " His paper, purchased from one of 
 those ready writers in New York who manufacture beggar 
 credentials at the low price of one dollar per copy, with 
 earthquakes, fires, or shipwrecks, to suit customers." 
 
 Amidst this confusion of tongues I take another survey 
 of my visitant. Ha ! a light dawns upon me. That 
 shrewd, old face, with its sharp, winking eyes, is no stran- 
 ger to me. Pietro Frugoni, I have seen thee before. Si, 
 signor, that face of thine has looked at me over a dirty white 
 neckcloth, with the corners of that cunning mouth drawn 
 downwards, and those small eyes turned up in sanctimonious 
 gravity, while thou wast offering to a crowd of half-grown 
 boys an extemporaneous exhortation in the capacity of a 
 travelling preacher. Have I not seen it peering out from 
 under a blanket, as that of a poor Penobscot Indian who had 
 lost the use of his hands while trapping on the Madawaska?
 
 4 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 Is it not the face of the forlorn father of six small children, 
 whom the " marcury doctors " had " pisened " and crippled ? 
 Did it not belong to that down-east unfortunate who had 
 been out to the " Genesee country " and got the " fevern- 
 nager," and whose hand shook so pitifully when held out to 
 receive my poor gift? The same, under all disguises 
 Stephen Leathers, of Barrington him, and none other ! 
 Let me conjure him into his own likeness : 
 
 " Well, Stephen, what news from old Barrington ? " 
 
 " 0, well I thought I knew ye," he answers, not the least 
 disconcerted. " How do you do ? and how 's your folks ? 
 All well, I hope. I took this 'ere paper you see, to help a 
 poor furriner, who couldn't make himself understood any 
 more than a wild goose. I thought I 'd just start him for- 
 'ard a little. It seemed a marcy to do it." 
 
 Well and shiftily answered, thou ragged Proteus. One 
 cannot be angry with such a fellow. I will just inquire into 
 the present state of his Gospel mission and about the condi- 
 tion of his tribe on the Penobscot ; and it may be not amiss 
 to congratulate him on the success of the steam doctors in 
 sweating the "pisen" of the regular faculty out of him. 
 But he evidently has no wish to enter into idle conversation. 
 Intent upon his benevolent errand, he is already clattering 
 down stairs. Involuntarily I glance out of the window just 
 in season to catch a single glimpse of him ere he is swal- 
 lowed up in the mist. 
 
 He has gone ; and, knave as he is, I can hardly help ex- 
 claiming, " Luck go with him ! " He has broken in upon 
 the sombre train of my thoughts and called up before me 
 pleasant and grateful recollections. The old farm-house 
 nestling in its valley ; hills stretching off to the south and 
 green meadows to the east; the small stream which came 
 noisily down its ravine, washing the old garden wall and 
 softly lapping on fallen stones and mossy roots of beeches 
 and hemlocks ; the tall sentinel poplars at the gateway ; the
 
 YANKEE GYPSIES. 5 
 
 oak forest, sweeping unbroken to the northern horizon ; the 
 grass-grown carriage-path, with its rude and crazy bridge, 
 the dear old landscape of my boyhood lies outstretched be- 
 fore me like a daguerrotype from that picture within which 
 I have borne with me in all my wanderings. I am a boy 
 again, once more conscious of the feeling, half terror, half 
 exultation, with which I used to announce the approach of 
 this very vagabond and his " kindred after the flesh." 
 
 The advent of wandering beggars, or, " old stragglers," as 
 we were wont to call them, was an event of no ordinary in- 
 terest in the generally monotonous quietude of our farm life. 
 Many of them were well known ; they had their periodical 
 revolutions and transits j we could calculate them like eclipses 
 or new moons. Some were sturdy knaves, fat and saucy ; 
 and, whenever they ascertained that the " men folks " were 
 absent, would order provisions and cider like men who 
 expected to pay for it, seating themselves at the hearth or 
 table with the air of Falstaff, " Shall I not take mine ease 
 in mine own inn ? " Others, poor, pale, patient, like Sterne's 
 monk, came creeping up to the door, hat in hand, standing 
 there in their gray wretchedness with a look of heartbreak 
 and forlornness which was never without its effect on our 
 juvenile sensibilities. At times, however, we experienced a 
 slight revulsion of feeling when even these humblest chil- 
 dren of sorrow somewhat petulantly rejected our proffered 
 bread and cheese, and demanded instead a glass of cider. 
 "Whatever the temperance society might in such cases have 
 done, it was not in our hearts to refuse the poor creatures a 
 draught of their favorite beverage ; and was n't it a satisfac- 
 tion to see their sad, melancholy faces light up as we handed 
 them the full pitcher, and, on receiving it back empty from 
 their brown, wrinkled hands, to hear them, half breathless 
 from their long, delicious draught, thanking us for the favor, 
 as " dear, good children " ! Not unfrequently these wander- 
 ing tests of our benevolence made their appearance in inter-
 
 6 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 esting groups of man, woman, and child, picturesque in their 
 squalidness, and manifesting a maudlin affection which would 
 have done honor to the revellers at Poosie-Nansie's, immor- 
 tal in the cantata of Burns. I remember some who were 
 evidently the victims of monomania haunted and hunted 
 by some dark thought possessed by a fixed idea. One, a 
 black-eyed, wild-haired woman, with a whole tragedy of sin, 
 shame, and suffering written in her countenance, used often 
 to visit us, warm herself by our winter fire, and supply her- 
 self with a stock of cakes and cold meat ; but was never 
 known to answer a question or to ask one. She never 
 smiled ; the cold, stony look of her eye never changed ; a si- 
 lent, impassive face, frozen rigid by some great wrong or sin. 
 We used to look with awe upon the "still woman," and 
 think of the demoniac of Scripture who had a " dumb spirit." 
 One I think I see him now, grim, gaunt, and ghastly, 
 working his slow way up to our door used to gather herbs 
 by the wayside and call himself doctor. He was bearded 
 like a he-goat and used to counterfeit lameness, yet, when he 
 supposed himself alone, would travel on lustily as if walking 
 for a wager. At length, as if in punishment of his deceit, 
 he met with an accident in his rambles and became lame in 
 earnest, hobbling ever after with difficulty on his gnarled 
 crutches. Another used to go stooping, like Bunyan's pil- 
 grim, under a pack made of an old bed sacking, stuffed out 
 into most plethoric dimensions, tottering on a pair of small, 
 meagre legs, and peering out with his wild, hairy face from 
 under his burden like a big-bodied spider. That " man with 
 the pack" always inspired me with awe and reverence. 
 Huge, almost sublime, in its tense rotundity, the father of 
 all packs, never laid aside and never opened, what might 
 there not be within it ? "With what flesh-creeping curiosity 
 I used to walk round about it at a safe distance, half expect- 
 ing to see its striped covering stirred by the motions of a 
 mysterious life, or that some evil monster would leap out of
 
 YANKEE GYPSIES. 7 
 
 it, like robbers from All Baba's jars or armed men from the 
 Trojan horse ! 
 
 There was another class of peripatetic philosophers 
 half peddler, half mendicant who were in the habit of 
 visiting us. One we recollect, a lame, unshaven, sinister- 
 eyed, unwholesome fellow, with his basket of old news- 
 papers and pamphlets, and his tattered blue umbrella, serv- 
 ing rather as a walking-staff than as a protection from the 
 rain. He told us on one occasion, in answer to our inquir- 
 ing into the cause of his lameness, that when a young man 
 he was employed on the farm of the chief magistrate of a 
 neighboring State ; where, as his ill luck would have it, the 
 governor's handsome daughter fell in love with him. He 
 was caught one day in the young lady's room by her father ; 
 whereupon the irascible old gentleman pitched him uncere- 
 moniously out of the window, laming him for life, on the 
 brick pavement below, like Vulcan on the rocks of Lemnos. 
 As for the lady, he assured us " she took on dreadfully about 
 it." " Did she die ? " we inquired anxiously. There was a 
 cunning twinkle in the old rogue's eye as he responded, 
 " Well, no, she did n't. She got married." 
 
 Twice a year, usually in the spring and autumn, we were 
 honored with a call from Jonathan Plummer, maker of 
 verses, pedler and poet, physician and parson, a Yankee 
 troubadour, first and last minstrel of the valley of the 
 Merrimac, encircled, to my wondering young eyes, with the 
 very nimbus of immortality. He brought with him pins, 
 needles, tape, and cotton thread for my mother; jackknives, 
 razors, and soap for my father ; and verses of his own com- 
 posing, coarsely printed and illustrated with rude woodcuts, 
 for the delectation of the younger branches of the family. 
 No lovesick youth could drown himself, no deserted maiden 
 bewail the moon, no rogue mount the gallows without fitting 
 memorial in Plummer's verses. Earthquakes, fires, fevers, 
 and shipwrecks he regarded as personal favors from Provi-
 
 8 JOHN G. WfflTTIER. 
 
 dence, furnishing the raw material of song and ballad. 
 Welcome to us in our country seclusion as Autolycus to the 
 clown in Winter's Tale, we listened with infinite satisfaction 
 to his readings of his own verses, or to his ready improvisa- 
 tion upon some domestic incident or topic suggested by his 
 auditors. When once fairly over the difficulties at the out- 
 set of a new subject his rhymes flowed freely, " as if he had 
 eaten ballads and all men's ears grew to his tunes." His 
 productions answered, as nearly as I can remember, to 
 Shakespeare's description of a proper ballad " doleful 
 matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant theme sung 
 lamentably." He was scrupulously conscientious, devout, 
 inclined to theological disquisitions, and withal mighty in 
 Scripture. He was thoroughly independent ; flattered no- 
 body, cared for nobody, trusted nobody. When invited to 
 sit down at our dinner-table, he invariably took the precau- 
 tion to place his basket of valuables between his legs for 
 safe keeping. "Never mind thy basket, Jonathan," said 
 my father ; " we sha' n't steal thy verses." " I 'm not sure 
 of that," returned the suspicious guest. "It is written, 
 ' Trust ye not in any brother.' " 
 
 Thou too, O Parson B., with thy pale student's brow 
 and rubicund nose, with thy rusty and tattered black coat 
 overswept by white, flowing locks, with thy professional 
 white neckcloth scrupulously preserved when even a shirt 
 to thy back was problematical, art by no means to be 
 overlooked in the muster-roll of vagrant gentlemen possess- 
 ing the entree of our farm-house. Well do we remember 
 with what grave and dignified courtesy he used to step over 
 its threshold, saluting its inmates with the same air of gra- 
 cious condescension and patronage with which in better 
 days he had delighted the hearts of his parishioners. Poor 
 old man ! He had once been the admired and almost wor- 
 shipped minister of the largest church in the town where 
 he afterwards found support in the winter season as a pau-
 
 YANKEE GYPSIES. 9 
 
 per. He had early fallen into intemperate habits ; and at 
 the age of threescore and ten, when I remember him, he 
 was only sober when he lacked the means of being other- 
 wise. Drunk or sober, however, he never altogether forgot 
 the proprieties of his profession ; he was always grave, 
 decorous, and gentlemanly ; he held fast the form of sound 
 words, and the weakness of the flesh abated nothing of the 
 rigor of his stringent theology. He had been a favorite 
 pupil of the learned and astute Emmons, and was to the 
 last a sturdy defender of the peculiar dogmas of his school. 
 The last time we saw him he was holding a meeting in our 
 district school-house, with a vagabond pedler for deacon 
 and travelling companion. The tie which united the ill- 
 assorted couple was doubtless the same which endeared 
 Tarn O'Shanter to the souter : 
 
 " They had been fou for weeks thegither." 
 
 He took for his text the first seven verses of the concluding 
 chapter of Ecclesiastes, furnishing in himself its fitting 
 illustration. The evil days had come ; the keepers of the 
 house trembled; the windows of life were darkened. A 
 few months later the silver cord was loosened, the golden 
 bowl was broken, and between the poor old man and the 
 temptations which beset him fell the thick curtains of the 
 grave. 
 
 One day we had a call from a " pawky auld carle " of a 
 wandering Scotchman. To him I owe my first introduction 
 to the songs of Burns. After eating his bread and cheese 
 and drinking his mug of cider he gave us Bonnie Doon, 
 Highland Mary, and Auld Lang Syne. He had a rich, full 
 voice, and entered heartily into the spirit of his lyrics. I 
 have since listened to the same melodies from the lips of 
 Dempster (than whom the Scottish bard has had no 
 sweeter or truer interpreter) ; but the skilful performance 
 of the artist lacked the novel charm of the gaberlunzie's 
 1*
 
 10 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 siri^inf in the old farm-house kitchen. Another wanderer 
 
 C o 
 
 made us acquainted with the humorous old ballad of " Our 
 gude man cam hame at e'en." He applied for supper and 
 lodging, and the next morning was set at work splitting 
 stones in the pasture. While thus engaged the village 
 doctor came riding along the highway on his fine, spirited 
 horse, and stopped to talk with my father. The fellow 
 eyed the animal attentively, as if familiar with all his good 
 points, and hummed over a stanza of the old poem : 
 
 " Our gude man cam hame at e'en, 
 
 And hame cam he ; 
 And there he saw a saddle horse 
 
 Where nae horse shou!4 be. 
 ' How cam this horse here ? 
 
 How can it be ? 
 How cam this horse here 
 
 Without the leave of me ? ' 
 ' A horse ? ' quo she. 
 ' Ay, a horse/ quo he. 
 ' Ye auld fool, ye blind fool, 
 
 And blinder might ye be, 
 'T is naething but a milking cow 
 
 My mamma sent to me.' 
 A milch cow ? ' quo he. 
 Ay, a milch cow,' quo she. 
 Weel, far hae I ridden, 
 
 And muckle hae I seen ; 
 But milking cows wi' saddles on 
 
 Saw I never nane.' " 
 
 That very night the rascal decamped, taking with him 
 the doctor's horse, and was never after heard of. 
 
 Often, in the gray of the morning, we used to see one or 
 more " gaberlunzie men," pack on shoulder and staff in 
 hand, emerging from the barn or other out-building where 
 they had passed the night. I was once sent to the barn to 
 fodder the cattle late in the evening, and, climbing into the
 
 YANKEE GYPSIES. 11 
 
 mow to pitch down hay for that purpose, I was startled by 
 the sudden apparition of a man rising up before me, just 
 discernible in the dim moonlight streaming through the 
 seams of the boards. I made a rapid retreat down the lad- 
 der ; and was only reassured by hearing the object of my 
 terror calling after me, and recognizing his voice as that of 
 a harmless old pilgrim whom I had known before. Our 
 farm-house was situated in a lonely valley, half surrounded 
 with woods, with no neighbors in sight. One dark, cloudy 
 night, when our parents chanced to be absent, we were sit- 
 ting with our aged grandmother in the fading light of the 
 kitchen fire, working ourselves into a very satisfactory state 
 of excitement and terror by recounting to each other all the 
 dismal 'stories we could remember of ghosts, witches, 
 haunted houses, and robbers, when we were suddenly start- 
 led by a loud rap at the door. A stripling of fourteen, I 
 was very naturally regarded as the head of the household ; 
 so, with many misgivings, I advanced to the door, which I 
 slowly opened, holding the candle tremulously above my 
 head and peering out into the darkness. The feeble glim- 
 mer played upon the apparition of a gigantic horseman, 
 mounted on a steed of a size worthy of such a rider 
 colossal, motionless, like images cut out of the solid night 
 The strange visitant gruffly saluted me ; and, after making 
 several ineffectual efforts to urge his horse in at the door, 
 dismounted and followed me into the room, evidently enjoy- 
 ing the terror which his huge presence excited. Announc- 
 ing himself as the great "Indian doctor, he drew himself up 
 before the fire, stretched his arms, clinched his fists, struck 
 his broad chest, and invited our attention to what he called 
 his " mortal frame." He demanded in succession all kinds 
 of intoxicating liquors ; and, on being assured that we had 
 none to give him, he grew angry, threatened to swallow my 
 younger brother alive, and, seizing me by the hair of my 
 head as the angel did the prophet at Babylon, led me about
 
 12 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 from room to room. After an ineffectual search, in the 
 course of which he mistook a jug of oil for one of brandy, 
 and, contrary to my explanations and remonstrances, insisted 
 upon swallowing a portion of its contents, he released me, 
 fell to crying and sobbing, and confessed that he was so drunk 
 already that his hoi'se was ashamed of him. After bemoan- 
 ing and pitying himself to his satisfaction he wiped his eyes, 
 and sat down by the side of my grandmother, giving her to 
 understand that he was very much pleased with her appear- 
 ance ; adding, that, if agreeable to her, he should like the 
 privilege of paying his addresses to her. While vainly 
 endeavoring to make the excellent old lady comprehend his 
 very flattering proposition he was interrupted by the return 
 of my father, who, at once understanding the matter, turned 
 him out of doors without ceremony. 
 
 On one occasion, a few years ago, on my return from the 
 field at evening, I was told that a foreigner had asked for 
 lodgings during the night, but that, influenced by his dark, 
 repulsive appearance, my mother had very reluctantly re- 
 fused his request. I found her by no means satisfied with 
 her decision. " What if a son of mine was in a strange 
 land ? " she inquired, self-reproachfully. Greatly to her re- 
 lief, I volunteered to go in pursuit of the wanderer, and, 
 taking a crosspath over the fields, soon overtook him. He 
 had just been rejected at the house of our nearest neighbor, 
 and was standing in a state of dubious perplexity in the 
 street. His looks quite justified my mother's suspicions. 
 He was an olive-complexioned, black-bearded Italian, with 
 an eye like a live coal, such a face as perchance looks out 
 on the traveller in the passes of the Abruzzi, one of those 
 bandit visages which Salvator has painted. With some dif- 
 ficulty I gave him to understand my errand, when he over- 
 whelmed me with thanks and joyfully followed me back. 
 He took his seat with us at the supper-table ; and, when we 
 were all gathered around the hearth that cold autumnal
 
 YANKEE GYPSIES. 13 
 
 evening, he told us, partly by words and partly by gestures, 
 the story of his life and misfortunes, amused us with descrip- 
 tions of the grape-gatherings and festivals of his sunny clime, 
 edified my mother with a recipe for making bread of chest- 
 nuts ; and in the morning, when, after breakfast, his dark, 
 sullen face lighted up and his fierce eye moistened with 
 grateful emotion as in his own silvery Tuscan accent he 
 poured out his thanks, we marvelled at the fears which had 
 so nearly closed our door against him ; and, as he departed, 
 we all felt that he had left with us the blessing of the poor. 
 
 It was not often that, as in the above instance, my moth- 
 er's prudence got the better of her charity. The regular 
 " old stragglers " regarded her as an unfailing friend ; and 
 the sight of her plain cap was to them an assurance of forth- 
 coming creature comforts. There was indeed a tribe of lazy 
 strollers, having their place of rendezvous in the town of 
 Barrington, New Hampshire, whose low vices had placed 
 them beyond even the pale of her benevolence. They were 
 not unconscious of their evil reputation ; and experience had 
 taught them the necessity of concealing, under well-contrived 
 disguises, their true character. They came to us in all 
 shapes and with all appearances save the true one, with 
 most miserable stories of mishap and sickness and all "the 
 ills which flesh is heir to." It was particularly vexatious 
 to discover, when too late, that our sympathies and chari- 
 ties had been expended upon such graceless vagabonds as 
 the " Barrington beggars." An old withered hag, known by 
 the appellation of Hopping Pat, the wise woman of her 
 tribe, was in the habit of visiting us, with her hopeful 
 grandson, who had "a gift for preaching" as well as for 
 many other things not exactly compatible with holy orders. 
 He sometimes brought with him a tame crow, a shrewd, 
 knavish-looking bird, who, when in the humor for it, could 
 talk like Barnaby Rudge's raven. He used to say he could 
 " do nothin' at exhortin' without a white handkercher on his
 
 14 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 neck and money in his pocket " a fact going far to confirm 
 the opinions of the Bishop of Exeter and the Puseyites gen- 
 erally, that there can be no priest without tithes and surplice. 
 
 These people have for several generations lived distinct 
 from the great mass of the community, like the gypsies of 
 Europe, whom in many respects they closely resemble. 
 They have the same settled aversion to labor and the same 
 disposition to avail themselves of the fruits of the industry 
 of others. They love a wild, out-of-door life, sing songs, 
 tell fortunes, and have an instinctive hatred of " missionaries 
 and cold water." It has been said I know not upon what 
 grounds that their ancestors were indeed a veritable im- 
 portation of English gypsyhood ; but if so, they have un- 
 doubtedly lost a good deal of the picturesque charm of its 
 unhoused and free condition. I very much fear that my 
 friend Mary Russell Mitford, sweetest of England's rural 
 painters, who has a poet's eye for the fine points in 
 gypsy character, would scarcely allow their claims to frater- 
 nity with her own vagrant friends, whose camp-fires wel- 
 comed her to her new home at Swallowfield. 
 
 " The proper study of mankind is man " ; and, according 
 to my view, no phase of our common humanity is altogether 
 unworthy of investigation. Acting upon this belief two or 
 three summers ago, when making, in company with my sis- 
 ter, a little excursion into the hill country of New Hamp- 
 shire, I turned my horse's head towards Barrington for the 
 purpose of seeing these semi-civilized strollers in their own 
 home, and returning, once for all, their numerous visits. 
 Taking leave of our hospitable cousins in old Lee with 
 about as much solemnity as we may suppose Major Laing 
 parted with his friends when he set out in search of desert- 
 girdled Timbuctoo, we drove several miles over a rough 
 road, passed the Devil's Den unmolested, crossed a fretful 
 little streamlet noisily working its way into a valley, where 
 it turned a lonely, half-ruinous mill, and climbing a steep
 
 YANKEE GYPSIES. 35 
 
 hill beyond, saw before us a wide sandy level, skirted on the 
 west and north by low, scraggy hills, and dotted here and 
 there with dwarf pitch pines. In the centre of this desolate 
 region were some twenty or thirty small dwellings, grouped 
 together as irregularly as a Hottentot kraal. Unfenced, 
 unguarded, open to all comers and goers, stood that city of 
 the beggars no wall or paling between the ragged cabins 
 to remind one of the jealous distinctions of property. The 
 great idea of its founders seemed visible in its unappropri- 
 ated freedom. Was not the whole round world their own ? 
 and should they haggle about boundaries and title deeds ? 
 For them, on distant plains, ripened golden harvests; for 
 them, in far-off workshops, busy hands were toiling ; for 
 them, if they had but the grace to note it, the broad earth 
 put on her garniture of beauty, and over them hung the 
 silent mystery of heaven and its stars. That comfortable 
 philosophy which modern transcendentalism has but dimly 
 shadowed forth that poetic agrarianism, which gives all 
 to each and each to all is the real life of this city of' un- 
 work. To each of its dingy dwellers might be not unaptly 
 applied the language of one who, I trust, will pardon me for 
 quoting her beautiful poem in this connection : 
 
 " Other hands may grasp the field or forest, 
 Proud proprietors in pomp may shine ; 
 Thou art wealthier all the world is thine." 
 
 But look ! the clouds are breaking. " Fair weather com- 
 eth out of the north." The wind has blown away the mists ; 
 on the gilded spire of John Street glimmers a beam of sun- 
 shine ; and there is the sky again, hard, blue, and cold in its 
 eternal purity, not a whit the worse for the storm. In the 
 beautiful present the past is no longer needed. Reverently 
 and gratefully let its volume be laid aside ; and when again 
 the shadows of the outward world fall upon the spirit, may 
 I not lack a good angel to remind me of its solace, even if 
 he comes in the shape of a Barrington beggar.
 
 D A R A. 
 
 BY JAMES KUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 WHEN Persia's sceptre trembled in a hand 
 Wilted with harem-heats, and all the land 
 Was hovered over by those vulture ills 
 That snuff decaying empire from afar, 
 Then, with a nature balanced as a star, 
 Dara arose, a shepherd of the hills. 
 
 He who had governed fleecy subjects well, 
 
 Made his own village by the self-same spell 
 
 Secure and quiet as a guarded fold ; 
 
 Then, gathering strength by slow and wise degrees, 
 
 Under his sway, to neighbor villages 
 
 Order returned, and faith, and justice old. 
 
 Now when it fortuned that a king more wise 
 Endued the realm with brain, and hands, and eyes, 
 He sought on every side men brave and just ; 
 And having heard our mountain shepherd's praise, 
 How he refilled the mould of elder days, 
 To Dara gave a satrapy in trust. 
 
 So Dara shepherded a province wide, 
 
 Nor in his viceroy's sceptre took more pride 
 
 Than in his crook before ; but envy finds
 
 DARA. 17 
 
 More food in cities than on mountains bare ; 
 And the frank sun of spirits clear and rare 
 Breeds poisonous fogs in low and marish minds. 
 
 Soon it was whispered at the royal ear 
 That, though wise Dara's province, year by year, 
 Like a great sponge, sucked wealth and plenty up, 
 Yet, when he squeezed it at the king's behest, 
 Some yellow drops more rich than all the rest 
 "Went to the filling of his private cup. 
 
 For proof, they said that, wheresoe'er he went, 
 A chest, beneath whose weight the camel bent, 
 Went with him ; and no mortal eye had seen 
 What was therein, save only Dara's own. 
 But, when 't was opened, all his tent was known 
 To glow and lighten with heaped jewels' sheen. 
 
 The king set.forth for Dara's province straight, 
 Where, as.was fit, outside the city's gate, 
 The viceroy met him with a stately train, 
 And there, with archers circled, close at hand, 
 A camel with the chest was seen to stand. 
 The king's brow reddened, for the guilt was plain. 
 
 " Open me here," he cried, " this treasure chest." 
 
 'T was done, and only a worn shepherd's vest 
 
 Was found within. Some blushed and hung the head ; 
 
 Not Dara ; open as the sky's blue roof 
 
 He stood, and " my lord, behold the proof 
 
 That I was faithful to my trust," he said. 
 
 " To govern men, lo, all the spell I had ! 
 My soul in these rude vestments ever clad 
 Still to the unstained past kept true and leal,
 
 18 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 Still on these plains could breathe her mountain air, 
 
 And fortune's heaviest gifts serenely bear, 
 
 Which bend men from their truth and make them reel. 
 
 " For ruling wisely I should have small skill, 
 Were I not lord of simple Dara still : 
 That sceptre kept, I could not lose my way." 
 Strange dew in royal eyes grew round and bright, 
 And strained the throbbing lids ; before 't was night, 
 Two added provinces blest Dara's sway. -
 
 .
 
 CROMWELL. 
 
 By THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 CKOMWELL'S BIRTHPLACE. 
 
 HUNTINGDON itself lies pleasantly along the left 
 bank of the Ouse, sloping pleasantly upwards from 
 Ouse Bridge, which connects it with the old village of God- 
 manchester ; the Town itself consisting mainly of one fair 
 street, which towards the north end of it opens into a kind 
 of irregular market-place, and then contracting again soon 
 terminates. The two churches of All-Saints' and St. John's, 
 as you walk up northward from the Bridge, appear success- 
 ively on your left ; the church-yards flanked with shops or 
 other houses. The Ouse, which is of very circular course 
 in this quarter, winding as if reluctant to enter the Fen- 
 country, says one topographer, has still a respectable 
 drab-color gathered from the clays of Bedfordshire, has 
 uot yet the Stygian black which in a few miles further it 
 assumes for good. Huntingdon, as it were, looks over into 
 the Fens ; Godmanchester, just across the river, already 
 stands on black bog. The country to the East is all Fen 
 (mostly unreclaimed in Oliver's time, and still of a very 
 dropsical character) ; to the "West it is hard green ground, 
 agreeably broken into little heights, duly fringed with wood, 
 and bearing marks of comfortable long-continued cultivation. 
 Here, on the edge of the firm green land, and looking over 
 into the black marshes with their alder-trees and willow- 
 trees, did Oliver Cromwell pass his young years.
 
 20 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 COINCIDENCES. 
 
 WHILE Oliver Cromwell was entering himself of Sidney- 
 Sussex College, William Shakespeare was taking his fare- 
 well of this world. Oliver's Father had, most likely, come 
 with him ; it is but some fifteen miles from Huntingdon ; 
 you can go and come in a day. Oliver's Father saw Oliver 
 write in the Album at Cambridge : at Stratford, Shake- 
 speare's Ann Hathaway was weeping over his bed. The 
 first world-great thing that remains of English History, the 
 Literature of Shakespeare, was ending ; the second world- 
 great thing that remains of English History, the armed 
 Appeal of Puritanism to the Invisible God of Heaven 
 against many very visible Devils, on Earth and Elsewhere, 
 was, so to speak, beginning. They have their exits and their 
 entrances. And one People, in its time, plays many parts. 
 
 Chevalier Florian, in his " Life of Cervantes," has re- 
 marked that Shakespeare's death-day, 23d April, 1616, 
 was likewise that of Cervantes at Madrid. " Twenty-third 
 of April " is, sure enough, the authentic Spanish date : but 
 Chevalier Florian has omitted to notice that the English 
 twenty-third is of Old Style. The brave Miguel died ten 
 days before Shakespeare ; and already lay buried, smoothed 
 right nobly into his long rest. The Historical Student can 
 meditate on these things. 
 
 HIS CONVERSION. 
 
 IN those years it must be that Dr. Simcott, Physician in 
 Huntingdon, had to do with Oliver's hypochondriac mala- 
 dies. He told Sir Philip Warwick, unluckily specifying no 
 date, or none that has survived, " he had often been sent for
 
 CROMWELL. 21 
 
 at midnight:" Mr. Cromwell for many years was very 
 " splenetic " (spleen-struck), often thought he was just about 
 to die, and also " had fancies about the Town Cross." 
 Brief intimation, of which the reflecting reader may make a 
 great deal. Samuel Johnson, too, had hypochondrias; all 
 great souls are apt to have, and to be in thick darkness 
 generally, till the eternal ways and the celestial guiding- 
 stars disclose themselves, and the vague Abyss of Life knit 
 itself up into Firmaments for them. Temptations in the 
 wilderness, Choices of Hercules, and the like, in succinct or 
 loose form, are appointed for every man that will assert a 
 soul in himself and be a man. Let Oliver take comfort in 
 his dark sorrows and melancholies. The quantity of sor- 
 row he has, does it not mean withal the quantity of sym- 
 pathy he has, the quantity of faculty and victory he shall 
 yet have ? Our sorrow is the inverted image of our noble- 
 ness. The depth of our despair measures what capability 
 and height of claim we have to hope. Black smoke as of 
 Tophet filling all your universe, it can yet by true heart- 
 energy become flame, and brilliancy of Heaven. Courage ! 
 It is therefore in these years, undated by History, that we 
 must place Oliver's clear recognition of Calvinistic Chris- 
 tianity ; what he, with unspeakable joy, would name his Con- 
 version, his deliverance from the jaws of Eternal Death. 
 Certainly a grand epoch for a man : properly the one 
 epoch; the turning-point which guides upwards, or guides 
 downwards, him and his activity for evermore. Wilt thou 
 join with the dragons ; wilt thou join with the Gods ? Of 
 thee, too, the question is asked ; whether by a man in 
 Geneva gown, by a man in " Four surplices at Allhallow- 
 tide," with words very imperfect ; or by no man and no 
 words, but only by the Silences, by the Eternities, by the 
 Life everlasting and the Death everlasting. That the 
 " Sense of difference between Right and Wrong " had filled 
 all Time and all Space for man, and bodied itself forth into
 
 22 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 a Heaven and Hell for him ; this constitutes the grand fea- 
 ture of those Puritan, Old-Christian Ages; this is- the 
 element which stamps them as Heroic, and has rendered 
 their works great, manlike, fruitful to all generations. It is 
 by far the memorablest achievement of our Species ; with- 
 out that element in some form or other, nothing of Heroic 
 had ever been among us. 
 
 For many centuries Catholic Christianity a fit embodi- 
 ment of that divine Sense had been current more or less, 
 making the generations noble : and here in England, in the 
 Century called the Seventeenth, we see the last aspect of it 
 hitherto, not the last of all, it is to be hoped. Oliver 
 was henceforth a Christian man ; believed in God, not on 
 Sundays only, but on all days, in all places, and in all cases. 
 
 CHARLES AND THE PARLIAMENT. 
 
 SIR OLIVER CROMWELL has faded from the Parliament- 
 ary scene into the deep Fen-country, but Oliver Cromwell, 
 Esq. appears there as Member for Huntingdon, at West- 
 minster "on Monday, the 17th of March," 1627-8. This 
 was the Third Parliament of Charles ; by much the most 
 notable of all Parliaments till Charles's Long Parliament 
 met, which proved his last. 
 
 Having sharply, with swift impetuosity and indignation, 
 dismissed two Parliaments because they would not " supply " 
 him without taking " grievances " along with them ; and, 
 meanwhile and afterwards, having failed in every operation 
 foreign and domestic, at Cadiz, at Ehe", at Eochelle ; and 
 having failed, too, in getting supplies by unparliamentary 
 methods, Charles " consulted with Sir Robert Cotton what 
 was to be done ; " who answered, Summon a Parliament 
 again. So this celebrated Parliament was summoned. It
 
 CROMWELL. 23 
 
 met, as we said, in March, 1628, and continued with one 
 prorogation till March, 1629. The two former Parliaments 
 had sat but a few weeks each, till they were indignantly 
 hurled asunder again ; this one continued nearly a year. 
 "Wentworth (Strafford) was of this Parliament ; Hampden, 
 too, Selden, Pym, Holies, and others known to us ; all these 
 had been of former Parliaments as well ; Oliver Cromwell, 
 Member for Huntingdon, sat there for the first time. 
 
 It is very evident, King Charles, baffled in all his enter- 
 prises, and reduced really to a kind of crisis, wished much 
 this Parliament should succeed ; and took what he must have 
 thought incredible pains for that end. The poor King 
 strives visibly throughout to control himself, to be soft and 
 patient ; inwardly writhing and rustling with royal rage. 
 Unfortunate King, we see him chafing, stamping, a very 
 fiery steed, but bridled, check-bitted, by innumerable straps 
 and considerations ; struggling much to be composed. 
 Alas ! it would not do. This Parliament was more Puri- 
 tanic, more intent on rigorous Law and divine Gospel, 
 than any other had ever been. As indeed all these Parlia- 
 ments grow strangely in Puritianism ; more and ever more 
 earnest rises from the hearts of them all, " O Sacred Majes- 
 ty, lead us not to Antichrist, to Illegality, to temporal and 
 eternal Perdition ! " The Nobility and Gentry of England 
 were then a very strange body of men. The English 
 Squire of the Seventeenth Century clearly appears to have 
 believed in God, not as a figure of speech, but as a very 
 fact, very awful to the heart of the English Squire. " He 
 wore his Bible doctrine round him," says one, "as our 
 Squire wears his shotbelt ; went abroad with it, nothing 
 doubting." King Charles was going on his father's course, 
 only with frightful acceleration : he and his respectable 
 Traditions and Notions, clothed in old sheepskin and 
 respectable Church-tippets, were all pulling one way; 
 England and the Eternal Laws pulling another; the rent 
 fast widening till no man could heal it
 
 24 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 This was the celebrated Parliament which framed the Peti- 
 tion of Right, and set London all astir with " bells and-bon- 
 fires" at the passing thereof; and did other feats not to be 
 particularized here. Across the murkiest element in which 
 any great Entity was ever shown to human creatures, it still 
 rises, after much consideration, to the modern man, in a dim 
 but undeniable manner, as a most brave and noble Parlia- 
 ment. The like of which were worth its weight in dia- 
 monds even now ; but has grown very unattainable now, 
 next door to incredible now. We have to say that this Par- 
 liament chastised sycophant Priests, Mainwaring, Sibthorp, 
 and other Arminian sycophants, a disgrace to God's 
 Church; that it had an eye to other still more elevated 
 Church-sycophants, as the mainspring of all ; but was cau- 
 tious to give offence by naming them. That it carefully 
 " abstained from naming the Duke of Buckingham." That 
 it decided on giving ample subsidies, but not till there were 
 reasonable discussion of grievances. That in manner it was 
 most gentle, soft-spoken, cautious, reverential ; and in sub- 
 stance most resolute and valiant. Truly with valiant, pa- 
 tient energy, in a slow, steadfast English manner, it car- 
 ried, across infinite confused opposition and discouragement, 
 its Petition of Right, and what else it had to carry. Four 
 hundred brave men, brave men and true, after their sort ! 
 One laments to find such a Parliament smothered under 
 Dryasdust's shot-rubbish. The memory of it, could any 
 real memory of it rise upon honorable gentlemen and us, 
 might be admonitory, would be astonishing at least. 
 
 A GENTLEMAN FAKMER. 
 
 IN or soon after 1631, as we laboriously infer from the 
 imbroglio records of poor Noble, Oliver decided on an
 
 CROMWELL. 25 
 
 enlarged sphere of action as a Farmer; sold his properties 
 in Huntingdon, all or some of them ; rented certain grazing- 
 lands at St. Ives, five miles down the River, eastward of his 
 native place, and removed thither. The Deed of Sale is 
 dated 7th May, 1631 ; the properties are specified as in the 
 possession of himself or his Mother ; the sum they yielded 
 was 1800. With this sum Oliver stocked his Grazing- 
 Farm at St. Ives. The Mother, we infer, continued to 
 reside at Huntingdon, but withdrawn now from active occu- 
 pation, in the retirement befitting a widow up in years. 
 There is even some gleam of evidence to that effect : her 
 properties are sold ; but Oliver's children born to him at St. 
 Ives are still christened at Huntingdon, in the Church he 
 was used to ; which may mean also that their good Grand- 
 mother was still there. 
 
 Properly this was no change in Oliver's old activities ; it 
 was an enlargement of the sphere of them. His Mother 
 still at Huntingdon, within few miles of him, he could still 
 superintend and protect her existence there, while managing 
 his new operations at St. Ives. He continued here till the 
 summer or spring of 1636. A studious imagination may 
 sufficiently construct the figure of his equable life in those 
 years. Diligent grass-farming ; mowing, milking, cattle- 
 marketing : add " hypocondria," fits of the blackness of 
 darkness, with glances of the brightness of very Heaven ; 
 prayer, religious reading and meditation ; household epochs, 
 joys, and cares : we have a solid, substantial, inoffensive 
 Farmer of St. Ives, hoping to walk with integrity and hum- 
 ble devout diligence through this world ; and, by his Mak- 
 er's infinite mercy, to escape destruction, and find eternal 
 salvation in wider Divine Worlds. This latter, this is the 
 grand clause in his Life, which dwarfs all other clauses. 
 Much wider destinies than he anticipated were appointed 
 him on Earth ; but that, in comparison to the alternative of 
 Heaven or Hell to all Eternity, was a mighty small matter. 
 
 2
 
 26 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 VESTIGES. 
 
 OLIVER, as we observed, has left hardly any memorial of 
 himself at St. Ives. The ground he farmed is still partly 
 capable of being specified, certain records or leases being 
 still in existence. It lies at the lower or South-east end of 
 the Town ; a stagnant flat tract of land, extending between 
 the houses or rather kitchen-gardens of St. Ives in that 
 quarter, and the banks of the River, which, very tortuous 
 always, has made a new bend here. If well drained, this 
 land looks as if it would produce abundant grass, but natur- 
 ally it must be little other than a bog. Tall bushy ranges 
 of willow-trees and the like, at present, divide it into fields ; 
 the River, not visible till you are close on it, bounding 
 them all to the South. At the top of the fields next to the 
 Town is an ancient massive Barn, still used as such ; the 
 people call it " Cromwell's Barn ; " and nobody can prove 
 that it was not his ! It was evidently some ancient man's 
 or series of ancient men's. 
 
 Quitting St. Ives Fen-ward or Eastward, the last house 
 of all, which stands on your right hand among gardens, 
 seemingly the best house in the place, and called Slepe 
 Hall, is confidently pointed out as " Oliver's House." It is 
 indisputably Slepe-Hall House, and Oliver's Farm was 
 rented from the estate of Slepe Hall. It is at present used 
 for a Boarding-school : the worthy inhabitants believe it to 
 be Oliver's ; and even point out his " Chapel " or secret Pu- 
 ritan Sermon-room in the lower story of the house : no Ser- 
 mon-room, as you may well discern, but to appearance some 
 sort of scullery or wash-house or bake-house. " It was here 
 he used to preacli," say they. Courtesy forbids you to 
 answer, " Never ! " But in fact there is no likelihood that 
 this was Oliver's House at all: in its present state it does 
 not seem to be a century old ; and originally, as is like, it
 
 CROMWELL. 27 
 
 must have served as residence to the Proprietors of Slepe- 
 Hall estate, not to the Farmer of a part thereof. Tradition 
 makes a sad blur of Oliver's memory in his native country ! 
 We know, and shall know, only this, for certain here, that 
 Oliver farmed part or whole of these Slepe-Hall Lands, 
 over which the human feet can still walk with assurance ; 
 past which the River Ouse still slumberously rolls towards 
 Earith Bulwark and the Fen-country. Here of a certainty 
 Oliver did walk and look about him habitually during those 
 five years from 1631 to 1G36; a man studious of many 
 temporal and many eternal things. His cattle grazed here, 
 his ploughs tilled here, the heavenly skies and infernal 
 
 abysses overarched and underarched him here 
 
 How he lived at St. Ives : how he saluted men on the 
 streets ; read Bibles ; sold cattle ; and walked, with heavy 
 footfall and many thoughts, through the Market Green or 
 old narrow lanes in St. Ives, by the shore of the black 
 Ouse River, shall be left to the reader's imagination. 
 There is in this man talent for farming ; there are thoughts 
 enough, thoughts bounded by the Ouse River, thoughts that 
 go beyond Eternity, and a great black sea of things that 
 he has never yet been able to think. 
 
 SHIPMONEY. 
 
 Ox the very day while Oliver Cromwell was writing this 
 Letter at St. Ives, two obscure individuals, " Peter Aldridge 
 and Thomas Lane, Assessors of Shipmoney," over in Buck- 
 inghamshire, had assembled a Parish Meeting in the Church 
 of Great Kimble, to assess, and rate the Shipmoney of the 
 said Parish : there, in the cold weather, at the foot of the 
 Chiltern Hills, "11 January, 1635," the Parish did attend, 
 " John Hampden, Esquire," at the head of them, and by a
 
 28 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 Return still extant, refused to pay the same or any portion 
 thereof, witness the above " Assessors," witness also two 
 " Parish Constables " whom we remit from such unexpected 
 celebrity. John Hampden's share for this Parish is thirty- 
 one shillings and sixpence : for another Parish it is twenty 
 shillings ; on which latter sum, not on the former, John 
 Hampden was tried. 
 
 THE SHIPMONEY TRIAL. 
 
 IN the end of that same year [1637] there had risen all 
 over England huge rumors concerning the Shipmoney Trial 
 at London. On the 6th of November, 1637, this important 
 Process of Mr. Hampden's began. Learned Mr. St. John, 
 a dark tough man, of the toughness of leather, spake with 
 irrefragable law-eloquence, law-logic, for three days run- 
 ning, on Mr. Hampden's side ; and learned Mr. Holborn 
 for three other days ; preserved yet by Rushworth in 
 acres of typography, unreadable now to all mortals. For 
 other learned gentlemen, tough as leather, spoke on the 
 opposite side ; and learned judges animadverted, at endless 
 length, amid the expectancy of men. With brief pauses, 
 the Trial lasted for three weeks and three days. Mr. 
 Hampden became the most famous man in England, by 
 accident partly. The sentence was not delivered till April, 
 1638 ; and then it went against Mr. Hampden: judgment 
 in Exchequer ran to this effect, " Comideratum est per eos- 
 dem Barones quod prcedictus Johannes Hampden de iisdem 
 viginti solidis oneretur" He must pay the Twenty shil- 
 lings, "et inde satisfaciat" No hope in Law-Courts, 
 then ; Petition of Right and Tallagio non concedendo 
 have become an old song.
 
 CROMWELL. 29 
 
 BATTLE OF NASEBY. 
 
 THE old Hamlet of Naseby stands yet, on its old hill-top, 
 very much as it did in Saxon days, on the Northwestern 
 border of Northamptonshire, some seven or eight miles 
 from Market-Harborough in Leicestershire, nearly on a 
 line, and nearly midway, between that Town and Daventry. 
 A peaceable old Hamlet, of some eight hundred souls ; clay 
 cottages for laborers, but neatly thatched and swept ; 
 smith's shop, saddler's shop, beer shop, all in order ; form- 
 ing a kind of square, which leads off Southwards into two 
 long streets : the old Church, with its graves, stands in the 
 centre, the truncated spire finishing itself with a strange old 
 Ball, held up by rods ; a " hollow copper Ball, which came 
 from Boulogne in Henry the Eighth's time," which has, 
 like Hudibras's breeches, "been at the Siege of Bullen." 
 The ground is upland, moorland, though now growing corn ; 
 was not enclosed till the last generation, and is still some- 
 what bare of wood. It stands nearly in the heart of Eng- 
 land : gentle Dulness, taking a turn at etymology, some- 
 times derives it from Navel ; " Navesby, quasi Navelsby, 
 from being," &c. : Avon "Well, the distinct source of 
 Shakespeare's Avon, is on the Western slope of the high 
 grounds ; Nen and Welland, streams leading towards Crom- 
 well's Fen-country, begin to gather themselves from boggy 
 places on the Eastern side. The grounds, as we say, lie 
 high ; and are still, in their new subdivisions, known by 
 the name of Hills," " Rutput Hill," " Mill Hill," " Dust 
 Hill," and the like, precisely as in Rushworth's time : but 
 they are not properly hills at all; they are broad blunt 
 clayey masses, swelling towards and from each other, like 
 indolent waves of a sea, sometimes of miles in extent. 
 
 It was on this high moor-ground, in the centre of Eng- 
 land, that King Charles, on the 14th of June, 1645, fought
 
 30 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 his last Battle ; dashed fiercely against the New-Model 
 Army, which he had despised till then ; and saw himself 
 shivered utterly to ruin thereby. " Prince Rupert, on the 
 King's right wing, charged up the hill, and carried all be- 
 fore him ; " but Lieutenant-General Cromwell charged down 
 hill on the other wing, likewise carrying all before him, 
 and did not gallop off the field to plunder. He, Cromwell, 
 ordered thither by the Parliament, had arrived from the 
 Association two days before, " amid shouts from the whole 
 Army : " he had the ordering of the Horse this morning. 
 Prince Rupert, on returning from his plunder, finds the 
 King's Infantry a ruin ; prepares to charge again with the 
 rallied Cavalry ; but the Cavalry, too, when it came to the 
 point, " broke all asunder," never to reassemble more. The 
 chase went through Harborough, where the King had al- 
 ready been that morning, when in an evil hour he turned 
 back, to revenge some "surprise of an outpost at Naseby 
 the night before," and give the Roundheads battle. 
 
 Ample details of this Battle, and of the movements prior 
 and posterior to it, are to be found in Sprigge, or copied 
 with some abridgment into Rushworth ; who has also copied 
 a strange old Plan of the Battle ; half-plan, half-picture, 
 which the Sale-Catalogues are very chary of, in the case of 
 Sprigge. By assiduous attention, aided by this Plan, as the 
 old names yet stick to their localities, the narrative can still 
 be, and has lately been, pretty accurately verified, and the 
 Figure of the old Battle dimly brought back again. The 
 reader shall imagine it, for the present. On the crown of 
 Naseby Height stands a modern Battle-monument ; but, by 
 an unlucky oversight, it is above a mile to the east of where 
 the Battle really was. There are, likewise, two modern 
 Books about Naseby and its Battle, both of them without 
 value. 
 
 The Parliamentary ' Army stood ranged on the height 
 still partly called " Mill Hill," as, in Rushworth's time, a
 
 CROMWELL. 31 
 
 mile and half from Naseby ; the King's Army, on a parallel 
 " Hill," its back to Harborough, with the wide table of up- 
 land now named Broad Moor between them, where indeed 
 the main brunt of the action still clearly enough shows it- 
 self to have been. There are hollow spots, of a rank vegeta- 
 tion, scattered over that Broad Moor, which are understood 
 to have once been burial mounds, some of which, one to my 
 knowledge, have been, with more or less of sacrilege, veri- 
 fied as such. A friend of mine has in his cabinet two an- 
 cient grinder-teeth, dug lately from that ground, and waits 
 for an opportunity to rebury them there. Sound, effectual 
 grinders, one of them very large ; which ate their breakfast 
 on the fourteenth morning of June, two hundred years ago, 
 and, except to be clinched once in grim battle, had never 
 work to do more in this world ! " A stack of dead bodies, 
 perhaps about a hundred, had been buried in this Trench, 
 piled, as in a wall, a man's length thick ; the skeletons lay 
 in courses, the heads of one course to the heels of the next ; 
 one figure, by the strange position of the bones, gave us the 
 hideous notion of its having been thrown in before death. 
 We did not proceed far ; perhaps some half-dozen skele- 
 tons. The bones were treated with all piety, watched rig- 
 orously over Sunday, till they could be covered in again." 
 Sweet friends, for Jesus' sake forbear ! 
 
 At this Battle, Mr. John Rushworth, our Historical Rush- 
 worth, had, unexpectedly, for some instants, sight of a very 
 famous person. Mr. John is Secretary to Fairfax, and they 
 have placed him to-day among the Baggage-wagons, near 
 Naseby Hamlet, above a mile from the fighting, where he 
 waits in an anxious manner. It is known how Prince Ru- 
 pert broke our left wing while Cromwell was breaking their 
 left. " A gentleman of public employment, in the late ser- 
 vice near Naseby," writes next day, "Harborough, 15th 
 Jane, 2 in the morning," a rough graphic Letter in the 
 Newspapers, wherein is this sentence :
 
 32 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 # # # A party of theirs that broke through the left 
 wing of horse, came quite behind the rear to our Train, the 
 Leader of them being a person somewhat in habit like the 
 General, in a red montero, as the General had. He came 
 as a friend ; our commander of the guard of the Train went 
 with his hat in his hand, and asked him, How the day 
 went ? thinking it had been the General : the Cavalier, who 
 we since heard was Rupert, asked him and the rest, If they 
 would have quarter ? They cried No ; gave fire, and in- 
 stantly beat them off. It was a happy deliverance," 
 without doubt. 
 
 There were taken here a good few " ladies of quality in 
 carriages," and above a hundred Irish ladies not of quali- 
 ty, tattery camp-followers, " with long skean-knives about a 
 foot in length," which they well knew how to use, upon 
 whom, I fear, the Ordinance against Papists pressed hard 
 this day. The King's Carriage was also taken, with a Cab- 
 inet and many Royal Autographs in it, which, when printed, 
 made a sad impression against his Majesty, gave, in fact, 
 a most melancholy view of the veracity of his Majesty. 
 " On the word of a King," all was lost ! 
 
 BRIDGET CROMWELL'S WEDDING 
 
 AND now, dated on the Monday before, at Holton, a 
 country Parish in those parts, there is this still legible in 
 the old Church Register, intimately interesting to some 
 friends of ours ! HENRY IRETON, Commissary- Gen- 
 eral to Sir Thomas Fairfax, and BRIDGET, Daughter to 
 Oliver Cromwell, Lieutenant-General of the Horse, to the 
 said Sir Thomas Fairfax, were married, by Mr. Dell, in the 
 Lady Whorwood her house in Holton, June 15th, 1646. 
 ALBAN EALES, Rector."
 
 CROMWELL. 33 
 
 Ireton, we are to remark, was one of Fairfax's Com- 
 missioners on the Treaty for surrendering Oxford, and 
 busy under the walls there at present. Holton is some five 
 miles east of the City ; Holton House, we guess, by various 
 indications, to have been Fairfax's own quarter. Dell, al- 
 ready and afterwards well known, was the General's Chap- 
 lain at this date. Of " the Lady Whorwood " I have traces, 
 rather in the Royalist direction ; her strong moated House, 
 very useful to Fairfax in those weeks, still stands conspicu- 
 ous in that region, though now under new figure and owner- 
 ship ; drawbridge become fixed, deep ditch now dry, moated 
 island changed into a flower-garden; "rebuilt in 1807." 
 Fairfax's lines, we observe, extended "from Headington 
 Hill to Marston," several miles in advance of Holton 
 House, then " from Marston," across the Cherwell, and 
 over from that to the Isis on the North side of the City " ; 
 southward, and elsewhere, the besieged, " by a dam at St. 
 Clement's Bridge, had laid the country all under water " : 
 in such scenes, with the treaty just ending, and general 
 peace like to follow, did Ireton welcome his bride, a 
 brave young damsel of twenty-one, escorted, doubtless, by 
 her Father, among others, to the Lord General's house, 
 and there, by Rev. Mr. Dell, solemnly handed over to 
 new destinies ! 
 
 DEATH WARRANT. 
 
 THE Trial of Charles Stuart falls not to be described in 
 this place : the deep meanings that lie in it cannot be so 
 much as glanced at here. Oliver Cromwell attends in the 
 High Court of Justice at every session except one ; Fairfax 
 sits only in the first. Ludlow, Whalley, Walton, names 
 known to us, are also constant attendants in that High 
 Court, during that long -memorable Month of January, 1 649. 
 2* c
 
 34 THOMAS CAELYLJL 
 
 The King is thrice brought to the Bar ; refuses to plead, 
 comports himself with royal dignity, with royal haughti- 
 ness, strong in his divine right ; " smiles " contemptuously, 
 " looks with an austere countenance ; " does not seem, till 
 the very last, to have fairly believed that they would dare 
 to sentence him. But they were men sufficiently provided 
 with daring ; men, we are bound to see, who sat there as in 
 the Presence of the Maker of all men, as executing the judg- 
 ments of Heaven above, and had not the fear of any man or 
 thing on the Earth below. Bradshaw said to the King, 
 " Sir, you are not permitted to issue out in these discours- 
 ings. This Court is satisfied of its authority. No Court will 
 bear to hear its authority questioned in that manner." 
 " Clerk, read the Sentence ! " 
 
 And so, under date, Monday 29th January, 1648-9, there 
 is this stern Document to be introduced ; not specifically of 
 Oliver's composition ; but expressing in every letter of it 
 the conviction of Oliver's heart, in this, one of his most im- 
 portant appearances on the stage of earthly life. 
 
 To Colonel Francis Hacker, Colonel HuncTcs, and Lieuten- 
 ant- Colonel Phayr, and to every one of them. 
 
 At the High Court of Justice for the Trying and Judging of 
 Charles Stuart, King of England, 29th January, 1648. 
 
 WHEREAS Charles Stuart, King of England, is and 
 standeth convicted, attainted and condemned of High Trea- 
 son and other high Crimes ; and Sentence upon Saturday 
 last was pronounced against him by this Court, To be put to 
 death by the severing of his head from his body; of which 
 Sentence execution yet remaineth to be done : 
 
 These are therefore to will and require you to see the 
 said Sentence executed, in the open street before Whitehall, 
 upon the morrow, being the Thirtieth day of this instant 
 month of January, between the hours of Ten in the morn-
 
 . CROMWELL. 35 
 
 ing and Five in the afternoon, with full effect. And for so 
 doing, this shall be your warrant. 
 
 And these are to require all Officers and Soldiers, and 
 others the good People of this Nation of England, to be 
 assisting unto you in this service. 
 
 Given under our hands and seals. 
 JOHN BRADSHAW, 
 THOMAS GREY, " Lord Groby," 
 OLIVER CROMWELL. 
 
 ("And Fifty-six others.") 
 
 " Tetrte befluee, ac molossis suis ferociores. Hideous mon- 
 sters, more ferocious than their own mastiffs ! " shrieks Sau- 
 maise ; shrieks all the world, in unmelodious soul-confusing 
 diapason of distraction, happily at length grown very 
 faint in our day. The truth is, no modern reader can con- 
 ceive the then atrocity, ferocity, unspeakability of this fact. 
 First, after long reading in the old dead Pamphlets does 
 one see the magnitude of it. To be equalled, nay to be pre- 
 ferred think some, in point of horror, to " the Crucifixion of 
 Christ." Alas, in these irreverent times of ours, if all the 
 Kings of Europe were cut in pieces at one swoop, and flung 
 in heaps in St. Margaret's Churchyard on the same day, the 
 emotion would, in strict arithmetical truth, be small in com- 
 parison ! We know it not, this atrocity of the English 
 Regicides ; shall never know it. I reckon it perhaps the 
 most daring action any Body of Men to be met with in His- 
 tory ever, with clear consciousness, deliberately set them- 
 selves to do. Dread Phantoms, glaring supernal on you, 
 when once they are quelled and their light snuffed out, 
 none knows the terror of the Phantom ! The Phantom is a 
 poor paper-lantern with a candle-end in it, which any whip- 
 ster dare now beard. 
 
 A certain Queen in some South-Sea Island, I have read 
 in Missionary Books, had been converted to Christianity
 
 36 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 did not any longer believe in the old gods. She assembled 
 her people ; said to them, " My faithful People, the gods do 
 not dwell in that burning mountain in the centre of our Isle. 
 That is not God ; no, that is a common burning-moun- 
 tain, mere culinary fire burning under peculiar circum- 
 stances. See, I will walk before you to that burning- 
 mountain ; will empty my wash-bowl into it, cast my slipper 
 over it, defy it to the uttermost; and stand the conse- 
 quences ! " She walked accordingly, this South-Sea Hero- 
 ine, nerved to the sticking-place ; her people following in 
 pale horror and expectancy: she did her experiment; 
 and, I am told, they have truer notions of the gods in that 
 Island ever since ! Experiment which it is now very easy 
 to repeat, and very needless. Honor to the Brave who de- 
 liver us from Phantom-dynasties, in South-Sea Islands and 
 in North ! 
 
 This action of the English Regicides did in effect strike a 
 damp like death through the heart of Flunkeyism univer- 
 sally in this world. "Whereof Flunkeyism, Cant, Cloth-wor- 
 ship, or whatever ugly name it have, has gone about incura- 
 bly sick ever since ; and is now at length, in these genera- 
 tions, very rapidly dying. The like of which action will not 
 be needed for a thousand years again. Needed, alas not 
 till a new genuine Hero-worship has arisen, has perfected 
 itself; and had time to generate into a Flunkeyism and 
 Cloth-worship again ! Which I take to be a very long date 
 indeed. 
 
 MR. MILTON 
 
 ON which same evening, [March 13, 1468,] furthermore, 
 one discerns in a faint but an authentic manner, certain dim 
 gentlemen of the highest authority, young Sir Harry Vane 
 to appearance one of them, repairing to the lodging of one
 
 CROMWELL. 37 
 
 Mr. Milton, " a small house in Holborn, which opens back- 
 wards into Lincoln's Inn Fields ; to put an official question 
 to him there." Not a doubt of it they saw Mr. John this 
 evening. In the official Book this yet stands legible : 
 
 Die Martis, 13 Martii, 1648." " That it is referred to 
 the same Committee," Whitlocke, Vane, Lord Lisle, Earl 
 of Denbigh, Harry Marten, Mr. Lisle, " or any two of them, 
 to speak with Mr. Milton, to know, Whether he will be em- 
 ployed as Secretary for the Foreign Languages ? and to re- 
 port to the Council." I have authority to say that Mr. 
 Milton, thus unexpectedly applied to, consents ; is formally 
 appointed on Thursday next ; makes his proof-shot, " to the 
 Senate of Hamburgh," about a week hence ; and gives, 
 and continues to give, great satisfaction to that Council, to 
 me, and to the whole Nation now, and to all Nations ! 
 Such romance lies in the State-Paper Office. 
 
 THE LEVELLERS ENGLISH SANSCULOTTISM. 
 
 WHILE Miss Dorothy Mayor is choosing her wedding- 
 dresses, and Richard Cromwell is looking forward to a life 
 of Arcadian felicity now near at hand, there has turned up 
 for Richard's Father and other parties interested, on the 
 public side of things, a matter of very different complexion, 
 requiring to be instantly dealt with in the interim. The 
 matter of the class called Levellers ; concerning which we 
 must now say a few words. 
 
 In 1 647 there were Army Adjutators ; and among some 
 of them wild notions afloat, as to the swift attainability of 
 Perfect Freedom, civil and religious, and a practical Mil- 
 lennium on this Earth ; notions which required, in the Ren- 
 dezvous at Corkbushfield, " Rendezvous of Ware," as they 
 oftenest call it, to be very resolutely trodden out. Eleven
 
 38 THOMAS CAELYLE. 
 
 chief mutineers were ordered from the ranks in that Ren- 
 dezvous ; were condemned by swift Court-Martial to die ; 
 and Trooper Arnald, one of them, was accordingly shot 
 there and then; which extinguished the mutiny for that 
 time. War since, and Justice on Delinquents, England 
 made a Free Commonwealth, and such like, have kept the 
 Army busy; but a deep republican leaven, working all 
 along among these men, breaks now again into very for- 
 midable development. As the following brief glimpses and 
 excerpts may satisfy an attentive reader who will spread 
 them out, to the due expansion, in his mind. Take first 
 this glimpse into the civil province; and discern with 
 amazement, a whole submarine world of Calvinistic Sanscu- 
 lottism, Five-point Charter, and the Rights of Man, threat- 
 ening to emerge almost two centuries before its time. 
 
 "The Council of State," says Whitlocke, just while 
 Mr. Barton is boggling about the Hursley Marriage-settle- 
 ments, " has intelligence of certain Levellers appearing at St. 
 Margaret's Hill, near Cobham in Surrey, and at St. George's 
 Hill," in the same quarter: "that they were digging the 
 ground, and sowing it with roots and beans. One Everard, 
 once of the Army, who terms himself a Prophet, is the 
 chief of them : " one Winstanley is another chief. They 
 were Thirty men, and said that they should be shortly Four- 
 thousand. They invited all to come in and help them ; and 
 promised them meat, drink, and clothes. They threatened 
 to pull down Park-pales, and to lay all open ; and threaten 
 the neighbors that they will shortly make them all come up 
 to the hills and work." These infatuated persons, begin- 
 ning a new era in this headlong manner on the chalk hills 
 of Surrey, are laid hold of by certain Justices, " by the coun- 
 try people," and also by " two troops of horse ; " and com- 
 plain loudly of such treatment ; appealing to all men 
 whether it be fair. This is the account they give of them- 
 selves when brought before the General some days after- 
 wards:
 
 CROMWELL. 39 
 
 " April 20th, 1649. Everard and Winstanley, the chief 
 of those that digged at St. George's Hill in Surrey, came to 
 the General and made a large declaration, to justify their 
 proceedings. Everard said, He was of the race of the 
 Jews," as most men called Saxon, and other, prop erly are ; 
 " That all the Liberties of the People were lost by the com- 
 ing in of William the Conquerer ; and that, ever since, the 
 People of God had lived under tyranny and oppression 
 worse than that of our Forefathers under the Egyptians. 
 But now the time of deliverance was at hand ; and God 
 would bring His People out of this slavery, and restore 
 them to their freedom in enjoying the fruits and benefits of 
 the Earth. And that there had lately appeared to him, 
 Everard, a vision ; which bade him, Arise and dig and 
 plough the Earth, and receive the fruits thereof. That 
 their intent is to restore the Creation to its former condi- 
 tion. That as God had promised to make the barren land 
 fruitful, so now what they did, was to restore the ancient 
 Community of enjoying the Fruits of the Earth, and to dis- 
 tribute the benefit thereof to the poor and needy, and to feed 
 the hungry and clothe the naked. That they intend not 
 to meddle with any man's property, nor to break down any 
 pales or enclosures," in spite of reports to the contrary ; 
 " but only to meddle with what is common and untilled, and 
 to make it fruitful for the use of man. That the time will 
 suddenly be, when all men shall willingly come in and give 
 up their lauds and estates, and submit to this Community of 
 Goods." 
 
 These are the principles of Everard, Winstanley, and the 
 poor Brotherhood, seemingly Saxon, but properly of the 
 race of the Jews, who were found dibbling beans on St. 
 George's Hill, under the clear April skies in 1649, and 
 hastily bringing in a new era in that manner. " And for 
 all such as will come in and work with them, they shall 
 have meat, drink, and clothes, which is all that is necessary
 
 40 THOMAS CAELYLE. 
 
 to the life of man : and as for money, there is not any need 
 of it ; nor of clothes more than to cover nakedness." For 
 the rest, "That they will not defend themselves by arms, 
 but will submit unto authority, and wait till the promised 
 opportunity be offered, which they conceive to be at hand. 
 And that as their forefathers lived in tents, so it would be 
 suitable to their condition, now to live in the same. 
 
 " While they were before the General, they stood with 
 their hats on ; and being demanded the reason thereof, they 
 said, Because he was but their fellow-creature. Being 
 asked the meaning of that phrase, Give honor to whom hon- 
 or is due, they said, Your mouths shall be stopped that 
 ask such a question." 
 
 Dull Bulstrode hath " set down this the more largely be- 
 cause it was the beginning of the appearance " of an exten- 
 sive levelling doctrine, much to be "avoided" by judicious 
 persons, seeing it is "a weak persuasion." The germ of 
 Quakerism, and much else, is curiously visible here. But 
 let us look now at the military phasis of the matter ; where 
 "a weak persuasion," mounted on cavalry horses, with 
 sabres and fire-arms in its hand, may become a very peril- 
 ous one. 
 
 Friday, 20th April, 1649. The Lieutenant-General has 
 consented to go to Ireland ; the City also will lend money ; 
 and now this Friday the Council of the Army meets at 
 Whitehall to decide what regiments shall go on that ser- 
 vice. "After a solemn seeking of God by prayer," they 
 agree that it shall be by lot : tickets are put into a hat, a 
 child draws them : the regiments, fourteen of foot and four- 
 teen of horse, are decided on in this manner. " The offi- 
 cers on whom the lot fell, in all the twenty-eight regiments, 
 expressed much cheerfulness at the decision." The officers 
 did : but the common men are by no means all of that 
 humor. The common men, blown upon by Lilburn, and 
 his five small Beagles, have notions about Engand's new
 
 CROMWELL. 41 
 
 Chains, about the Hunting of Foxes from Triploe Heath, 
 and in fact ideas concerning the capability that lies in man, 
 and in a free Commonwealth, which are of the most alarm- 
 ing description. 
 
 Thursday, 26th April. This night at the BuU in Bish- 
 opsgate there has an alarming mutiny broken out in a 
 troop of Whalley's regiment there. Whalley's men are not 
 allotted for Ireland : but they refuse to quit London, as they 
 are ordered ; they want this and that first ; they seize their 
 colors from the Cornet, who is lodged at the Bull there : 
 the General and the Lieutenant- General have to hasten 
 thither ; quell them, pack them forth on their march ; seiz- 
 ing fifteen of them first, to be tried by Court-Martial. 
 Tried by instant Court-Martial, five of them are found 
 guilty, doomed to die, but pardoned ; and one of them, 
 Trooper Lockyer, is doomed and not pardoned. Trooper 
 Lockyer is shot, in Paul's Churchyard, on the morrow. A 
 very brave young man, they say ; though but three-and- 
 twenty, " he has served seven years in these Wars," ever 
 since the Wars began. " Religious," too, " of excellent 
 parts and much beloved;" but with hot notions as to 
 human Freedom, and the rate at which the millenniums 
 are attainable, poor Lockyer! He falls shot in Paul's 
 Churchyard on Friday, amid the tears of men and women. 
 Paul's Cathedral, we remark, is now a Horseguard ; horses 
 stamp in the Canons' stalls there : and Paul's Cross itself, 
 as smacking of Popery, where in fact Alablaster once 
 preached flat Popery, is swept altogether away, and its 
 leaden roof melted into bullets, or mixed with tin for 
 culinary pewter. Lockyer's corpse is watched and wept 
 over, not without prayer, in the eastern regions of the City, 
 till a new week come ; and on Monday, this is what we see 
 advancing westward by way of funeral to him. 
 
 " About one hundred went before the Corpse, five or six 
 in a file ; the Corpse was then brought, with six trumpets
 
 42 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 sounding a soldier's knell ; then the Trooper's Horse came, 
 clothed all over in mourning, and led by a footman. The 
 Corpse was adorned with bundles of Rosemary, one half 
 stained in blood ; and the Sword of the deceased along with 
 them. Some thousands followed in rank and file : all had 
 sea-green-and-black ribbons tied on their hats, and to their 
 breasts : and the women brought up the rear. At the new 
 Churchyard in "Westminster, some thousands more of the 
 better sort met them, who thought not fit to march through 
 the City. Many looked upon this funeral as an affront to 
 the Parliament and Army ; others called these people ' Lev- 
 ellers ; ' but they took no notice of any one's sayings." 
 
 That was the end of Trooper Lockyer : six trumpets wail- 
 ing stern music through London streets ; Rosemaries and 
 Sword half-dipped in blood ; funeral of many thousands in 
 seagreen Ribbons and black : testimony of a weak per- 
 suasion, now looking somewhat perilous. Lieutenant-Colo- 
 nel Lilburn, and his five small Beagles, now in a kind of 
 loose arrest under the Lieutenant of the Tower, make haste 
 to profit by the general emotion ; publish on the 1st of May 
 their " Agreement of the People," their Bentham-Sieyes 
 Constitution : Annual very exquisite Parliament, and other 
 Lilburn apparatus ; whereby the Perfection of Human Na- 
 ture will with a maximum of rapidity be secured, and a 
 millennium straightway arrive, sings the Lilburn Oracle. 
 
 May 9th. Richard Cromwell is safe wedded ; Richard's 
 Father is reviewing troops in Hyde Park, " seagreen colors 
 in some of their hats." The Lieutenant- General speaks ear- 
 nestly to them. Has not the Parliament been diligent, do- 
 ing its best ? It has punished Delinquents ; it has voted, in 
 these very days, resolutions for dissolving itself and assem- 
 bling future Parliaments. It has protected trade ; got a 
 good Navy afloat. You soldiers, there is exact payment 
 provided for you. Martial Law ? Death, or other punish- 
 ment of mutineers ? Well ! Whoever cannot stand Mar-
 
 CROMWELL. 43 
 
 tial Law is not fit to be a soldier : his best plan will be to 
 lay down his arms ; he shall have his ticket, and get his ar- 
 rears as we others do, we that still mean to fight against 
 the enemies of England and this Cause. One trooper 
 showed signs of insolence ; the Lieutenant-General sup- 
 pressed him by rigor and by clemency : the seagreen rib- 
 bons were torn from such hats as had them. The humor 
 of the men is not the most perfect. This Review was on 
 Wednesday : Lilburn and his five small Beagles are, on 
 Saturday, committed close Prisoners to the Tower, each 
 rigorously to a cell of his own. 
 
 It is high time. For now the flame has caught the 
 ranks of the Army itself, in Oxfordshire, in Gloucester- 
 shire, at Salisbury, where head-quarters are ; and rapidly 
 there is, on all hands, a dangerous conflagration blazing out. 
 In Oxfordshire, one Captain Thompson, not known to us 
 before, has burst from his quarters at Banbury, with a 
 Party of Two-Hundred, in these same days ; has sent forth 
 his England's Standard Advanced ; insisting passionately on 
 the New Chains we are fettered with ; indignantly demand- 
 ing swift perfection of Human Freedom, justice on the 
 murderers of Lockyer and Arnald ; threatening that if a 
 hair of Lilburn and the five small Beagles be hurt, he will 
 avenge it " seventy-and-seven fold." This Thompson's Par- 
 ty, swiftly attacked by his Colonel, is broken within the 
 week ; he himself escapes with a few, and still roves up and 
 down. To join whom, or to communicate with Gloucester- 
 shire where help lies, there has, in the interim, open mu- 
 tiny, " above a Thousand strong," with subalterns, with a 
 Cornet Thompson brother of the Captain, but without any 
 leader of mark, broken out at Salisbury : the General and 
 Lieutenant-General, with what force can be raised, are 
 hastening thitherward in all speed. Now were the time for 
 Lieutenant-Colonel Lilburn ; now or never might noisy 
 John do some considerable injury to the Cause he has at
 
 44 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 heart : but he sits, in these critical hours, fast within stone 
 walls ! 
 
 Monday, \kth May. All Sunday the General and Lieu- 
 tenant-General marched in full speed, by Alton, by Ando- 
 ver, towards Salisbury ; the mutineers, hearing of them, 
 start northward for Buckinghamshire, then for Berkshire ; 
 the General and Lieutenant-General turning also north- 
 ward after them in hot chase. The mutineers arrive at 
 Wantage ; make for Oxfordshire by Newbridge ; find the 
 Bridge already seized ; cross higher up by swimming ; get 
 to Burford, very weary, and "turn out their horses to 
 grass ; Fairfax and Cromwell still following in hot speed, 
 a march of near fifty miles that Monday. What boots 
 it, there is no leader, noisy John is sitting fast within stone 
 walls ! The mutineers lie asleep in Burford, their horses 
 out at grass ; the Lieutenant-General, having rested at a 
 safe distance since dark, bursts into Burford as the clocks 
 are striking midnight. He has beset some hundreds of the 
 mutineers, "who could only fire some shots out of win- 
 dows ; " has dissipated the mutiny, trodden down the Lev- 
 elling Principle out of English affairs once more. Here 
 is the last scene of the business ; the rigorous Court-Martial 
 having now sat ; the decimated doomed Mutineers being 
 placed on the leads of the Church to see. 
 
 Thursday, 11 th May. This day in Burford Church- 
 yard, Cornet Thompson, brother to Thompson the chief 
 leader, was brought to the place of execution; and ex- 
 pressed himself to this purpose, That it was just what did 
 befall him ; that God did not own the ways he went ; that 
 he had offended the General : he desired the prayers of the 
 people ; and told the soldiers who were appointed to shoot 
 him, that when he held out his hands, they should do their 
 duty. And accordingly he was immediately, after the sign 
 given, shot to death. Next after him was a corporal, 
 brought to the same place of execution; where, looking
 
 CROMWELL. 45 
 
 upon his fellow-mutineers, he set his back against the wall ; 
 and bade them who were appointed to shoot, ' Shoot ! ' and 
 died desperately. The third, being also a corporal, was 
 brought to the same place ; and without the least acknow- 
 ledgment of error, or show of fear, he pulled off his doub- 
 let, standing a pretty distance from the wall ; and bade the 
 soldiers do their duty; looking them in the face till they 
 gave fire, not showing the least kind of terror or fearful- 
 ness of spirit." So die the Leveller Corporals ; strong they, 
 after their sort, for the Liberties of England ; resolute to 
 the very death. Misguided Corporals ! But History, which 
 has wept for a misguided Charles Stuart, and blubbered, in 
 the most copious helpless manner, near two centuries now, 
 whole floods of brine, enough to salt the Herring fishery, 
 will not refuse these poor Corporals also her tributary sigh. 
 With Arnald of the Rendezvous at Ware, with Lockyer of 
 the Bull in Bishopsgate, and other misguided martyrs to 
 the Liberties of England then and since, may they sleep 
 well! 
 
 Cornet Dean who now came forward, as the next to be 
 shot, expressed penitence ; got pardon from the General : 
 and there was no more shooting. Lieu tenant- General Crom- 
 well went into the Church, called down the Decimated of 
 the Mutineers ; rebuked, admonished ; said, the General in 
 his mercy had forgiven them. Misguided men, would you 
 ruin this Cause, which marvellous Providences have so con- 
 firmed to us to be the Cause of God? Go, repent, and re- 
 bel no more lest a worse thing befall you ! " They wept," 
 says the old Newspaper ; they retired to the Devizes for a 
 time ; were then restored to their regiments, and marched 
 cheerfully for Ireland. Captain Thompson, the Cornet's 
 brother, the first of all the Mutineers, he too, a few days 
 afterwards, was fallen in with in Northamptonshire, still 
 mutinous ; his men took quarter ; he himself " fled to a 
 wood," fired and fenced there, and again desperately fired.
 
 46 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 declared he would never yield alive ; whereupon " a 
 Corporal with seven bullets in his carbine " ended Captain 
 Thompson too ; and this formidable conflagration, to the 
 last glimmer of it, was extinct. 
 
 Sansculottism, as AVC said above, has to lie submerged for 
 almost two centuries yet. Levelling, in the practical civil 
 or military provinces of English things, is forbidden to be. 
 In the spiritual provinces it cannot be forbidden ; for there 
 it everywhere already is. It ceases dibbling beans on St 
 George's Hill near Cobham ; ceases galloping in mutiny 
 across the Isis to Burford ; takes into Quakerisms, and king- 
 doms which are not of this world. My poor friend Dryas- 
 dust lamentably tears his hair over the intolerance of that 
 old Time to Quakerism and such like ; if Dryasdust had seen 
 the dibbling on St. George's Hill, the threatened fall of 
 " Park-pales," and the gallop to Burford, he would reflect 
 that conviction in an earnest age means, not lengthy Spout- 
 ing in Exeter-hall, but rapid silent Practice on the face of 
 the Earth ; and would perhaps leave his poor hair alone. 
 
 SCOTCH PURITANISM. 
 
 THE faults or misfortunes of the Scotch People, in their 
 Puritan business, are many ; but, properly their grand fault 
 is this, That they have produced for it no sufficiently heroic 
 man among them. No man that has an eye to see beyond 
 the letter and the rubric ; to discern, across many consecra- 
 ted rubrics of the Past, the inarticulate divineness too of the 
 Present and the Future, and dare all perils in the faith of 
 that ! With Oliver Cromwell born a Scotchman, with a 
 Hero King and a unanimous Hero Nation at his back, it 
 might have been far otherwise. With Oliver born Scotch, 
 one sees not but the whole world might have become Puri-
 
 CROMWELL. 47 
 
 tan ; might have struggled, yet a long while, to fashion 
 itself according to that divine Hebrew Gospel, to the ex- 
 clusion of other Gospels not Hebrew, which also are divine, 
 and will have their share of fulfilment here ! But of such 
 issue there is no danger. Instead of inspired Olivers, glow- 
 ing with direct insight and noble daring, we have Argyles, 
 Loudons, and narrow, more or less opaque persons of the 
 Pedant species. Committees of Estates, Committees of 
 Kirks, much tied-up in formulas, both of them : a bigoted 
 Theocracy without the Inspiration ; which is a very hopeless 
 phenomenon indeed. The Scotch People are all willing, 
 eager of heart; asking, "Whitherward? But the Leaders 
 stand aghast at the new forms of danger, and in a vehement 
 discrepant manner some calling, Halt ! others calling, Back- 
 ward ! others, Forward ! huge confusion ensues. Con- 
 fusion which will need an Oliver to repress it ; to bind it up 
 in tight manacles, if not otherwise ; and say, " There, sit 
 there and consider thyself a little ! " 
 
 The meaning of the Scotch Covenant was, That God's 
 divine Law of the Bible should be put in practice in these 
 Nations ; verily it, and not the Four Surplices at Allliallow- 
 tide, or any Formula of cloth or sheepskin here or else- 
 where which merely pretended to be it : but then the Cov- 
 enant says expressly, there is to be a Stuart King in the 
 business : we cannot do without our Stuart King ! Given 
 a divine Law of the Bible on one hand, and a Stuart King, 
 Charles First or Charles Second, on the other: alas, did 
 History ever present a more irreducible case of equations in 
 this world ? I pity the poor Scotch Pedant Governors, still 
 more the poor Scotch People, who had no other to follow ! 
 Nay, as for that, the People did get through in the end, 
 such was their indomitable pious constancy, and other worth 
 and fortune : and Presbytery became a Fact among them, 
 to the whole length possible for it ; not without endless re- 
 sults. But for the poor Governors this irreducible case
 
 48 THOMAS CAELYLE. 
 
 proved, as it were, fatal ! They have never since, if we 
 will look narrowly at it, governed Scotland, or even well 
 known that they were there to attempt governing it. Once 
 they lay on Dunse Hill, " each Earl with his Regiment of 
 Tenants round him," For Christ's Grown and Covenant; 
 and never since had they any noble National act, which it 
 was given them to do. Growing desperate of Christ's 
 Crown and Covenant, they, in the next generation, when 
 our Annus Mirabilis arrived, hurried up to Court, looking 
 out for other Crowns and Covenants; deserted Scotland 
 and her Cause, somewhat basely ; took to booing and booing 
 for Causes of their own, unhappy mortals ; and Scotland 
 and all Causes that were Scotland's have had to go on very 
 much without them ever since ! 
 
 THE BATTLE OF DUNBAR. 
 
 THE small Town of Dunbar. stands, high and windy, look- 
 ing down over its herring-boats, over its grim old Castle 
 now much honeycombed, on one of those projecting rock 
 promontories with which that shore of the Frith of Forth is 
 niched and vandyked, as far as the eye can reach. A beau- 
 tiful sea ; good land too, now that the plougher understands 
 his trade ; a grim niched barrier of whinstone sheltering it 
 from the chafings and tumblings of the big blue German 
 Ocean. Seaward, St. Abb's Head, of whinstone, bounds 
 your horizon to the east, not very far off; west, close by, is 
 the deep bay, and fishy little village of Belhaven : the 
 gloomy Bass and other rock-islets, and farther the Hills of 
 Fife, and foreshadows of the Highlands, are visible as you 
 look seaward. From the bottom of Belhaven Bay to that 
 of the next sea-bight, St. Abb's ward, the Town and its 
 environs form a peninsula. Along the base of which penin-
 
 CROMWELL. 49 
 
 sula, " not much above a mile and a half from sea to sea," 
 Oliver Cromwell's Army, on Monday, the 2d of Septem- 
 ber, 1650, stands ranked, with its tents and Town behind 
 it, in very forlorn circumstances. This now is all the 
 ground that Oliver is lord of in Scotland. His Ships lie in 
 the offing, with biscuit and transport for him ; but visible 
 elsewhere in the Earth no help. 
 
 Landward, as you look from the Town of Dunbar there 
 rises, some short mile off, a dusky continent of barren heath 
 Hills ; the Lammermoor, where only mountain-sheep can 
 be at home. The crossing of which, by any of its boggy 
 passes, and brawling stream-courses, no Army, hardly a 
 solitary Scotch Packman could attempt, in such weather. 
 To the edge of these Lammermoor Heights, David Lesley 
 has betaken himself; lies now along the outmost spur of 
 them, a long Hill of considerable height, which the Dun- 
 bar people call the Dun, Doon, or sometimes for fashion's 
 sake the Down, adding to it the Teutonic hill likewise, 
 though Dun itself in old Celtic signifies Hill. On this 
 Doon Hill lies David Leslej, with the victorious Scotch 
 Army, upwards of Twenty thousand strong ; with the Com- 
 mittees of Kirk and Estates, the chief Dignitaries of the 
 Country, and in fact the flower of what the pure Covenant 
 in this the Twelfth year of its existence can still bring 
 forth. There lies he, since Sunday night, on the top and 
 slope of this Doon Hill, with the impassable heath conti- 
 nents behind him : embraces, as within outspread tiger- 
 claws, the base-line of Oliver's Dunbar Peninsula ; waiting 
 what Oliver will do. Cockburnspath with its ravines has 
 been seized on Oliver's left, and made impassable ; behind 
 Oliver is the sea ; in front of him Lesley, Doon Hill, and 
 the heath-continent of Lammermoor. Lesley's force is of 
 Three-and-twenty thousand, in spirits as of men chasing: 
 Oliver's about half as many, in spirits as of men chased. 
 What is to become of Oliver ? . . . . 
 
 3 D
 
 50 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 The base of Oliver's Dunbar Peninsula, as we have 
 called it (or Dunbar Pinfold, where he is now hemmed in, 
 upon "an entanglement very difficult"), extends from Bel- 
 haven Bay on his right, to Brocksmouth House on his left ; 
 " about a mile and a half from sea to sea : " Brocksmouth 
 House, the Earl (now Duke) of Roxburgh's mansion, 
 which still stands there, his soldiers now occupy as their 
 extreme post on the left. As its name iudicates, it is the 
 mouth or issue of a small Rivulet, or Burn called Brock, 
 Brocksburn ; which, springing from the Lammermoor, and 
 skirting David Lesley's Doon Hill, finds its egress here, 
 into the sea. The reader who would form an image to 
 himself of the great Tuesday, 3d of September, 1650, at 
 Dunbar, must note well this little Burn. It runs in a deep 
 grassy glen, which the South-country Officers in those old 
 Pamphlets describe as a "deep ditch, forty feet in depth, 
 and about as many in width," ditch dug out by the little 
 Brook itself, and carpeted with greensward, in the course of 
 long thousands of years. It runs pretty close by the foot of 
 Doon Hill ; forms, from this point to the sea, the boundary 
 of Oliver's position : his force is arranged in battle-order 
 along the left bank of this Brocksburn, and its grassy glen ; 
 he is busied all Monday, he and his Officers, in ranking 
 them there. " Before sunrise on Monday " Lesley sent 
 down his horse from the Hill-top, to occupy the other side 
 of this Brook; "about four in the afternoon," his train 
 came down, his whole Army gradually came down ; and 
 they now are ranking themselves on the opposite side of 
 Brocksburn, on rather narrow ground; cornfields, but 
 swiftly sloping upwards to the steep of Doon Hill. This 
 goes on, in the wild showers and winds of Monday, 2nd 
 September, 1650, on both sides of the Rivulet of Brock. 
 Whoever will begin the attack, must get across this Brook 
 and its glen first ; a thing of much disadvantage. 
 
 Behind Oliver's ranks, between him and Dunbar, stand
 
 CROMWELL. 51 
 
 his tents ; sprinkled up and down, by battalions, over the 
 face of this " Peninsula " ; which is a low though very un- 
 even tract of ground ; now in our time all yellow with 
 wheat and barley in the autumn season, but at that date 
 only partially tilled, describable by Yorkshire Hodgson 
 as a place of plashes and rough bent-grass ; terribly beaten 
 by showery winds that day, so that your tent will hardly 
 stand. There was then but one Farm-house on this tract, 
 where now are not a few : thither were Oliver's Cannon 
 sent this morning ; they had at first been lodged " in the 
 Church," an edifice standing then as now somewhat apart, 
 
 at the south end of Dunbar 
 
 And now farther, on the great scale, we are to remark 
 very specially that there is just one other " pass " across the 
 Brocksburn ; and this is precisely where the London road 
 now crosses it; about a mile east from the former pass, 
 and perhaps two gunshots west from Brocksmouth House. 
 There the great road then as now crosses the Burn of 
 Brock ; the steep grassy glen, or " broad ditch forty feet 
 deep," flattening itself out here once more into a passable 
 slope : passable, but still steep on the southern or Lesley 
 side, still mounting up there, with considerable acclivity, into 
 a high table-ground, out of which the Doon Hill, as outskirt 
 of the Lammermoor, a short mile to your right, gradually 
 gathers itself. There, at this "pass," on and above the 
 present London road, as you discover after long dreary dim 
 examining, took place the brunt or essential agony of the 
 Battle of Dunbar long ago. Read in the extinct old Pam- 
 phlets, and ever again obstinately read, till some light arise 
 in them, look even with unmilitary eyes at the ground as it 
 now is, you do at least obtain small glimmerings of distinct 
 features here and there, which gradually coalesce into a 
 kind of image for you ; and some spectrum of the Fact be- 
 comes visible ; rises veritable, face to face on you, grim and 
 sad in the depths of the old dead Time. Yes, my travelling
 
 52 THOMAS CAKLYLE. 
 
 friends, vehiculating in gigs or otherwise over that piece of 
 London road, you may say to yourselves, Here without 
 monument is the grave of a valiant thing which was done 
 under the Sun ; the footprint of a Hero, not yet quite un- 
 distinguishable, is here ! 
 
 " The Lord General about four o'clock," say the old Pam- 
 phlets, " went into the Town to take some refreshment," a 
 hasty late dinner, or early supper, whichever we may call 
 it ; " and very soon returned back," having written Sir 
 Arthur's Letter, I think, in the interim. Coursing about 
 the field, with enough of things to order ; walking at last 
 with Lambert in the Park or Garden of Brocksmouth 
 House, he discerns that Lesley is astir on the Hillside ; 
 altering his position somewhat. That Lesley in fact is 
 coming wholly down to the basis of the Hill, where his 
 horse had been since sunrise : coming wholly down to the 
 edge of the Brook and glen, among the sloping harvest- 
 fields there ; and also is bringing up his left wing of horse, 
 most part of it, towards his right ; edging himself, " shog- 
 ging," as Oliver calls it, his whole line more and more to 
 the right! His meaning is, to get hold of Brocksmouth 
 House and the pass of the Brook there ; after which it will 
 be free to him to attack us when he will ! Lesley in fact 
 considered, or at least the Committee of Estates and Kirk 
 consider, that Oliver is lost ; that, on the whole, he must 
 not be left to retreat, but must be attacked and annihilated 
 here. A vague story, due to Bishop Burnet, the watery 
 source of many such, still circulates about the world, That 
 it was the Kirk Committee who forced Lesley down against 
 his will ; that Oliver, at sight of it, exclaimed, " The Lord 
 hath delivered," &c. : which nobody is in the least bound to 
 believe. It appears, from other quarters, that Lesley was 
 advised or sanctioned in this attempt by the Committee of 
 Estates and Kirk, but also that he was by no means hard to 
 advise ; that, in fact, lying on the top of Doon Hill, shelter-
 
 CROMWELL. 53 
 
 less in such weather, was no operation to spin out beyond 
 necessity ; and that if anybody pressed too much upon him 
 with advice to come down and fight, it was likeliest to be 
 Royalist Civil Dignitaries, who had plagued him with their 
 cavillings at his cunctations, at his "secret fellow-feeling for 
 the Sectarians and Regicides." ever since this War began. 
 The poor Scotch Clergy have enough of their own to an- 
 swer for in this business ; let every back bear the burden 
 that belongs to it. In a word, Lesley descends, has been de- 
 scending all day, and " shogs " himself to the right, urged I 
 believe, by manifold counsel, and by the nature of the case; 
 and, what is equally important for us, Oliver sees him, and 
 sees through him, in this movement of his. 
 
 At sight of this movement, Oliver suggests to Lambert 
 standing by him, Does it not give us an advantage, if we, 
 instead of him, like to begin the attack ? Here is the 
 Enemy's right wing coming out to the open space, free to 
 be attacked on any side ; and the main-battle hampered in 
 narrow sloping ground, between Doon Hill and the Brook, 
 has no room to manoeuvre or assist : beat this right wing 
 where it now stands ; take it in flank and front with an 
 overpowering force, it is driven upon its own main-battle, 
 the whole Army is beaten ? Lambert eagerly assents " had 
 meant to say the same thing. " Monk, who comes up at 
 the moment, likewise assents ; as the other Officers do, 
 when the case is set before them. It is the plan resolved 
 upon for battle. The attack shall begin to-morrow before 
 dawn. 
 
 And so the soldiers stand to their arms, or lie within in- 
 stant reach of their arms, all night ; being upon an engage- 
 ment very difficult indeed. The night is wild and wet ; 
 2d of September means 1 2th by our calendar : the Harvest 
 Moon wades deep among clouds of sleet and hail. Who- 
 ever has a heart for prayer, let him pray now, for the 
 wrestle of death is at hand. Pray, and withal keep his
 
 54 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 powder dry ! And be ready for extremities, and quit him- 
 self like a man ! Thus they pass the night ; making that 
 Dunbar Peninsula and Brock Rivulet long memorable to 
 me. We English have some tents; the Scots have none. 
 The hoarse sea moans bodeful, swinging low and heavy 
 against these whinstone bays ; the sea and the tempests are 
 abroad, all else asleep but we, and there is One that rides 
 on the wings of the wind. 
 
 Towards three in the morning, the Scotch foot, by order 
 of a Major-General, say some, extinguish their matches, all 
 but two in a company ; cower under the corn-shocks, seek- 
 ing some imperfect shelter and sleep. Be wakeful, ye Eng- 
 lish ; watch, and pray, and keep your powder dry. About 
 four o'clock comes order to my pudding-headed Yorkshire 
 friend, that his regiment must mount and march straight- 
 way ; his and various other regiments march, pouring swift- 
 ly to the left to Brocksmouth House, to the Pass over the 
 Brock. With overpowering force let us storm the Scots 
 right wing there ; beat that, and all is beaten. Major 
 Hodgson, riding along, heard, he says, " a Cornet praying 
 in the night " ; a company of poor men, I think, making 
 worship there, under the void Heaven, before battle joined : 
 Major Hodgson, giving his charge to a brother Officer, 
 turned aside to listen for a minute, and worship and pray 
 along with them ; haply his last prayer on this Earth, as it 
 might prove to beJ But no ; this Cornet prayed with such 
 effusion as was wonderful ; and imparted strength to my 
 Yorkshire friend, who strengthened his men by telling them 
 of it. And the Heavens, in their mercy, I think, have 
 opened us a way of deliverance ! The Moon gleams out, 
 hard and blue, riding among hail-clouds ; and over St. Abb's 
 Head a streak of dawn is rising. 
 
 And now is the hour when the attack should be, and no 
 Lambert is yet here, he is ordering the line far to the right 
 yet ; and Oliver occasionally, in Hodgson's hearing, is impa-
 
 CROMWELL. 55 
 
 tient for him. The Scots too, on this wing, are awake ; 
 thinking to surprise us ; there is their trumpet sounding, we 
 heard it once ; and Lambert, who was to lead the attack, is 
 not here. The Lord General is impatient; behold Lam- 
 bert at last ! The trumpets peal, shattering with fierce 
 clangor Night's silence ; the cannons awaken along all the 
 line : " The Lord of Hosts ! The Lord of Hosts ! " On, 
 my brave ones, on ! 
 
 The dispute " on this right wing, was hot and stiff for 
 three quarters of an hour. " Plenty of fire, from field- 
 pieces, snaphances, matchlocks, entertained the Scotch main- 
 battle across the Brock ; poor stiffened men, roused from 
 the corn-shocks with their matches all out ! But here on 
 the right, their horse " with lancers in the front rank," 
 charge desperately ; drive us back across the hollow of the 
 Rivulet ; back a little ; but the Lord gives us courage, and 
 we storm home again, horse and foot, upon them, with a 
 shock like tornado tempests ; break them, beat them, drive 
 them all adrift. " Some fled towards Copperspath, but most 
 across their own foot. " Their own poor foot, whose 
 matches were hardly well alight yet ! Poor men, it was a 
 terrible awakening for them : field-pieces and charge of foot 
 across the Brocksburn : and now here is their own horse in 
 mad panic, trampling them to death. Above Three-thou- 
 sand killed upon the place : " I never saw such a charge of 
 foot and horse," says one ; nor did I. Oliver was still near 
 to Yorkshire Hodgson, when the shock succeeded. Hodg- 
 son heard him say : " They run ! I profess they run ! " 
 And over St. Abb's Head, and the German Ocean, just 
 then, burst the first gleam of the level sun upon us, " and I 
 heard Xol say, in the words of the Psalmist, ' Let God arise, 
 let His enemies be scattered,' " or in Rous's metre, 
 
 Let God arise, and scattered 
 
 Let all his enemies be ; 
 And let all those that do him hate 
 
 Before his presence flee !
 
 56 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 Even so. The Scotch Array is shivered to utter ruin ; 
 rushes in tumultuous wreck, hither, thither ; to Belhaven, 
 or, in their distraction, even to Dunbar ; the chase goes as 
 far as Haddington ; led by Hacker. " The Lord General 
 made a halt," says Hodgson, " and sang the Hundred-and- 
 seventeenth Psalm," till our horse could gather for the 
 chase. Hundred-and-seventeenth Psalm, at the foot of the 
 Doon Hill ; there we uplift it, to the tune of Bangor, or 
 some still higher score, and roll it strong and great against 
 the sky : 
 
 O give ye praise unto the Lord, 
 
 All nati-ons that be ; 
 Likewise ye people all accord 
 His name to magnify ! 
 
 For great to-us-ward ever are 
 
 His loving kindnesses ; 
 His truth endures for evermore : 
 
 The Lord, O do ye bless ! 
 
 And now to the chase again. 
 
 The prisoners are Ten-thousand, all the foot in a mass. 
 * * * Such is Dunbar Battle ; which might almost be 
 called Dunbar Drove, for it was a frightful rout. Brought 
 on by miscalculation ; misunderstanding of the difference 
 between substances and semblances ; by mismanagement 
 and the chance of war. 
 
 DISMISSAL OF THE RUMP, 
 
 Wednesday, 2Qth April, 1653. My Lord General is in 
 his reception-room this morning, in plain black clothes and 
 gray worsted stockings ; he, with many Officers : but few 
 Members have yet come, though punctual Bulstrode and 
 certain others are there. Some waiting there is ; some im-
 
 CROMWELL. 57 
 
 patience that the Members would come. The Members do 
 not come : instead of Members, comes a notice that they 
 are busy getting on with their Bill [for Parliamentary Re- 
 form] in the House, hurrying it double quick through all 
 the stages. Possible, New message that it will be Law in 
 a little while, if no interposition take place ! Bulstrode 
 hastens off to the House : my Lord General, at first incred- 
 ulous, does now also hasten off, nay orders that a com- 
 pany of Musketeers of his own regiment attend him. Hast- 
 ens off, with a very high expression of countenance, I think ; 
 saying or feeling : Who would have believed it of them ? 
 " It is not honest ; yea it is contrary to common honesty ! " 
 My Lord General, the big hour is come ! 
 
 Young Colonel Sidney, the celebrated Algernon, sat in 
 the House this morning: a House of some Fifty -three. Al- 
 gernon has left distinct note of the affair ; less distinct we 
 have from Bulstrode, who was also there, who seems in 
 some points to be even wilfully wrong. Solid Ludlow was 
 far off in Ireland, but gathered many details in after-years; 
 and faithfully wrote them down, in the unappeasable indig- 
 nation of his heart. Combining these three originals, we 
 have, after various perusals and collations and consider- 
 ations, obtained the following authentic, moderately con- 
 ceivable account. 
 
 " The Parliament sitting as usual, and being in debate 
 upon the Bill, with the amendments, which it was thought 
 would have been passed that day, the Lord General Crom- 
 well came into the House, clad in plain black clothes and 
 gray worsted-stocking?, and sat down, as he used to do, in 
 an ordinary place." For some time he listens to this in- 
 teresting debate on the Bill ; beckoning once to Harrison, 
 who came over to him, and answered dubitatingly. Where- 
 upon the Lord General sat still, for about a quarter of an 
 hour longer. But now the question being to be put, That 
 this Bill do now pass, he beckons again to Harrison, says, 
 3*
 
 58 THOMAS CAELYLE. 
 
 " This is the time I must do it ! " and so " rose up, put off 
 his hat, and spake. At the first, and for a good while, he 
 spake to the commendation of the Parliament for their pains 
 and care of the public good ; but afterwards he changed his 
 style, told them of their injustice, delays of justice, self- 
 interest, and other faults," rising higher and higher, into 
 a very aggravated style indeed. An honorable Member, 
 Sir Peter Wentworth by name, not known to my readers, 
 and by me better known than trusted, rises to order, as we 
 phrase it; says, "It is a strange language this; unusual 
 within the walls of Parliament this ! And from a trusted 
 servant too ; and one whom we have so highly honored ; 
 and one " " Come, come ! " exclaims my Lord General, 
 in a very high key. " We have had enough of this," 
 and in fact my Lord 'General, now blazing all up into clear 
 conflagration, exclaims, " I will put an end to your prating," 
 and steps forth into the floor of the House, and "clapping 
 on his hat," and occasionally "stamping the floor with his 
 feet," begins a discourse which no man can report! He 
 says Heavens ! he is heard saying : " It is not fit that you 
 should sit here any longer ! You have sat too long here for 
 any good you have been doing lately. You shall now give 
 place to better men ! Call them in ! " adds he briefly, to 
 Harrison, in word of command : " and some twenty or 
 thirty " grim musketeers enter, with bullets in their snap- 
 hances ; grimly prompt for orders ; and stand in some atti- 
 tude of Carry-arms there. Veteran men : men of might 
 and men of war, their faces are as the faces of lions, and 
 their feet are swift as the roes upon the mountains : not 
 beautiful to honorable gentlemen at this moment. 
 
 " You call yourselves a Parliament," continues my Lord 
 General, in clear blaze of conflagration : " you are no Par- 
 liament ; I say, you are no Parliament ! some of you are 
 drunkards," and his eye flashes on poor Mr Chaloner, an 
 official man of some value, addicted to the bottle ; " some of
 
 CROMWELL. 59 
 
 you are ," and he glares into Harry Marten, and the 
 
 poor Sir Peter, who rose to order, lewd livers both ; "living 
 in open contempt of God's Commandments. Following 
 your own greedy appetites, and the Devil's Command- 
 ments. ' Corrupt, unjust persons.' " " And here, I think, 
 he glanced at Sir Bulstrode "Whitlocke, one of the Com- 
 missioners of the Great Seal, giving him and others very 
 sharp language, though he named them not " : " Corrupt, 
 unjust persons ; scandalous to the profession of the Gospel : 
 how can you be a Parliament for God's People ? Depart, 
 I say ; and let us have done with you. In the name of 
 God, go!" 
 
 The House is of course all on its feet, uncertain almost 
 whether not on its head : such a scene as was never seen 
 before in any House of Commons. History reports with a 
 shudder that my Lord General, lifting the sacred Mace 
 itself, said, " What shall we do with this bawble ? Take it 
 away ! " and gave it to a musketeer. And now, " Fetch 
 him down ! " says he to Harrison, flashing on the Speaker. 
 Speaker Lenthall, more an ancient Roman than anything 
 else, declares, He will not come till forced. " Sir," said 
 Harrison, " I will lend you a hand " ; on which Speaker 
 Lenthall came down, and gloomily vanished. They all 
 vanished ; flooding gloomily, clamorously out, to their ulte- 
 rior business, and respective places of abode : the Long 
 Parliament is dissolved ! " ' It 's you, that have forced me to 
 this,' exclaims my Lord General : ' I have sought the Lord 
 night and day, that He would rather slay me than put me 
 upon the doing of this work.' At their going out, some say, 
 the Lord General said to young Sir Harry Vane, calling 
 him by his name, that he might have prevented this ; but 
 that he was a juggler, and had not common honesty. ' O, 
 Sir Harry Vane, thou with thy subtle casuistries, and ab- 
 struse hair-splittings, thou art other than a good one, I 
 think ! The Lord deliver thee from me, Sir Harry Vane !'
 
 60 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 All being gone out, the door of the House was locked, and 
 the Key with the Mace, as I heard, was carried away by 
 Colonel Otley " ; and it is all over, and the unspeakable 
 Catastrophe has come, and remains. 
 
 THE BAREBONES PARLIAMENT. 
 
 CONCERNING this Puritan Convention of the Notables, 
 which in English History is called the Little Parliament, 
 and derisively Harebones's Parliament, we have not much 
 more to say. They are, if by no means the remarkablest 
 Assembly, yet the Assembly for the remarkablest purpose 
 who have ever met in the Modern "World. The business is, 
 No less than introducing of the Christian Religion into real 
 practice in the Social Affairs of this Nation. Christian Re- 
 ligion, Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments : such, 
 for many hundred years, has been the universal solemnly 
 recognized Theory of all men's Affairs ; Theory sent down 
 out of Heaven itself; but the question is now that of reduc- 
 ing it to Practice in said Affairs ; a most noble, surely, 
 and most necessary attempt; which should not have been 
 put off so long in this Nation ! We have conquered the En- 
 emies of Christ; let us now, in real practical earnest, set 
 about doing the Commandments of Christ, now that there is 
 free room for us ! Such was the purpose of this Puritan As- 
 sembly of the Notables, which History calls the Little Par- 
 liament, or derisively JBarebones's Parliament. 
 
 It is well known they failed : to us, alas ! it is too evident 
 they could not but fail. Fearful impediments lay against 
 that effort of theirs ; the sluggishness, the slavish half-and- 
 halfness, the greediness, the cowardice, and general opacity 
 and falsity of some ten million men against it ; alas, the 
 whole world, and what we call the Devil and all his angels,
 
 CROMWELL. 61 
 
 against it ! Considerable angels, human and other ; most ex- 
 tensive arrangements, investments to be sold off at a tre- 
 mendous sacrifice ; in general the entire set of luggage-traps 
 and very extensive stock of merchant-goods and real and 
 floating property, amassed by that assiduous Entity above- 
 mentioned, for a thousand years or more ! For these, and 
 also for other obstructions, it could not take effect at that 
 time ; and the Little Parliament became a Barebones's Par- 
 liament, and had to go its ways again. 
 
 CONSPIRACIES. 
 
 To see a little what kind of England it was, and what 
 kind of incipient Protectorate it was, take, as usual, the fol- 
 lowing small and few fractions of Authenticity of various 
 complexion, fished from the doubtful slumber-lakes, and 
 dust vortexes, and hang them out at their places in the void 
 night of things. They are not very luminous ; but if they 
 were well let alone, and the positively tenebrific were well 
 forgotten, they might assist our imaginations in some slight 
 measure. 
 
 Sunday, 18th December, 1653. A certain loud-tongued, 
 loud-minded Mr. Feak, of Anabaptist-Leveller persuasion, 
 with a Colleague seemingly Welsh, named Powel, have a 
 Preaching-Establishment, this good while past in Black- 
 friars ; a Preaching-Establishment every Sunday, which on 
 Monday evening becomes a National-Charter Convention 
 as we should now call it ; there Feak, Powel, and Company 
 are in the habit of vomiting forth from their own inner-man, 
 into other inner-men greedy of such pabulum, a very flamy 
 fuliginous set of doctrines, such as the human mind, 
 superadding Anabaptistry to Sansculottism, can make some 
 attempt to conceive. Sunday, the 18th, which is two days
 
 62 THOMAS CAELYLE. 
 
 after the Lord Protector's Installation, this Feak-Powel 
 Meeting was unusually large ; the Feak-Powel inner-man 
 unusually charged. Elements of soot and fire really copi- 
 ous : fuliginous flamy in a very high degree ! At a time, 
 too, when all Doctrine does not satisfy itself with spouting, 
 but longs to become instant Action. " Go and tell your 
 Protector," said the Anabaptist Prophet, " that he has de- 
 ceived the Lord's People ; that he is a perjured villain," 
 " will not reign long," or I am deceived : " will end wt>rse 
 than the last Protector did," Protector Somerset who died 
 on the scaffold, or the tyrant Crooked Richard himself! 
 Say I said it ! A very foul chimney indeed, here got on 
 fire. And " Major General Harrison, the most eminent 
 man of the Anabaptist Party, being consulted whether 
 he would own the new Protectoral Government, answered 
 frankly, No"; was thereupon ordered to retire home to 
 Staffordshire, and keep quiet. 
 
 Does the reader bethink him of those old Leveller Cor- 
 porals at Burford, and Diggers at St. George's Hill five 
 years ago ; of Quakerisms, Calvinistic Sansculottisms, and 
 one of the strangest Spiritual Developments ever seen in 
 any country ? The reader sees here one foul chimney on 
 fire, the Feak-Powel chimney in Blackfriars ; and must con- 
 sider for himself what masses of combustible materials, no- 
 ble fuel and base soot and smoky explosive fire-damp, in 
 the general English Household it communicates with ! Re- 
 publicans Proper, of the Long Parliament; Republican 
 Fifth-Monarchists of the Little Parliament ; the solid Lud- 
 lows, the fervent Harrisons : from Harry Vane down to 
 Christopher Feak, all manner of Republicans find Cromwell 
 unforgivable. To the Harrison-and-Feak species Kingship 
 in every sort, and government of man by man, is carnal, 
 expressly contrary to various Gospel Scriptures. Very hor- 
 rible for a man to think of governing men ; whether he 
 ought even to govern cattle, and drive them to field and to
 
 CROMWELL. 63 
 
 needful penfold, "except in the way of love and persua- 
 sion," seems doubtful to me ! But fancy a reign of Christ 
 and his Saints ; Christ and his Saints just about to come, 
 had not Oliver Cromwell stept in and prevented it! 
 The reader discerns combustabilities enough ; conflagrations, 
 plots, stubborn disaffections and confusions, on the Republi- 
 can and Republican-Anabaptist side of things. It is the 
 first Plot-department which my Lord Protector will have to 
 deal with all his life long. This he must wisely clamp down, 
 as he may. Wisely: for he knows what is noble in the 
 matter, and what is base in it; and would not sweep the 
 fuel and the soot both out of doors at once. 
 
 Tuesday, lth February, 1653-4. "At the Ship-Tavern 
 in the Old Bailey, kept by Mr. Thomas Amps," we come 
 upon the second life-long Plot-department: Eleven trucu- 
 lent, rather threadbare persons, sitting over small drink 
 there, on the Tuesday night, considering how the Protector 
 might be assassinated. Poor broken Royalist men ; payless 
 old Captains, most of them, or such like ; with their steeple- 
 hats worn very brown, and jack-boots slit, and projects 
 that cannot be executed, Mr. Amps knows nothing of 
 them, except that they came to him to drink ; nor do we. 
 Probe them with questions ; clap them in the Tower for a 
 while ; Guilty, poor knaves : but not worth hanging : dis- 
 appear again into the general mass of Royalist Plotting, 
 and ferment there. 
 
 The Royalists have lain quiet ever since Worcester, wait- 
 ing what issue matters would take. Dangerous to meddle 
 with a Rump Parliament ; or other steadily regimented 
 thing ; safer if you can find it fallen out of rank ; hope- 
 fullest of all when it collects itself into a Single Head. 
 The Royalists judge, with some reason, that if they could 
 kill Oliver Protector, this Commonwealth were much en- 
 dangered. In these Easter weeks, too, or Whitsun weeks, 
 there comes " from our Court," (Charles Stuart's Court,)
 
 64 THOMAS CAELYLE. 
 
 "at Paris," great encouragement to all men of spirit in 
 straitened circumstances, A Royal Proclamation " By the 
 King," drawn up, say some, by Secretary Clarendon ; set- 
 ting forth that " Whereas a certain base, mechanic fellow, 
 by name Oliver Cromwell, has usurped our throne," much 
 to our and other people's inconvenience, whosoever will kill 
 the said mechanic fellow " by sword, pistol, or poison," shall 
 have 500 a year settled upon him, with colonelcies in our 
 Army, and other rewards suitable, and be a made man, 
 " on the word and faith of a Christian King." A Procla- 
 mation which cannot be circulated except in secret ; but is 
 well worth reading by all loyal men. And so Royalist 
 Plots also succeed one another, thick and threefold through 
 Oliver's whole life ; but cannot take effect. Vain for a 
 Christian King and his cunningest Chancellors to summon 
 all the sinners of the Earth, and whatever of necessitous 
 Truculent-Flunkeyism there may be, and to bid, in the 
 name of Heaven and of another place, for the Head of 
 Oliver Cromwell ; once for all, they cannot have it, that 
 Head of Cromwell ; not till he has entirely done with it, 
 and can make them welcome to their benefit from it. 
 
 JAMES NAYLER AND COMPANY. 
 
 "!N the month of October, 1655," there was seen a 
 strange sight at Bristol in the West. A Procession of 
 Eight Persons ; one, a man on horseback, riding single ; the 
 others, men and women, partly riding double, partly on foot, 
 in the muddiest highway, in the wettest weather ; singing, 
 all but the single rider, at whose bridle splash and walk two 
 women : " Hosannah ! Holy, holy ! Lord God of Sabaoth ! " 
 and other things, " in a buzzing tone," which the impartial 
 hearer could not make out. The single-rider is a rawboned
 
 CROMWELL. 65 
 
 male figure, "with lank hair reaching below his cheeks;" 
 hat drawn close over his brows ; " nose rising slightly in the 
 middle ; " of abstruse " down look," and large dangerous 
 jaws strictly closed : he sings not ; sits there covered ; and 
 is sung to by the others bare. Amid pouring deluges, and 
 mud knee-deep : " so that the rain ran in at their necks, and 
 they vented it at their hose and breeches " : a spectacle to 
 the West of England and Posterity ! Singing as above ; 
 answering no question except in song. From Bedminster 
 to Ratcliffe Gate, along the streets to the High Cross of 
 Bristol : at the High Cross they are laid hold of by the 
 Authorities ; turn out to be James Nayler and Company. 
 James Nayler, " from Andersloe " or Ardsley " in York- 
 shire," heretofore a Trooper under Lambert ; now a Qua- 
 ker and something more. Infatuated Nayler and Com- 
 pany ; given up to Enthusiam, to Animal-Magnetism, to 
 Chaos and Bedlam in one shape or other ! Who will need 
 to be coerced by the Major-General?, I think ; to be for- 
 warded to London, and there sifted and cross-questioned. 
 Is not the Spiritualism of England developing itself in 
 strange forms ? The Hydra, royalist and sansculottic, has 
 many heads. 
 
 THE WEST INDIAN INTEREST. 
 
 THE Grand Sea- Armament which sailed from Portsmouth 
 at Christmas, 1654, proved unsuccessful. It went west- 
 ward ; opened its sealed Instructions at a certain latitude ; 
 found that they were instructions to attack Hispaniola, to 
 attack the Spanish Power in the West Indies ; it did attack 
 Hispaniola, and lamentably failed; attacked the Spanish 
 Power in the West Indies, and has hitherto realized almost 
 nothing, a mere waste Island of Jamacia, to all appear- 
 ance little worth the keeping at such cost. It is hitherto
 
 66 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 the unsuccessfulest enterprise Oliver Cromwell ever had 
 concern with. Desborow fitted it out at Portsmouth, while 
 the Lord Protector was busy with his First refractory Ped- 
 ant Parliament ; there are faults imputed to Desborow : but 
 the grand fault the Lord Protector imputes to himself, That 
 he chose, or sanctioned the choice of Generals improper to 
 command it. Sea-General Penn, Land-General Venables, 
 they were unfortunate, they were incompetent ; fell into 
 disagreements, into distempers of the bowels ; had crit- 
 ical Civil Commissioners with them, too, who did not mend 
 the matter. Venables lay " six weeks in bed," very ill of 
 sad "West-India maladies ; for the rest, a covetous lazy dog, 
 who cared nothing for the business, but wanted to be home 
 at his Irish Government again. Penn is Father of Penn 
 the Pennsylvanian Quaker ; a man somewhat quick of tem- 
 per " like to break his heart," when affairs went wrong ; 
 unfit to right them again. The two Generals came volun- 
 tarily home in the end of last August [1655], leaving the 
 wreck of their forces in Jamaica; and were straightway 
 lodged in the Tower for quitting their post. 
 
 A great Armament of Thirty, nay of Sixty ships ; of 
 Four-thousand soldiers, two regiments of whom were vet- 
 erans, the rest a somewhat sad miscellany of broken Royal- 
 ists, unruly Levellers, and the like, who would volunteer, 
 whom Venables augmented at Barbadoes, with a still more 
 unruly set to Nine-thousand : this great Armament the 
 Lord Protector has strenuously hurled, as a sudden fiery 
 bolt, into the dark Domdaniel of Spanish Iniquity in the far 
 West ; and it has exploded there, almost without effect. 
 The Armament saw Hispaniola, and Hispaniola with fear 
 and wonder saw it, on the 14th of April, 1655: but the 
 Armament, a sad miscellany of distempered unruly persons, 
 durst not land " where Drake had landed," and at once take 
 the Town and Island : the Armament hovered hither and 
 thither; and at last agreed to land some sixty miles off;
 
 CROMWELL. 67 
 
 marched therefrom through thick-tangled woods, under trop- 
 ical heats, till it was nearly dead with mere marching; 
 was then set upon by ambuscadoes ; fought miserably ill, 
 the unruly persons of it, or would not fight at all; fled 
 back to its ships a mass of miserable disorganic ruin ; and 
 " dying there at the rate of two-hundred a day," made for 
 Jamaica. 
 
 Jamaica, a poor unpopulous Island, was quickly taken, as 
 rich Hispaniola might have been, and the Spaniards were 
 driven away : but to men in biliary humor it seemed hardly 
 worth the taking or the keeping. " Immense droves of 
 wild cattle : cows and horses, run about Jamacia " ; dusky 
 Spaniards dwell in hatos, in unswept shealings : " 80,000 
 hogs are killed every year for the sake of their lard, which 
 is sold under the name of hog's-butter at Carthagena " : but 
 what can we do with all that ! The poor Armament con- 
 tinuing to die as if by murrain, and all things looking worse 
 and worse to poor biliary Generals. Sea- General Penn set 
 sail for home, whom Land-General Venables swiftly fol- 
 lowed: leaving Vice- Admiral Goodson, "Major-General 
 Fortescue," or almost whosoever liked, to manage in their 
 absence, and their ruined moribund forces to die as they 
 could ; and are now lodged in the Tower, as they de- 
 served to be. The Lord Protector, and virtually England 
 with him, had hoped to see the dark empire of bloody 
 Antichristian Spain a little shaken in the West ; some 
 reparation got for its inhuman massacrings, and long con- 
 tinued tyrannies, massacrings, exterminations of us, " at 
 St. Kitts in 1629, at Tortuga in 1637, at Santa Cruz 
 in 1 650 " : so, in the name of England, had this Lord Pro- 
 tector hoped ; and he has now to take his disappointment. 
 
 The ulterior history of these Western Affairs, of this new 
 Jamaica under Cromwell, lies far dislocated, drowned deep, 
 in the Slumber-Lakes of Thurloe and Company ; in a most 
 dark, stupefied, and altogether dismal condition. A history
 
 68 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 indeed, which, as you painfully fish it up and by degrees 
 reawaken it to life, is in itself sufficiently dismal. Not 
 much to be intermeddled with here. The English left in 
 Jamaica, the English successively sent thither, prosper as ill 
 as need be ; still die, soldiers and settlers of them, at a 
 frightful rate per day ; languish, for most part, astonished in 
 their sultry strange new element ; and cannot be brought to 
 front with right manhood the deadly inextricable jungle of 
 tropical confusions, outer and inner, in which they find them- 
 selves. Brave Governors, Fortescue, Sedgwick, Brayne, 
 one after the other, die rapidly, of the climate and of broken 
 heart ; their life-fire all spent there, in that dark chaos, and 
 as yet no result visible. It is painful to read what misbe- 
 havior there is, what difficulties there are. 
 
 Almost the one steady light-point in the business is the 
 Protector's own spirit of determination. If England have 
 now a " West-India Interest," and Jamaica be an Island 
 worth something, it is to this Protector mainly that we owe 
 it. Here too, as in former darknesses, " Hope shines in 
 him, like a pillar of fire, when it has gone out in all the 
 others." Having put his hand to this work, he will not for 
 any discouragement turn back. Jamaica shall yet be a col- 
 ony ; Spain and its dark Domdaniel shall yet be smitten to 
 the heart, the enemies of God and His Gospel, by the 
 soldiers and servants of God. It must, and it shall. We 
 have failed in the West, but not wholly ; in the West and in 
 the East, by sea and by land, as occasion shall be min- 
 istered, we will try it again and again Reinforce- 
 ment went on the back of reinforcement, during this Pro- 
 tector's lifetime ; " a Thousand Irish Girls " went ; not to 
 speak of the rogue-and-vagabond species from Scotland, 
 " we can help you " at any time " to two or three hundred 
 of these." And so at length a West-India Interest did take 
 root; and bears spices and poisons, and other produce, to 
 this day.
 
 CROMWELL. 69 
 
 QUARTERMASTER SLNDERCOMB THE ASSASSIN. 
 
 MILES SINDERCOMB, now a cashiered Quartermaster liv- 
 ing about Town, was once a zealous Deptford lad, who en- 
 listed to fight for Liberty, at the beginning of these wars, 
 lie fought strongly on the side of Liberty, being an earnest 
 fierce young fellow ; then gradually got astray into Lev- 
 elling courses, and wandered ever deeper there, till day- 
 light forsook him, and it became quite dark. He was one 
 of the desperate misguided Corporals, or Quartermasters, 
 doomed to be shot at Burford, seven years ago : but he es- 
 caped over night, and was not shot there ; took service in 
 Scotland ; got again to be Quartermaster ; was in the Over- 
 ton Plot, for seizing Monk and marching into England, 
 lately; whereupon Monk cashiered him: and he came to 
 Town ; lodged himself here, in a sulky threadbare man- 
 ner, in Alsatia or elsewhere. A gloomy man and Ex- 
 Quartermaster ; has become one of Sexby's people, " on the 
 faith of a Christian King " ; nothing now left of him but the 
 fierceness, groping some path for itself, in the utter dark. 
 Henry Toope, one of his Highness's Lifeguard : gives us, 
 or will give us, an inkling of Sindercomb ; and we know 
 something of his courses and inventions, which are many. 
 He rode in Hyde Park among his Highness's escort, with 
 Sexby ; but the deed could not then be done. Leave me 
 the 1 GOO, said he ; and I will find a way to do it. Sexby 
 left it him and went abroad. 
 
 Inventive Sindercomb then took a House in Hammer- 
 smith ; Garden-House, I think, " which had a banqueting- 
 room looking into the road " ; road very narrow at that 
 part ; road from Whitehall to Hampton Court on Satur- 
 day afternoons. Inventive Sindercomb here set about pro- 
 viding blunderbusses of the due explosive force, ancient 
 " infernal machines," in fact, with these he will blow his
 
 70 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 Highness's Coach and his Highness's self into small pieces, 
 if it please Heaven. It did not please Heaven, prob- 
 ably not Henry Toope of his Highness's Lifeguard. This 
 first scheme proved a failure. 
 
 Inventive Sindercomb, to justify his 1600, had to try 
 something. He decided to fire Whitehall by night, and have 
 a stroke at his Highness in the tumult. He has " a hun- 
 dred swift horses, two in a stable, up and down " : set a 
 hundred stout ruffians on the back of these, in the nocturnal 
 fire ; and try Thursday, 8th January, 1656 7 ; that is to be 
 the Night. On the dusk of Thursday, January 8th, he with 
 old-trooper Cecil, his second in the business, attends Public 
 "Worship in Whitehall Chapel ; is seen loitering there after- 
 wards, " near the Lord Lambert's seat." Nothing more is 
 seen of him : but about half-past eleven at night, the senti- 
 nel on guard catches a smell of fire ; finds holed wain- 
 scots, picked locks ; a basket of the most virulent wildfire, 
 " fit almost to burn through stones," with lit match slowly 
 creeping towards it, computed to reach it in some half-hour 
 hence, about the stroke of midnight! His Highness is 
 summoned, the Council is summoned ; alas, Toope of the 
 Lifeguard is examined and Sindercomb's lodging is known. 
 Just when the wildfire should have blazed, two Guardsmen 
 wait upon Sindercomb ; seize him, not without hard defence 
 on his part, " wherein his nose was nearly cut off" ; bring 
 him to his Highness. Toope testifies ; Cecil peaches : 
 inventive Sindercomb has failed for the last time. To the 
 Tower with him, to a jury of his country with him ! The 
 emotion in the Parliament and in the Public, next morning, 
 was great. It had been proposed to ring an alarm at the 
 moment of discovery, and summon the Trainbands ; but his 
 Highness would not hear of it. 
 
 This Parliament, really intent on settling the Nation, 
 could not want for emotions, in regard to such a matter! 
 Parliament adjourns for a week, till the roots of the Plot are
 
 CROMWELL. 71 
 
 investigated somewhat. Parliament, on reassembling, ap- 
 points a day of Thanksgiving for the Nation ; Friday, come 
 four weeks, which is February 20th, that shall be the gen- 
 eral Thanksgiving Day : and in the mean time we decide to 
 go over in a body, and congratulate his Highness. A mark 
 
 of great respect to him 
 
 On Monday, 9th February, Sindercomb was tried by a 
 jury- in the Upper Bench ; and doomed to suffer as a traitor 
 and assassin, on the Saturday following. The night before 
 Saturday his poor Sister, though narrowly watched, smug- 
 gled him some poison : he went to bed, saying, " Well, this 
 is the last time I shall go to bed " ; the attendants heard him 
 snore heavily, and then cease ; they looked, and he lay dead. 
 " He was of that wretched sect called Soul- Sleepers, who be- 
 lieve that the soul falls asleep at death " ; a gloomy, far-mis- 
 guided man. They buried him on Tower-hill, with due igno- 
 miny, and there he rests ; with none but frantic Anabaptist 
 Sexby, or Deceptive Presbyterian Titus, to sing his praise. 
 
 INSTALLED AS PROTECTOR. 
 
 LAND-GENERAL REYNOLDS has gone to the French Neth- 
 erlands, with Six-thousand men, to join Turenne in fighting 
 the Spaniards there ; and Sea-General Montague, is about 
 hoisting his flag to co-operate with him from the other ele- 
 ment. By sea and land are many things passing ; and 
 here in London is the loudest thing of all : not yet to be 
 entirely omitted by us, though now it has fallen very silent 
 in comparison. Inauguration of the Lord Protector ; second 
 and more solemn Installation of him, now that he is fully 
 recognized by Parliament itself. He cannot yet, as it 
 proves, be crowned King ; but he shall be installed in his 
 Protectorship with all solemnity befitting such an occasion. 
 
 Friday, 2Qth June, 1657. The Parliament and all the
 
 72 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 world are busy with this grand affair; the labors of the 
 Session being now complete, the last finish being now given 
 to our new Instrument of Government, to our elaborate 
 Petition and Advice, we will add this topstone to the work, 
 and so amid the shoutings of mankind, disperse for the 
 recess. Friday at two o'clock, "in a place prepared," duly 
 prepared, with all manner of " platforms," " cloths of state," 
 and " seats raised one above the other," " at the upper end of 
 Westminster Hall." Palace Yard, and London generally, 
 is all a-tiptoe, out of doors. Within doors, Speaker Wid- 
 drington and the Master of the Ceremonies have done their 
 best : the Judges, the Aldermen, the Parliament, the Coun- 
 cil, the foreign Ambassadors, and domestic Dignitaries with- 
 out end ; chairs of state, cloths of state, trumpet-peals, and 
 acclamations of the people Let the reader conceive it ; or 
 read in old pamphlets the " exact relation " of it with all the 
 speeches and phenomena, worthier than such things usually 
 are of being read. 
 
 " His Highness standing under the Cloth of State," says 
 Bulstrode, whose fine feelings are evidently touched by it, 
 " the Speaker, in the name of the Parliament, presented to 
 him : First, a Robe of purple velvet ; which the Speaker, 
 assisted by Whitlocke and others, put upon his Highness. 
 Then he," the Speaker, " delivered to him the Bible richly 
 gilt and bossed," an affecting symbolic Gift: "After that, 
 the Speaker girt the Sword about his Highness ; and deliv- 
 ered into his hand the Sceptre of massy gold. And then, 
 this done, he made a Speech to him on these several things 
 presented " ; eloquent mellifluous Speech, setting forth the 
 high and true significance of these several Symbols, Speech 
 still worth reading; to which his Highness answered in 
 silence by dignified gesture only. " Then Mr. Speaker 
 gave him the Oath " ; and so ended really in a solemn man- 
 ner. " And Mr. Manton, by prayer, recommended his 
 Highness, the Parliament, the Council, the Forces by land
 
 CROMWELL. 73 
 
 and sea, and the whole Government and People of the 
 Three Nations, to the blessing and protection of God." 
 And then "the people gave several great shouts"; and 
 "the trumpets sounded; and the Protector sat in his .chair 
 of state, holding the Sceptre in his hand " ; a remarkable 
 sight to see. "On his right sat the Ambassador of 
 France," on his left some other Ambassador ; and all round, 
 standing or sitting, were Dignitaries of the highest quality ; 
 " and near the Earl of Warwick, stood the Lord Viscount 
 Lisle, stood General Montague and Whitlocke, each of 
 them having a drawn sword in his hand," a sublime sight 
 to some of us ! 
 
 And so this Solemnity transacts itself; which, at the 
 moment, was solemn enough ; and is not yet, at this or any 
 hollowest moment of Human History, intrinsically alto- 
 gether other. A really dignified and veritable piece of Sym- 
 bolism ; perhaps the last we hitherto, in these quack-ridden 
 histrionic ages, have been privileged to see on such an occa- 
 sion. 
 
 ROYALIST INSURRECTION FAILURE. 
 
 His Highness, before this Monday's sun sets [Feb. 4, 
 1658J, has begun to lodge the Anarchic Ringleaders, Roy- 
 alist, Fifth-Monarchist, in the Tower ; his Highness is bent 
 once more with all his faculty, the Talking- Apparatus being 
 gone, to front this Hydra, and trample it down once again. 
 On Saturday he summons his Officers, his Acting- Appara- 
 tus, to Whitehall round him ; explains to them " in a Speech 
 two hours long " what kind of Hydra it is ; asks, Shall it con- 
 quer us, involve us in blood and confusion ? They answer 
 from their hearts, No, it shall not ! " We will stand and 
 fall with your Highness, we will live and die with you ! " 
 It is the last duel this Oliver has with any Hydra foment- 
 4
 
 74 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 ed into life by a Talking- Apparatus ; and he again conquers 
 it, invincibly compresses it, as he has heretofore done. 
 
 One day, in the early days of March next, his Highness 
 said to Lord Broghil : An old friend of yours is in Town, 
 the Duke of Ormond, now lodged in Drury Lane, at the 
 Papist Surgeon's there ; you had better tell him to be gone ! 
 Whereat his Lordship stared ; found it a fact however ; and 
 his Grace of Ormond did go with exemplary speed, and got 
 again to Bruges and the Sacred Majesty, with report That 
 Cromwell had many enemies, but that the rise of the Roy- 
 alists was moonshine. And on the 12th of the month his 
 Highness had the Mayor and Common Council with him in 
 a body at Whitehall ; and " in a Speech at large " explained 
 to them that his Grace of Ormond was gone only " on Tues- 
 day last " ; that there were Spanish Invasions, Royalist In- 
 surrections, and Frantic-Anabaptist Insurrections rapidly 
 ripening ; that it would well beseem the City of London 
 to have its Militia in good order. To which the Mayor and 
 Common Council " being very sensible thereof," made zeal- 
 ous response by speech and by act. In a word, the Talk- 
 ing-Apparatus being gone, and an Oliver Protector now at 
 the head of the Acting- Apparatus, no Insurrection, in the 
 eyes of reasonable persons, had any chance. The leading 
 Royalists shrank close into their privacies again, consid- 
 erable numbers of them had to shrink into durance in the 
 Tower. Among which latter class his Highness, justly in- 
 censed, and " considering," as Thurloe says, " that it was not 
 fit there should be a Plot of this kind every winter," had 
 determined that a High Court of Justice should take cogni- 
 zance of some. High Court of Justice is accordingly nomi- 
 nated as the Act of Parliament prescribes : among the par- 
 ties marked for Trial by it are Sir Henry Slingsby, long 
 since prisoner for Penruddock's business, and the Rev. Dr. 
 Hewit, a man of much forwardness in Royalism. Sir Henry, 
 prisoner in Hull and acquainted with the Chief Officers
 
 CROMWELL. 75 
 
 there, haa been treating with them for betrayal of the place 
 to his Majesty ; has even, to that end, given one of them a 
 Majesty's Commission ; for whose Spanish Invasion such a 
 Haven and Fortress would have been extremely convenient. 
 Reverend Dr. Hewit, preaching by sufferance, according to 
 the old ritual, " in St. Gregory's Church near Paul's, " to a 
 select disaffected audience, has farther seen good to distin- 
 guish himself very much by secular zeal in this business of 
 the Royalist Insurrection and Spanish Charles-Stuart Inva- 
 sion ; which has now come to nothing, and left poor Dr. 
 Hewit in a most questionable position. Of these two, and 
 of others, a High Court of Justice shall take cognizance. 
 
 The Insurrection having no chance in the eyes of reason- 
 able Royalists, and they in consequence refusing to lead it, 
 the large body of wwreasonable Royalists now in London 
 City, or gathering thither, decide, with indignation, That they 
 will try it on their own score and lead it themselves. Hands 
 to work, then, ye unreasonable Royalists ; pipe, All hands ! 
 Saturday the 15th of May, that is the night appointed: To 
 rise that Saturday Night ; beat drums for " Royalist Ap- 
 prentices," " fire houses at the Tower," slay this man, slay 
 that, and bring matters to a good issue. Alas, on the very 
 edge of the appointed hour, as usual, we are all seized ; the 
 ringleaders of us are all seized, " at the Mermaid in Cheap- 
 side," for Thurloe and his Highness have long known 
 what we were upon ! Barkstead, Governor of the Tower, 
 "marches into the City with five drakes," at the rattle of 
 which every Royalist Apprentice, and party implicated, 
 shakes in his shoes : and this also has gone to vapor, 
 leaving only for result certain new individuals of the Civic 
 class to give account of it to the High Court of Justice. 
 
 Tuesday, 25th May, 1658, the High Court of Justice sat ; 
 a formidable Sanhedrim of above a Hundred-and-thirty 
 heads ; consisting of " all the Judges," chief Law Officials, 
 and others named in the Writ, according to Act of Parlia-
 
 76 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 ment ; sat " in Westminster Hall, at nine in the morning, 
 for the Trial of Sir Henry Slingsby, Knight, John Hewit, 
 Doctor of Divinity," and three others whom we may forget. 
 Sat day after day till all were judged. Poor Sir Henry, on 
 the first day, was condemned ; he pleaded what he could, 
 poor gentleman, a very constant Royalist all along ; but the 
 Hull business was too palpable ; he was condemned to die. 
 Reverend Dr. Hewit, whose proceedings also had become 
 very palpable, refused to plead at all ; refused even " to take 
 off his hat," says Carrion Heath, " till the officer was coming 
 to do it for him " ; had a " Paper of Demurrers prepared by 
 the learned Mr. Prynne," who is now again doing business 
 this way ; " conducted himself not very wisely," says Bui- 
 strode. He likewise received sentence of death. The oth- 
 ers, by narrow missing, escaped ; by good luck, or the Pro- 
 tector's mercy, suffered nothing. 
 
 As to Slingsby and Hewit, the Protector was inexorable. 
 Hewit has already taken a very high line : let him perse- 
 vere in it ! Slingsby was the Lord Fauconberg's uncle, 
 married to his Aunt Bellasis ; but that could not stead him, 
 perhaps that was but a new monition to be strict with 
 him. The Commonwealth of England and its Peace are not 
 nothing ! These Royalist Plots every winter, deliveries 
 of garrisons to Charles Stuart, and reckless " usherings of us 
 into blood," shall end ! Hewit and ^Slingsby suffered on 
 Tower Hill, on Monday, 8th June ; amid the manifold 
 rumor and emotion of men. Of the City insurrectionists 
 six were condemned ; three of whom were executed, three 
 pardoned. And so the High Court of Justice dissolved 
 itself; and at this and not at more expense of blood, the 
 huge Insurrectionary movement ended, and lay silent within 
 its caves again. 
 
 Whether in any future year it would have tried another 
 rising against such a Lord Protector, one does not know, 
 one guesses rather in the negative. The Royalist Cause,
 
 CROMWELL. 77 
 
 after so many failures, after such a sort of enterprises u on 
 the word of a Christian King," had naturally sunk very low. 
 Some twelvemonth hence, with a Commonwealth not now 
 under Cromwell, but only under the impulse of Cromwell, 
 a Christian King hastening down to the Treaty of the Pyr- 
 enees, where France and Spain were making Peace, found 
 one of the coldest receptions. Cardinal Mazarin " sent his 
 coaches and guards a day's journey to meet Lockhart, the 
 Commonwealth Ambassador"; but refused to meet the 
 Christian King at all ; would not even meet Ormond except 
 as if by accident, " on the public road," to say that there was 
 no hope. The Spanish Minister, Don Louis de Haro, was 
 civiller in manner ; but as to Spanish Charles-Stuart Inva- 
 sions or the like, he also decisively shook his head. The 
 Royalist cause was as good as desperate in England ; a mel- 
 ancholy Reminiscence, fast fading away into the realm of 
 shadows. Not till Puritanism sank of its own accord, could 
 Royalism rise again. But Puritanism, the King of it once 
 away, fell loose very naturally in every fibre, fell into 
 Kinc/lessness, what we call Anarchy ; crumbled down, ever 
 faster, for Sixteen Months, in mad suicide, and universal 
 clashing and collision ; proved, by trial after trial, that there 
 lay not in it either Government or so much as Self-Govern- 
 ment any more ; that a Government of England by it was 
 henceforth an impossibility. Amid the general wreck of 
 things, all Government threatening now to be impossible, 
 the Reminiscence of Royalty rose again, "Let us take 
 refuge in the Past, the Future is not possible ! " and Major- 
 General Monk crossed the Tweed at Coldstream, with 
 results which are well known. 
 
 . Results which we will not quarrel with, very mournful as 
 they have been ! If it please Heaven, these Two Hundred 
 Years of universal Cant in Speech, with so much of Cotton- 
 spinning, Coal-boring, Commercing, and other valuable Sin- 
 cerity of Work going on the while, shall not be quite lost to
 
 78 THOMAS CAELYLE. 
 
 us ! Our Cant will vanish, our whole baleful cunningly- 
 compacted Universe of Cant, as does a heavy Nightmare 
 Dream. "We shall awaken ; and find ourselves in a world 
 greatly widened. Why Puritanism could not continue ? 
 My friend, Puritanism was not the Complete Theory of this 
 immense Universe ; no, only a part thereof! To me it 
 seems, in my hours of hope, as if the Destinies meant some- 
 thing grander with England than even Oliver Protector did ! 
 We will not quarrel with the Destinies ; we will work as 
 we can towards fulfilment of them. 
 
 DEATH OF THE PROTECTOR. 
 
 OLIVER'S look was yet strong ; and young for his years, 
 which were Fifty-nine last April [1658]. The "Three- 
 score and ten years," the Psalmist's limit, which probably 
 was often in Oliver's thoughts and in those of others there, 
 might have been anticipated for him : Ten years more of 
 Life ; which, we may compute, would have given another 
 History to all the Centuries of England. But it was not to 
 be so, it was to be otherwise. Oliver's health, as we might 
 observe, was but uncertain in late times ; often " indisposed " 
 the spring before last. His course of life had not been 
 favorable to health ! " A burden too heavy for man ! " as 
 he himself, with a sigh, would sometimes say. Incessant 
 toil ; inconceivable labor, of head and heart and hand ; toil, 
 peril, and sorrow manifold, continued for near Twenty years 
 now, had done their part : those robust life-energies, it after- 
 ward appeared, had been gradually eaten out. Like a Tow- 
 er strong to the eye, but with its foundations undermined ; 
 which has not long to stand ; the fall of which, on any shock, 
 may be sudden. 
 
 The Manzinis and Dues de Crequi, with their splendors,
 
 CROMWELL. 79 
 
 and congratulations about Dunkirk, interesting to the street 
 populations and general public, had not yet withdrawn, when 
 at Hampton Court there had begun a private scene, of 
 much deeper and quite opposite interest there. The Lady 
 Claypole, Oliver's favorite Daughter, a favorite of all the 
 world, had fallen sick we know not when ; lay sick now, - 
 to death, as it proved. Her disease was of internal female 
 nature; the painfullest and most harassing to mind and 
 sense, it is understood, that falls to the lot of a human crea- 
 ture. Hampton Court we can fancy once more, in those 
 July days, a house of sorrow ; pale Death knocking there, 
 as at the door of the meanest hut. " She had great suffer- 
 ings, great exercises of spirit ! " Yes : and in the depths 
 of the old Centuries, we see a pale anxious Mother, anxious 
 Husband, anxious weeping Sisters, a poor young Frances 
 weeping anew in her weeds. " For the last fourteen days " 
 his Highness has been by her bedside at Hampton Court, 
 unable to attend to any public business whatever. Be still, 
 my Child ; trust thou yet in God : in the waves of the Dark 
 River, there too is He a God of help ! On the 6th day of 
 August she lay dead ; at rest forever. My young, my beau- 
 tiful, my brave ! She is taken from me ; I am left bereaved 
 of her. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away ; 
 blessed be the Name of the Lord ! . . . . 
 
 In the same dark days occurred George Fox's third 
 and last interview with Oliver George dates noth- 
 ing; and his facts everywhere lie round him like the leather- 
 parings of his old shop : but we judge it may have been 
 about the time when the Manzinis and Dues de Crequi 
 were parading in their gilt coaches, That George and two 
 Friends " going out of Town," on a summer day, " two of 
 Hacker's men " had met them, taken them, brought them 
 to the Mews. " Prisoners there a while " : but the Lord's 
 power was over Hacker's men; they had to let us go. 
 Whereupon :
 
 80 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 "The same day, taking boat I went down" (up) "to 
 Kingston, and from thence to Hampton Court, to speak 
 with the Protector about the Sufferings of Friends. I met 
 him riding into Hampton-Court Park ; and before I came to 
 him as he rode at the head of his Lifeguard, I saw and felt 
 
 a waft" (whiff") "of death go forth against him." Or 
 
 in favor of him, George ? His life, if thou knew it, has not 
 been a merry thing for this man, now or heretofore ! I fancy 
 he has been looking, this long while, to give it up, when- 
 ever the Commander-in-chief required. To quit his labori- 
 ous sentry -post ; honorably lay up his arms, and be gone to 
 his rest: all Eternity to rest in, O George! Was thy 
 own life merry, for example, in the hollow of the tree ; clad 
 permanently in leather ? And does kingly purple, and gov- 
 erning refractory worlds instead of stitching coarse shoes, 
 make it merrier ? The waft of death is not against him I 
 think, perhaps against thee, and me, and others, O 
 George, when the Nell-Gwyn Defender and Two Centuries 
 of all-victorious Cant have come in upon us ! My unfortu- 
 nate George, "a waft of death go forth against him; 
 
 and when I came to him, he looked like a dead man. 
 After I had laid the Sufferings of Friends before him, and 
 had warned him accordingly as I was moved to speak to 
 him, he bade me come to his house. So I returned to 
 Kingston ; and, the next day, went up to Hampton Court 
 to speak farther with him. But when I came, Harvey, who 
 was one that waited on him, told me the Doctors were not 
 willing that I should speak with him. So I passed away, 
 and never saw him more." 
 
 Friday, the 20th of August, 1658, this was probably the 
 day on which George Fox saw Oliver riding into Hampton 
 Park with his Guards for the last time. That Friday, as 
 we find, his Highness seemed much better : but on the mor- 
 row a sad change had taken place ; feverish symptoms, for 
 which the Doctors vigorously prescribed quiet. Saturday
 
 CROMWELL. 81 
 
 to Tuesday the symptons continued ever worsening : a kind 
 of tertian ague, " bastard tertian " as the old Doctors name 
 it ; for which it was ordered that his Highness should return 
 to Whitehall, as to a more favorable air in that complaint. 
 On Tuesday, accordingly, he quitted Hampton Court; 
 never to see it more. 
 
 " His time was come," says Harvey, " and neither prayers 
 nor tears could prevail with God to lengthen out his life, 
 and continue him longer to us. Prayers abundantly and 
 incessantly poured out on his behalf, both publicly and pri- 
 vately, as was observed, in a more than ordinary way. Be- 
 sides many a secret sigh, secret and unheard by men, yet 
 like the cry of Moses, more loud, and strongly laying hold 
 on God, than many spoken supplications. All which, the 
 hearts of God's People being thus mightily stirred up, 
 did seem to beget confidence in some, and hopes in all ; yea 
 some thoughts in himself, that God would restore him." 
 
 " Prayers public and private " : i hey are worth imagining 
 to ourselves. Meetings of Preachers, Chaplains, and Godly 
 Persons; "Owen, Goodwin, Sterry, with a company of 
 others in an adjoining room " ; in Whitehall, and elsewhere 
 over religious London and England, fervent outpourings of 
 many a loyal heart. For there were hearts to whom the 
 nobleness of this man was known ; and his worth to the 
 Puritan Cause was evident. Prayers, strange enough to 
 us ; in a dialect fallen obsolete, forgotten now. Authentic 
 wrestlings of ancient Human Souls, who were alive then, 
 with their affections, awe-struck pieties ; with their Human 
 Wishes, risen to be transcendent, hoping to prevail with the 
 Inexorable. All swallowed now in the depths of dark 
 Time ; which is full of such, since the beginning ! Truly it 
 is a great scene of World-History, this in old Whitehall : 
 Oliver Cromwell drawing nigh to his end. The exit of 
 Oliver Cromwell, and of English Puritanism; a great 
 Light, one of our few authentic Solar Luminaries, going 
 
 4* F
 
 82 THOMAS CAELYLE. 
 
 down now amid the clouds of Death. Like the setting of a 
 great victorious summer Sun its course now finished. 
 " So stirbt ein Held" says Schiller ; " So dies a Hero ! Sight 
 worthy to be worshipped ! " He died, this Hero Oliver, in 
 Resignation to God, as the Brave have all done. " We could 
 not be more desirous he should abide," says the pious 
 Harvey, "than he was content and willing to be gone." The 
 struggle lasted, amid hope and fear, for ten days 
 
 On Monday, August 30th, there roared and howled all 
 day a mighty storm of wind. Ludlow, coming up to Town 
 from Essex, could not start in the morning for wind ; tried 
 it in the afternoon ; still could not get along, in his coach, 
 for head-wind ; had to stop at Epping. On the morrow, 
 Fleetwood came to him in the Protector's name, to ask, 
 What he wanted here ? Nothing of public concernment, 
 only to see my mother-in-law ! answered the solid man. For 
 indeed he did not know that Oliver was dying ; that the glo- 
 rious hour of Disenthral ment, and immortal " Liberty " to 
 plunge over precipices with one's self and one's Cause, was 
 so nigh ! It came ; and he took the precipices, like a 
 strongboned resolute blind ginhorse, rejoicing in the break- 
 age of its halter, in a very gallant constitutional manner. 
 Adieu, my solid friend ; if I go to Vevay, I will read thy 
 Monument there, perhaps not without emotion, after all ! 
 
 It was on this stormy Monday, while rocking-winds, heard 
 in the sick-room and everywhere, were piping aloud, that 
 Thurloe and an Official person entered to inquire, Who, in 
 case of the worst, was to be his Highness's Successor ? The 
 Successor is named in a sealed Paper already drawn up, 
 above a year ago, at Hampton Court; now lying in such 
 and such a place. The Paper was sent for, searched for ; 
 it could never be found. Richard's is the name understood 
 to have been written in that Paper : not a good name ; but 
 in fact one does not know. In ten years' time, had ten 
 years more been granted, Richard might have become a
 
 CROMWELL. 83 
 
 fitter man; might have been cancelled, if palpably unfit. 
 Or perhaps it was Fleetwood's name, and the Paper by 
 certain parties was stolen ? None knows. On the Thurs- 
 day night following, "and not till then," his Highness is 
 understood to have formally named " Richard ! " or per- 
 haps it might only be some heavy-laden " Yes, yes ! " spoken 
 out of the thick death-slumbers, in answer to Thurloe's ques- 
 tion " Richard ? " The thing is a little uncertain. It was, 
 once more, a matter of much moment; giving color prob- 
 ably to all the subsequent Centuries of England, this an- 
 swer ! . . . . 
 
 Thursday night the writer of our old Pamphlet was him- 
 self in attendance on his Highness ; and has preserved a 
 trait or two ; with which let us hasten to conclude. To-mor- 
 row is September Third, always kept as a Thanksgiving- 
 day, since the Victories of Dunbar and Worcester. The 
 wearied one, " that very night before the Lord took him to 
 his everlasting rest," was heard thus, with oppressed voice, 
 speaking : 
 
 " ' Truly God is good ; indeed, He is ; He will not ' 
 then his speech failed him, but, as I apprehended, it was, 
 ' He will not leave me.' This saying, ' God is good,' he fre- 
 qnently used all along ; and would speak it with much 
 cheerfulness, and fervor of spirit, in the midst of his pains. 
 Again he said: <I would be willing to live to be farther 
 serviceable to God and His People : but my work is done. 
 Yet God will be with His People.' 
 
 " He was very restless most part of the night, speaking 
 often to himself. And there being something to drink 
 offered him, he was desired to take the same, and endeavor 
 to sleep. Unto which he answered: 'It is not my desire 
 to drink or sleep ; but my design is, to make what haste I 
 can to be gone.' 
 
 "Afterwards, towards morning, he used divers holy ex- 
 pressions, implying much inward consolation and peace ;
 
 84 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 among the rest he spake some exceeding self-debasing 
 words, annihilating and judging himself. And truly it was 
 observed, that a public spirit to God's Cause did breathe in 
 him, as in his lifetime so now to his very last." 
 
 When the morrow's sun rose, Oliver was speechless ; be- 
 tween three and four in the afternoon, he lay dead. Friday, 
 3d September, 1 658. " The consternation and astonishment 
 of all people," writes Fauconberg, " are inexpressible ; their 
 hearts seem as if sunk within them. My poor Wife, I 
 know not what on earth to do with her. When seemingly 
 quieted, she bursts out again into a passion that tears her 
 very heart to pieces." Husht, poor weeping Mary ! Here 
 is a Life-battle right nobly done. Seest thou not, 
 
 The storm is changed into a calm, 
 
 At His command and will ; 
 So that the waves which raged before, 
 
 Now quiet are and still I 
 
 Then are they glad, because at rest 
 
 And quiet now they be : 
 So to the haven He them brings 
 
 Which they desired to see. 
 
 " Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord " ; blessed are 
 the valiant that have lived in the Lord. " Amen, saith the 
 Spirit," Amen. " They do rest from their labors, and their 
 works follow them." 
 
 "Their works follow them." As, I think, this Oliver 
 Cromwell's works have done, and are still doing ? We have 
 had our " Revolutions of Eighty-eight," officially called " glo- 
 rious " ; and other Revolutions not yet called glorious, and 
 somewhat has been gained for poor Mankind. Men's ears 
 are not now slit off by rash Officially ; Officially will, for 
 long henceforth, be more cautious about men's ears. The 
 tyrannous Star-chambers, branding-irons, chimerical Kings 
 and Surplices at All-hallowtide, they are gone, or with im-
 
 CROMWELL. 85 
 
 mense velocity going, Oliver's works do follow him ! The 
 works of a man, bury them under what guano-mouutains and 
 obscene owl-droppings you will, do not perish, cannot perish. 
 AVliat of Heroism, what of Eternal Light was in a Man 
 and his Life, is with very great exactness added to the Eter- 
 nities, remains forever a new divine portion of the Sum of 
 Things ; and no owl's voice, this way or that, in the least, 
 avails in the matter. But we have to end here. 
 
 Oliver is gone ; and with him England's Puritanism, 
 laboriously built together by this man, and made a thing 
 far-shining miraculous to its own Century, and memorable 
 to all the Centuries, soon goes. Puritanism, without its 
 King, is kingless, anarchic; falls into dislocation, self-col- 
 lision ; staggers, plunges into ever deeper anarchy ; King, 
 Defender of the Puritan Faith there can none now be 
 found ; and nothing is left but to recall the old disowned 
 Defender with the remnants of his Four Surplices, and 
 Two Centuries of Hypocrisis (or Play-acting not so called), 
 and put up with all that, the best we may. The Genius of 
 England no longer soars Sunward, world-defiant like an 
 Eagle through the storms, " mewing her mighty youth," as 
 John Milton saw her do : the Genius of England, much 
 more like a greedy Ostrich intent on provender and a 
 whole skin mainly, stands with its other extremity Sunward 
 with its Ostrich-head stuck into the readiest bush of old 
 Church-tippets, King-cloaks, or what other " sheltering Fal- 
 lacy " there may be, and so awaits the issue. The issue has 
 been slow ; but it is now seen to have been inevitable. 
 No Ostrich, intent on gross terrene provender, and sticking 
 its head into Fallacies, but will be awakened one day, 
 
 in a terrible a posteriori mahner, if not otherwise ! 
 
 Awake before it come to that ! God and man bid us awake ! 
 The Voices of our Fathers, with thousand-fold stern moni- 
 tion to one and all, bid us awake.
 
 LITTLE BELL. 
 
 Br T. WESTWOOD. 
 
 " He prayeth well, who loveth well 
 Both man and bird and beast." 
 
 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 PIPED the Blackbird, on the beechwood spray, 
 " Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, 
 
 What 's your name ? " quoth he. 
 " What's your name ? Oh ! stop and straight unfold, 
 Pretty maid, with showery curls of gold." 
 " Little Bell," said she. 
 
 Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks, 
 Tossed aside her gleaming, golden locks, 
 
 " Bonny bird ! " quoth she, 
 " Sing me your best song, before I go." 
 " Here 's the very finest song, I know, 
 Little Bell," said he. 
 
 And the Blackbird piped you never heard 
 Half so gay a song from any bird ; 
 
 Full of quips and wiles, 
 Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, 
 All for love of that sweet face below, 
 
 Dimpled o'er with smiles. 
 
 And the while that bonny bird did pour 
 
 His full heart out, freely, o'er and o'er, 
 
 '.Neath the morning skies,
 
 LITTLE BELL. 87 
 
 In the little childish heart below, 
 All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, 
 And shine forth in happy overflow 
 
 From the brown, bright eyes. 
 
 Down the dell she tripped, and through the glade 
 Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, 
 
 And, from out the tree, 
 
 Swung and leaped and frolicked, void of fear, 
 While bold Blackbird piped, that all might hear, 
 
 " Little Bell ! " piped he. 
 
 Little Bell sat down amid the fern : 
 
 " Squirrel, Squirrel ! to your task return ; 
 
 Bring me nuts ! " quoth she. 
 Up, away ! the frisky Squirrel hies, 
 Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes, 
 
 And adown the tree, 
 
 Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, 
 In the little lap drop, one by one 
 Hark ! how Blackbird pipes, to see the fun ! 
 
 " Happy Bell ! " pipes he. 
 
 Little Bell looked up and down the glade : 
 " Squirrel, Squirrel, from the nut-tree shade, 
 Bonny Blackbird, if you 're not afraid, 
 
 Come and share with me ! " 
 Down came Squirrel, eager for his fare, 
 Down came bonny Blackbird, I declare ; 
 Little Bell gave each his honest share 
 
 Ah ! the merry three ! 
 
 And the while those frolic playmates twain 
 Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 
 'Neath the morning skies,
 
 88 T. WESTWOOD. 
 
 In the little childish heart below, 
 
 All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, 
 
 And shine out in happy overflow, 
 
 From her brown, bright eyes. 
 
 By her snow-white cot, at close of day, 
 Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms, to pray. 
 
 Very calm and clear 
 
 Rose the praying voice, to where, unseen, 
 In blue heaven, an angel shape serene 
 
 Paused awhile to hear. 
 
 " What good child is this," the angel said, 
 " That, with happy heart, beside her bed, 
 
 Prays so lovingly ? " 
 Low and soft, oh ! very low and soft, 
 Crooned the Blackbird in the orchard croft, 
 
 " Bell, dear Bell ! " crooned he. 
 
 " Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair 
 Murmured, " God doth bless with angels' care ; 
 
 Child, thy bed shall be 
 
 Folded safe from harm ; love, deep and kind, 
 Shall watch round and leave good gifts behind, 
 
 Little Bell, for thee."
 
 THE MORMON'S WIFE. 
 
 BY ROSE TERRY. 
 
 " ' Woe to that man,' his warning voice replied 
 To all who questioned, or in silence sighed 
 ' Woe to that man who ventures truth to win, 
 And seeks his object by the path of sin ! ' " 
 
 SCHILLER. 
 
 T DON'T think much, my young friend, of those Mor- 
 mons ! I have had some reasons of my own for dislik- 
 ing them ! " said Parson Field to me, as we sat together, one 
 August noon, in the porch of his red house at Plainfield. 
 
 " Do tell me, sir," said I, settling myself in an easy atti- 
 tude to hear his story for a story from Parson Field was 
 not to be despised his quaint simplicity bringing out, in 
 old-time and expressive phrases, whatever he describes with 
 the clear fidelity of an interior by Mieris. " Do tell me," 
 said I again, with a deeper emphasis ; whereat the old gen- 
 tleman looked at me over his spectacles, and, smiling benig- 
 nantly into my eager face, began. 
 
 " When I first came to Plainfield," said he, " more than 
 thirty years ago, I had been a minister of the Lord only ten 
 years, and I had been settled for that period of time in a 
 large city, where I served acceptably to a worthy congre- 
 gation ; but certain reasons of my own induced me to leave 
 that situation, and come here to live, where also I found 
 acceptance, and not many months after I came there was a 
 considerable reviving of the work in this place, and many 
 believed. Of these was a certain Joseph Frazer, a young
 
 90 ROSE TERRY. 
 
 Scotchman, concerning whom I felt much misgiving, lest he 
 should take the wrong path ; but he, in due season, joined 
 himself to the church, and edified the brethren in walk and 
 conversation ; so that, when he left Plainfield and settled in 
 the West Indies, we were loth to have him go. 
 
 " Some years afterwards we heard he was married there 
 to a lady of Spanish extraction, and a Catholic ; and, after 
 ten years elapsed, she died, leaving him one child, a daugh- 
 ter, eight years of age, and with her he came to Plainfield, 
 desiring that the child, whom he had named Adeline, after 
 his own mother, should have a New England training. 
 
 " But, wonderful are the ways of Providence ! On his re- 
 turn to Cuba, he perished in the vessel, which went down 
 in a heavy gale off Cape Hatteras ; and when the news 
 came to his mother, old Mrs. Frazer, she sent for me that I 
 should tell the child Adeline, for she had given proofs of a 
 singular nature, ardent and self-confident in the extreme. 
 I took my hat, and went over to Mrs. Frazer's, with a very 
 heavy heart, for the grief of a child is a fearful thing to me, 
 and to be the bringer of evil tidings, that shall stain the 
 pureness and calm of a child's thoughts with the irreparable 
 shadow of death, is no light thing, nor easily to be done. I 
 entered into the house one day in June : it was a very sweet 
 day, and, as I walked quietly into the low kitchen, I saw 
 Adeline, with her head resting on her hands, and her large 
 eyes eagerly gazing out of the window at the gambols of a 
 scarlet-throated humming-bird. I went close to her, and 
 thought to myself that I would speak, but I did not, for I 
 saw that, in her little pale face, which made me more sad 
 than before ; and I had it on my lips to say, ' Adeline, are 
 you homesick ? ' (which was the thing of all others I should 
 not say) when suddenly she turned about, and answered the 
 question before I spoke it. 
 
 " ' Sir,' said she, ' I wish I was in Cuba. I had just such 
 a humming-bird at home ; and I fed it with orange boughs
 
 THE MORMON'S WIFE. 91 
 
 full of white flowers, every day ; but you have no orange 
 trees here, and I have no papa ! ' 
 
 " It seemed to me that the child's angel had thus opened 
 the way for me to speak, and I began to say some things 
 about the love of our universal Father, when she laid her 
 little hand on my arm with a fearfully strong pressure. 
 ' Mr. Field,' said she, ' is my papa dead ! ' I never shall 
 forget the eyes that looked that question into mine. I felt 
 like an unveiled spirit before their eager, piercing stare. I 
 did not answer except by a strong quiver of feeling that 
 would run over my features, for I loved her father even as 
 a kinsman, and I needed to say nothing more, for the child 
 fell at my feet quite rigid, and I called Mrs. Frazer, who 
 tried all her nurse-arts to restore little Adeline ; but was 
 forced, at last, to send for a physician, who bled the child, 
 and -brought her round. 
 
 " In the mean time I had gone home to prepare my ser- 
 mon, for it was not yet finished, and the day was Friday ; 
 but I kept seeing that little lifeless face, all orphaned as it 
 was, and the Scripture, ' As one whom his mother comfort- 
 eth,' was so borne in upon my mind, that, although I had 
 previously fixed upon one adapted to a setting forth of the 
 doctrine of election, I was wrought upon to make the other 
 the subject of my discourse: and truly the people wept; 
 almost all but Adeline, who sat in the square pew with her 
 great eyes fixed upon me, and her small lips apart, like one 
 who drinks from the stream of a rock. 
 
 " The next day I was resting, as my custom is, after the 
 Sabbath ; and in a warm, fair day, I find no better rest than 
 to sit by the open window, and breathe the summer air, and 
 fill my eyes and heart with the innumerable love-tokens that 
 God hath set thickly in Nature. I was, therefore, at my 
 usual place, wrapt in thought, and beholding the labors of a 
 small bird which taught her young to fly, when I felt a 
 light, cold touch, and, turning, saw little Adeline beside me.
 
 92 ROSE TERRY. 
 
 ' Sir,' said she, without any preface, ' when my papa went 
 away, he left with me a letter, which he said I was to give 
 you if he died.' So far she spoke steadily, but there the 
 small voice quivered, and broke down. I took the letter 
 she proffered me, and, breaking the seal, found it a short 
 but touching appeal to me, as the spiritual father of Joseph 
 Frazer, to take his own child under my care, and be as a 
 father to her, inasmuch as his mother was old and feeble, 
 and also to be executor of his will, of which a copy was en- 
 closed. I said this much to the child as shortly as I could, 
 and with her grave voice she replied, ' Sir, I should like to 
 be your little girl, if you will preach me some more ser- 
 mons.' Now I was affected at this answer ; not the less 
 that the leaven of pride, which worketh in every man, was 
 fed by even a baby's praise ; and, putting on my hat, I 
 walked over to Mrs. Frazer's house and laid the matter be- 
 fore her. She was not, at first, willing to give Adeline up, 
 but at length, after much converse to and fro, she came to 
 my conclusion, that the child would be better in my hands, 
 inasmuch as she herself could not hope for a long continu- 
 ance : and as it was ordered, she died the next summer. I 
 sent for my sister Martha, who was somewhat past mar- 
 riageable years, but kind and good, to come and keep house 
 for me, and from that time Adeline was as my own child. 
 But I must hasten over a time, for I am too long in telling 
 this. 
 
 " In course of years the child grew up, tall and slender, 
 of a very stately carriage, and having that Scriptural glory 
 of a woman, long and abundant hair. 
 
 u She was still very fervid in her feelings, but reserved 
 and proud, and I fear I had been too tender with her for 
 her good, inasmuch as she thought her own will and pleasure 
 must always be fulfilled ; and we all know that is not one of 
 the ordinations of Providence. 
 
 " As Adeline came to be a woman, divers youths of my
 
 THE MORMON'S WIFE. 93 
 
 congregation were given to call of a Sabbath night, with 
 red apples for me, and redder cheeks for Adeline, who wag 
 scarcely civil to them, and often left them to my conversa- 
 tion, which they seemed not to relish so much as would 
 have been pleasing to human nature. 
 
 " But my sainted mother, who was not wanting in the 
 wisdom of this world, was used to say that every man and 
 woman had their time of crying for the moon, and while 
 some knew it to be a burning fire, and others scornfully 
 called it cheese, and if they got it, either burned their fin- 
 gers, or despised their desire, still all generations must have 
 their turn, and truly I believed it, when I found that Ade- 
 line herself began to have a pining for something which I 
 could not persuade her to specify. The child grew thin and 
 pale, and ceased the singing of psalms at her daily task, and 
 I could not devise what should be done for her; though 
 Martha strongly recommended certain herb teas, which Ade- 
 line somewhat unreasonably rebelled against. However, 
 about this time, my attention was a little turned from her, 
 as there was much religious awakening in the place, and 
 among others, whom the deacons singled out as special ob- 
 jects of attention, was one John Henderson, a frequent vis- 
 itor at our house, and a young man of good parts and kindly 
 feeling, as it seemed, but of a peculiar nature, being easily 
 led into either right or wrong, yet still given to fits of stub- 
 bornness, when he could not be drawn, so to speak, with a 
 cart-rope. 
 
 " Now Adeline had been a professor of religion for some 
 years, but it did not seem to me that she took a right view 
 of this particular season, for many times she refused to go 
 to the prayer-meetings, even to those which were held with 
 special intentions towards the unconverted ; and many times, 
 on my return, I found her with pale cheeks and red eyes, 
 evidently from tears. About this time, also, she began to 
 take long, solitary walks, from which she returned with her
 
 94 ROSE TERRY. 
 
 hands full of wild flowers, for it was now early spring ; but 
 she cared nothing for the "flowers, and would scatter them 
 about the house to fade, without a thought. In the mean 
 time, the revival progressed, but, I lament to say, with no 
 visible change in John Henderson. He had gotten into one 
 of his stubborn moods of mind, and neither heaven nor hell 
 seemed to affect him. The only softening I could perceive 
 in the young man was during the singing of hymns, which 
 was well done in our meeting-house, for Adeline led the 
 choir, and I noticed that, whenever that part of the exercises 
 began, John Henderson would lift up his head, and a strange 
 color and tender expression seemed to melt the hard lines 
 of his face. 
 
 " Somewhere about the latter end of April, as I was re- 
 turning from a visit to a sick man, I met John coming from 
 a piece of woods, that lay behind my house about a mile, 
 with his hands full of liverwort blossoms. I do not know 
 why this little circumstance gave me comfort, yet, I have 
 ever observed, that a man who loves the manifestations of 
 God in his works is more likely to be led into religion than 
 a brutal or a mere business man : so 1 was desirous of 
 speaking to the youth, but when he saw me he turned from 
 the straight path, and, like an evil-doer, fled across the 
 fields another way. I did not call after him, for some ex- 
 perience has constrained me to think that there is no little 
 wisdom in sometimes letting people alone, but I took my 
 own way home, and having put on my cloth shoes to ease 
 my feet, and being in somewhat of a maze of thought, I 
 went up to my study, as it seemed, very quietly, for I en- 
 tered at the open door and found Adeline sitting in my arm- 
 chair by the window, quite unaware of my nearness. I 
 well remember how like a spirit she looked that day, with 
 her great eyes raised to a cloud that rested in the bright 
 sky, her soft black hair twisted into a crown about her 
 head, and her light dress falling all over the chair, while in
 
 THE MORMON'S WIFE. 95 
 
 her hands, lying between the slight fingers, and by the bluer 
 veins, was clasped a bunch of liverwort blossoms. Then I 
 perceived, for the first time, why my child was crying for the 
 moon, and that John Henderson cared for the singing and 
 not for the hymns, at which I sorrowed. But I sat down 
 by Ada, and taking the flowers out of her cold hands, began 
 to sav that I had met John Henderson on the road with 
 
 */ 
 
 some such blos>oms, at which she looked at me even as she 
 did when I told her about her father, and, seeing that I 
 smiled, and yet was not dry-eyed, nor quite at rest, the tears 
 began, slowly, to run over her eyelashes, and in a few very 
 resolute words, she told me that Mr. Henderson had asked 
 her that morning to marry him. 
 
 " Xow I knew not well what to say, but I set myself 
 aside, as far as I could, and tried not to remember how sore 
 a trial it would be to part with Ada, and I reasoned with 
 her calmly about the youth, setting forth, first, that he was 
 not a professing Christian, and that the Scripture seemed 
 plain to me on that matter, though I would not constrain 
 her conscience if she found it clear in this thing ; and, sec- 
 ond, that he was a man who held fast to this world's goods, 
 and was like to be a follower of Mammon if he learned not 
 to love better things in his youth ; and, third, that he was a 
 man who had, as one might say, a streak of granite in his 
 nature, against which a feeling person would continually fall 
 and be hurt, and which no person could work upon, if once 
 it came in the way even of right action. To all this Ade- 
 line answered with more reason than I supposed a woman 
 could, only that I noticed, at the end of each answer, she 
 said in a low voice, as if it were the end of all contention, 
 ' and I love him.' Whereby, seeing that the thing was well 
 past my interference, I gave my consent with many doubts 
 and fears in my heart, and, having blessed the child, I sent 
 her away that I might meditate over this matter. 
 
 "When John came in the evening for his answer, I was
 
 96 ROSE TERRY. 
 
 enabled to exhort him faithfully, and, in his softened state of 
 feeling, he chose to tell me that he had been seeking relig- 
 ion because he feared I would not give him Adeline unless 
 he were joined to the church, and he could not make a hyp- 
 ocrite of himself, even for that, but he had hoped that in the 
 use of means he might be awakened and converted. At 
 this I was pleased, inasmuch as it showed a spirit of truth 
 in the young man, but I could not avoid setting before him 
 that self-seeking had never led any soul to God, and how 
 cogent a reason he had himself given for his want of success 
 in things pertaining to his salvation ; but as I spoke Ada 
 came in by the other door, and John's eyes began to wander 
 so visibly, that I thought it best to conclude, and I must say 
 he appeared grateful. So I went out of the door, leaving 
 Ada stately and blushing as a fair rose-tree, notwithstanding 
 that John Henderson seemed to fancy she needed his sup- 
 port. 
 
 " As the year went on, and I could not in conscience let 
 Adeline leave me until her lover had some fixed mainte- 
 nance, I had many conversations with him, (for he also was 
 an orphan,) and it was at length decided that he should buy, 
 with Ada's portion, a goodly farm in Western New York ; 
 and in the ensuing summer, after a year's engagement, they 
 were to marry. So the summer came ; I know not exactly 
 what month was fixed for their marriage, though I have the 
 date somewhere, but one thing I recollect, that the hop-vine 
 over this porch was in full bloom, and after I had joined my 
 child and the youth in the bands of wedlock, I went out into 
 the porch to see them safe into the carriage that was to take 
 them to the boat, and there Ada put her arms about my 
 neck, and kissed me for good-by, leaving a hot tear upon my 
 cheek; and a south wind at that moment smote the hop- 
 vine so that its odor of honey and bitterness mingled swept 
 across my face, and always afterward this scent made me 
 think of Adeline. After two years had passed away, during
 
 THE MORMON'S WIFE. 97 
 
 which we heard from her often, we heard that she had a 
 little daughter born, and her letters were full of joy and 
 pride, so that I trembled for the child's spiritual state ; but 
 after some three years the little girl with her mother came 
 to Plainfield, and I did not know but Adeline was excusa- 
 ble in her joy, for such a fair and bright child was scarcely 
 ever seen; but the next summer came sad news: little 
 Nelly was dead, and Ada's grief seemed inexhaustible, 
 while her husband fell into one of his sullen states of mind, 
 and the affliction passed over them to no good end, as it 
 seemed. 
 
 " Soon after this, the Mormon delusion began to spread 
 rapidly about John Henderson's dwelling-place, and in less 
 than a year after Nelly's death I had a letter from Ada, 
 dated at St. Louis, which I will read to you, for I have it 
 in my pocket-book, having retained it there since yesterday, 
 when I took it out from the desk to consult a date. 
 
 " It begins : ' Dear Uncle,' (I had always instructed 
 the child so to call me, rather than father, seeing we can 
 have but one father, while we may be blessed with nume- 
 rous uncles) ' I suppose you will wonder how I came to be 
 at St. Louis, and it is just my being here that I write to 
 explain. You know how my husband felt about Nelly's 
 death, but you cannot know how I felt ; for, even in my 
 very great sorrow, I hoped all the time, that by her death, 
 John might be led to a love of religion. He was very un- 
 happy, but he would not show it, only that he took even 
 more tender care of me than before. I have always been 
 his darling and pride ; he never let me work, because he 
 said it spoiled my hands ; but after Nelly died, he was 
 hardly willing I should breathe ; and though he never spoke 
 of her, or seemed to feel her loss, yet I have heard him 
 whisper her name in his sleep, and every morning his hair 
 and pillow were damp with crying ; but he never knew I 
 saw it. After a few months, there came a Mormon preacher 
 5 o
 
 98 KOSE TERRY. 
 
 into our neighborhood, a man of a great deal of talent 
 and earnestness, and a firm believer in the revelation to 
 Joseph Smith. At first my husband did not take any 
 notice of him, and then he laughed at him for being a be- 
 liever in what seemed like nonsense ; but one night he was 
 persuaded to go and hear Brother Marvin preach in the 
 school-house, and he came home with a very sober face. I 
 said nothing, but when I found there was to be a meeting 
 the next night, I asked to go with him, and, to my surprise, 
 I heard a most powerful and exciting discourse, not wanting 
 in either sense or feeling, though rather poor as to argu- 
 ment; but I was not surprised that John wanted to hear 
 more, nor that, in the course of a few weeks, he avowed 
 himself a Mormon, and was received publicly into the sect. 
 Dear Uncle, you will be shocked, I know, and you will won- 
 der why I did not use my influence over my husband, to 
 keep him from this delusion ; but you do not know how 
 much I have longed and prayed for his conversion to a re- 
 ligious life ; until any religion, even one full of errors, 
 seemed to me better than the hardened and listless state of 
 his mind. 
 
 " ' I could not but feel, that if he were awakened to a 
 sense of the life to come, in any way, his own good sense 
 would lead him right in the end ; and there is so much ar- 
 dor and faith about this strange belief, that I do not regret 
 his having fallen hi with it, for I think the true burning of 
 Gospel faith will yet be kindled by means of this strange fire. 
 In the mean time he is very eager and full of zeal for the 
 cause, so much so, that thinking it to be his duty, he resolved 
 to sell our farm at Oakwood, and remove to Utah. If any- 
 thing could make me grieve over a change, I believe to be 
 for John's spiritual good, it would be this idea : but no re- 
 gret or sorrow of mine shall ever stand in the way of his 
 soul ; so I gave as cheerful a consent as I could to the sale, 
 and I only cried a few tears, over little Nelly's bed, under
 
 THE MORMON'S WIFE. 99 
 
 the great tulip-tree. There my husband has put an iron 
 railing, and I have planted a great many sweet-brier vines 
 over the rock ; and Mr. Keeney, who bought the farm, has 
 promised that the spot shall be kept free from weeds, so I 
 leave her in peace. Do write to me, Uncle Field. I feel 
 sure I have done right, because it has not been in my own 
 way, yet sometimes I am almost afraid. I shall be very 
 far away from yoti, and from home, and my child ; but I 
 am so glad now she is in heaven, nothing can trouble her, 
 and I shall not much care about myself, if John goes right. 
 " ' Give my love to Aunt Martha, and please write to 
 your dear child. 
 
 " ' ADA HENDERSON. " 
 
 " I need not say, my young friend," resumed Parson 
 Field, wiping his spectacles, and clearing his voice with a 
 vigorous ahem ! ! " that I could not, in conscience, approve 
 of Adeline's course. ' Thou shalt not do evil that good may 
 come,' is a Gospel truth, and cannot be transgressed with 
 good consequences. I did write to Ada; but, inasmuch as 
 the act was done, I said not much concerning it, but bade 
 her take courage, seeing that she had meant to do right, 
 although in the deed she had considered John Henderson 
 before anything else, which was, as you may perceive, her 
 besetting sin, and therefore it seemed good to me to put, at 
 the end of my epistle, (as I was wont always to offer a suit- 
 able text of Scripture for her meditation,) these words, 
 ' Little children, keep yourselves from idols ! ' I did not 
 hear again from Adeline, till she had been two months in 
 the Mormon city, and though she tried her best to seem 
 contented and peaceful, in view of John's new zeal, and his 
 tender care of her, still I could not but think of the hop- 
 blossoms, for I perceived, underneath this present sweet- 
 ness, a little drop of life and pain working to some unseen 
 end. That year passed away and we heard no more, and
 
 100 ROSE TERRY. 
 
 the next also, at which I wondered much; but, reflecting 
 on the chances of travel across those deserts, and having a 
 surety of Ada's affection for me, I did not repine, though I 
 felt some regret that there was such uncertainty of carriage ; 
 nevertheless, I wrote as usual, that no chance might be lost. 
 " The third summer was unusually warm in our parts, and 
 its heats following upon a long, wet spring, caused much and 
 grievous sickness, and I was obliged to be out at all hours 
 with the dying, and at funerals, so that my bodily strength 
 was wellnigh exhausted, and at haying-time, just as I was 
 cutting the last swarth on my river meadow, which is low- 
 lying land, and steamed with hot vapor as I laid it bare to 
 the sun, I fell forward across my scythe-snath and fainted. 
 This was the beginning of a long course of fever, of a ty- 
 phoid character, during which I was either stupid or deliri- 
 ous most of the time, and, while I lay sick, there came a 
 letter to me, from Salt Lake city, written chiefly by John 
 Henderson, who begged me to come on if it was a possible 
 thing and see his wife, who was wasting with a slow con- 
 sumption, and much bent upon seeing me. I could discern 
 that the letter was not willingly written ; it was stiff in 
 speech, though writ with a trembling hand. At the end of 
 it were a few lines from Ada herself; a very impatient and 
 absolute cry for me, as if she could not die till I came. 
 Now Martha had opened this letter, as she was forced to by 
 my great illness, and, having read it, asked the doctor if it 
 was well to propound the contents to me, and he said decid- 
 edly that he could not answer for my life if she did: so 
 Martha, like a considerate woman, wrote an answer herself 
 to John Henderson (of which she kept a copy for me to 
 see), setting forth that I was in no state to be moved with 
 such tidings ; that, however, I should have the letter as 
 soon as the doctor saw fit, and sending her love and sym- 
 pathy to Ada, and a recommend that she should try balm 
 tea.
 
 THE MORMON'S WIFE. 101 
 
 "After a long season of suspense, I was graciously up- 
 lifted from fever, and enabled to leave my bed for a few 
 hours daily ; and, when I could ride out, which was only 
 by the latter end of October, I was given the child's letter, 
 and my heart sank within me, for I knew how bitterly she 
 nad needed my strength to help her. It was a warm au- 
 tumn day, near to noon, when I read that letter, and, as I 
 leaned back in my chair, the red sunshine came in upon me, 
 and the smell of dead leaves, while upon the hop-vine one 
 late blossom, spared by the white frosts, and dropping across 
 the window, also put forth its scent, bringing Adeline, as it 
 were, right back into my arms, and the faintness passed 
 away from me with some tears, for I was weak, and a man 
 may not always be stronger than his nature. Now, when 
 Martha sounded the horn for dinner, and our hired man 
 came in from the hill-lot, where he was sowing wheat, I saw 
 that he had a letter in his hand of great size and thickness ; 
 and, coming into the keeping-room where I sat, he said that 
 Squire White had brought it over from the Post-office as he 
 came along, thinking I would like to have it directly. I 
 was rather loth to open the great packet at first, for I be- 
 thought myself it was likely to be some Consociation pro- 
 ceedings, which were never otherwise than irksome to me, 
 and were now weary to think of, seeing the grasshopper 
 had become a burden. I reached my spectacles down from 
 the nail, and found the post-mark to be that of the Mormon 
 city ; and with unsteady hand I opened the seal, and found 
 within several sheets of written letter-paper, directed to me 
 in Ada's writing, and a short letter from John Henderson, 
 which ran thus : 
 
 "'DEAR SIR, 
 
 "'My first wife, Adeline Frazer Henderson, departed 
 this life on the sixth of July, at my house in the city of 
 Great Salt Lake. Shortly before dying she called upon
 
 102 ROSE TERRY. 
 
 me, in the presence of two sisters, and one of the Saints, to 
 deliver into your hands the enclosed packet, and tell you of 
 her death. According to her wish, I send the papers by 
 mail ; and, hoping you may yet be called to be a partaker 
 in the faith of the saints below, I remain your afflicted, yet 
 rejoicing friend, 
 
 " ' JOHN HENDERSON. ' 
 
 " I was really stunned for a moment, my young friend, 
 not only with grief at my own loss, but with pity and sur- 
 prise at the entire deadening, as it appeared, of natural af- 
 fection in the man to whom I had given my daughter ; and 
 also my conscience was not free from offence, for I could 
 not but think that a more fervent and wrestling expostula- 
 tion, on the sin of marrying an unbeliever, might have saved 
 Adeline from sorrow in the flesh. However, I said as 
 much as seemed best at the time, and upon that reflection I 
 rested myself; for he who adheres to a pure intention, need 
 not repent of his deeds afterward ; and the next day, when 
 my present anguish and weakness had somewhat abated, I 
 read the manuscript Ada had sent me. 
 
 " It was, doubtless, penned with much reluctance, for the 
 child's natural pride was great, and no less weighty subject 
 than her husband's salvation could have forced her to speak 
 of what she wrote for me : and, indeed, I should feel no 
 right to put the confidence into your hands, were not my 
 child beyond the reach of man's judgment, and did I not feel 
 it a sacred duty to protest, so long as life lasts, against this 
 abominable Mormon delusion, and the no less delusive pre- 
 text of doing evil that good may come. I cannot read 
 Ada's letter aloud to you, for there is to be a funeral at two 
 o'clock, which I must attend ; but I will give you the pa- 
 pers, and you may sit in my chair and read ; only, be 
 patient with my bees, if they come too near you, for they 
 like the hop-blossoms, and never sting unless you strike. "
 
 THE MOBMON'S WIFE. 103 
 
 So saying, Parson Field gave me his leathern chair and 
 the papers, and I sat down in the hop-crowned porch, to 
 read Adeline Henderson's story, with a sort of reverence for 
 her that prompted me to turn the rustling pages carefully, 
 and feel startled if a door swung to in the quiet house, as if 
 I were eavesdropping ; but soon I ceased to hear, absorbed 
 in her letter, which began as the first did. 
 
 " DEAR UXCLE, 
 
 " To-day I begged John to write, and ask you to come 
 here. I could not write you since I came here but that 
 once, though your letters have been my great comfort, and 
 I added a few words of entreaty to his, because I am dying, 
 and it seems as if I must see you before I die ; yet I fear 
 the letter may not reach you, or you may be sick : and for 
 that reason I write now, to tell you how terrible a necessity 
 urged me to persuade you to such a journey. I can write 
 but little at a time, my side is so painful ; they call it slow- 
 consumption here, but I know better ; the heart within me 
 
 is turned to stone, I felt it then Ah ! you see my mind 
 
 wandered in that last line ; it still will return to the old 
 theme, like a fugue tune, such as we had in the Plainfield 
 singing-school. I remember one that went, ' The Lord is 
 just, is just, is just. ' Is He? Dear Uncle, I must begin 
 at the beginning, or you never will know. I wrote you from 
 St. Louis, did I not ? I meant to. From there, we had a 
 dreary journey, not so bad to Fort Leavenworth, but after 
 that inexpressibly dreary, and set with tokens of the dead, 
 who perished before us. A long reach of prairie, day after 
 day, and night after night ; grass, and sky, and graves ; 
 grass, and sky, and graves ; till I hardly knew whether the 
 life I dragged along was life or death, as the thirsty, fever- 
 ish days wore on into the awful and breathless nights, when 
 every creature was dead asleep, and the very stars in heaven 
 grew dim in the hot, sleepy air dreadful days ! I was
 
 104 ROSE TERRY. 
 
 too glad to see that bitter inland sea, blue as the fresh lakes, 
 with its gray islands of bare rock, and sparkling sand shores, 
 still more rejoiced to come upon the City itself, the rows of 
 quaint, bare houses, and such cool water-sources, and, over 
 all, near enough to rest both eyes and heart, the sunlit 
 mountains, ' the shadow of a great rock in a weary land.' 
 
 " I liked my new hotfse well. It was too large for our 
 need, but pleasanter for its airiness, and the first thing I did 
 was to plant a little hop-vine, that I had brought all the way 
 with such great care, by the east porch. I wanted some- 
 thing like Plainfield in my home. I don't know why I lin- 
 ger so, I must write faster, for I grow weak all the time. 
 
 " I liked the City very well for awhile ; the neighbors 
 were kind, and John more than that; I could not be un- 
 happy with him I thought. We had a pretty garden, 
 
 for another man had owned the house before us, and we 
 had not to begin everything. Our next door neighbor, Mrs. 
 Colton, was good and kind to me, so was her daughter 
 Lizzy, a pretty girl, with fair hair, very fair. I wonder 
 John liked it after mine. The first great shock I had was 
 at a Mormon meeting. I cannot very well remember the 
 ceremony, because I grew so faint ; but I would not faint 
 away lest some one should see me. I only remember that it 
 was Mrs. Col ton's husband with another wife being "sealed" 
 to him, as they say here. You don't know what that means, 
 Uncle Field ; it is one part of this religion of Satan, that 
 any man may have, if he will, three or four wives, perhaps 
 more. I only know that shameless man, with grown daugh- 
 ters, and the hair on his head snow-white, has taken two, 
 and his own wife, a firm believer in this faith ! looks on 
 calmly, and lives with them in peace. I know that, and my 
 soul sickened with disgust, but I did not fear ; not a thought, 
 not a dream, not a shadow of fear crossed me. I should 
 have despised myself forever if the idea had stained my 
 soul; my husband was my husband mine before God
 
 THE MORMON'S WIFE. 105 
 
 and man ! and our child was in heaven ; how glad I was 
 she conld never be a Mormon ! 
 
 " I was sorry for Mrs. Colton, though she did not need it, 
 and when I saw John leaning over their gate, or smoking in 
 the porch with the old man, I thought he felt so, too, and I 
 was glad to see him more sociable than ever he was in the 
 States. After awhile he did not smoke, but talked with 
 Elder Colton, and then would come home and expound out 
 of the book of Mormon to me. I was very glad to have 
 him earnest in his religion, but I could not be. Then he 
 grew very thoughtful, and had a silent fit, but I took no 
 notice of it, though I think now he meant to leave me, but 
 I began to pine a little for home, and when I worked in the 
 garden, and trained the vines about our veranda, I used to 
 wish he would help me as he did Lizzy Colton, but I still 
 remembered how good he was to pity and help them. 
 
 " O fool ! yet, I had rather be a fool over again than 
 have imagined that I am glad of, even now I did not 
 once suspect. 
 
 " But one day I remember every little thing in that 
 day even the slow ticking of the clock, as I tied up my 
 hop-vine; and after that I went into the garden, and sat 
 down on a little bench under the grape-trellis, and looked at 
 the mountains. How beautiful they were ! all purple in the 
 shadow of sunset, and the sky golden green above them, 
 with one scarlet cloud floating slowly upward: I hope I 
 shall never see a red cloud again. Presently, John came 
 and sat by me, and I laid my head on his shoulder ; I was 
 so glad to have him there it cured my homesickness; 
 once or twice he began to say something, and stopped, but I 
 did not mind it. I wanted him to see a low line of mist 
 creeping down a canon in the mountains, and I stood up to 
 point it out ; so he rose, too, and in a strange, hurried way, 
 began to say something about the Mormon faith, and the 
 duties of a believer, which I did not notice either very 
 5*
 
 106 ROSE TERRY. 
 
 much I was so full of admiring the scarlet cloud when, 
 like a sudden thunder-clap at my ear, I heard this quick, 
 resolute sentence : ' And so, according to the advice and best 
 judgment of the Saints, Elizabeth Colton will be sealed to 
 me, after two days, as my spiritual wife.' 
 
 "Then my soul fled out of my lips, in one cry I was 
 dead my heart turned to a stone, and nothing can melt it ! 
 I did not speak, or sigh, but sat down on the bench, and 
 John talked a great deal ; I think he rubbed my hands and 
 kissed me, but I did not feel it. I went away, by and by, 
 when it was dark, into the house and into my room. I 
 locked the door and looked at the wall till morning, then I 
 went down and sat in a chair till night ; and I drank, drank, 
 drank, like a fever. All the time cold water, but it never 
 reached my thirst. John came home, but he did not dare 
 touch me ; I was a dead corpse, with another spirit in it 
 not his wife she was dead, and gone to heaven on a bright 
 cloud. I remember being glad of that. 
 
 " In two days more he had a wife, and I was not his any 
 longer. I staid up stairs when he was in the house, and 
 locked my door, till, after a great many days, I began to feel 
 sorry for him. Oh ! how sorry ! for I knew I know he 
 will see himself some day with my eyes, but not till I die. 
 Then I found my lips full of blood one morning, and that 
 pleased me, for I knew it was a promise of the life to come ; 
 now I should go to heaven, where there are n't any Mor- 
 mons. 
 
 " I believe, though, people were kind to me all the time ; 
 for I remember they came and said things to me, and one 
 shook me a little to see if I felt ; and one woman cried. I 
 was glad of that, for I could n't cry. However, after three 
 months, I was better: worse, John said one day, and he 
 brought a doctor, but the man knew as well as I did so he 
 said nothing at all, and gave me some herb tea ; tell Aunt 
 Martha that.
 
 THE MORMON'S WIFE. 107 
 
 " Then I could walk out of doors, but I did not care to ; 
 only once I smelt the hop-blossoms, and that I could not 
 bear, so I went out and pulled up my hop-vine by the roots, 
 and laid it out, all straight, in the fierce sunshine : it died 
 directly. In the winter, John had another wife sealed to 
 him ; I heard somebody say so ; he did not tell me, and if 
 he had I could not help it. I found he had taken a little 
 adobe house for those two, and I knew it was out of tender- 
 ness for my feelings he did so. Oh ! Uncle Field ! perhaps 
 he has loved me all this time ? I know better, though, than 
 that ? Spring came, and I was very weak, and I grew not 
 to care about anything; so I told John he could bring 
 those two women to this house if he wished ; I did not care, 
 only nobody must ever come into my room. He looked 
 ashamed, and pleased, too ; but he brought them, and no- 
 body ever did come into my room. By and by Elizabeth 
 Colton brought a little baby down stairs, and its name was 
 Clara. Poor child ! poor little Mormon child ! I hope it 
 will die some time before it grows up ; only I should not 
 like it to come my side of heaven, for it had blue eyes like 
 John's. 
 
 " Then I grew more and more ill, and now I am really 
 dying, and no letter has come from you ! It takes so long 
 three whole months, and I have been more than a year in 
 the house with John Henderson and the two women. I 
 know I shall never see you, but I must speak, I must, even 
 out of the grave ; and I keep hearing that old fugue. 'The 
 Lord is just, is just, is just; the Lord is just and good!' 
 Is he ? I know He is ; but I forget sometimes. Uncle 
 Field ! you must pray for John ! you must ! I cannot die 
 and leave him in his sins, his delusion ; he does not think it 
 is sin, but I know it. Pray ! pray ! dear Uncle : don't be 
 discouraged do not fear he will be undeceived some 
 time ; he will repent, I know ! The Lord is just, and I will 
 pray in heaven, and I will tell Nelly to, but you must. It
 
 108 ROSE TERRY. 
 
 says in the Bible, ' the prayer of a righteous man ' ; and oh ! 
 I am not righteous ! I should not have married him ; it 
 was an unequal yoke, and I have borne the burden ; but I 
 loved him so much ! Uncle Field, I did not keep myself 
 from idols. Pray ! I shall be dead, but he lives. Pray 
 for him, and, if you will, for the little child because I 
 am dying. Dear Nelly ! " 
 
 "Are you blotting my letter, young man?" said Parson 
 Field, at my elbow, as I deciphered the last broken, tremb- 
 ling line of Ada's story. " Here I have been five minutes, 
 and you did not hear me ! " I really had blotted the letter !
 
 BEYOND. 
 
 BY JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. 
 
 WHEN youthful faith hath fled, 
 Of loving take thy leave ; 
 Be constant to the dead, 
 The dead cannot deceive 
 
 Sweet modest flowers of spring, 
 How fleet your balmy day ! 
 
 And man's brief year can bring 
 No secondary May, 
 
 No earthly burst again 
 Of gladness out of gloom ; 
 
 Fond hope and vision vain, 
 Ungrateful to the tomb. 
 
 But 't is an old belief 
 
 That on some solemn shore. 
 
 Beyond the sphere of grief, 
 
 Dear friends shall meet once more, 
 
 Beyond the sphere of time, 
 And sin and fate's control, 
 
 Serene in endless prime 
 Of body and of soul. 
 
 That creed I fain would keep, 
 That hope I'll not forego; 
 
 Eternal be the sleep, 
 Unless to waken so.
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL PASSAGES 
 
 BY JOHN MILTON. 
 
 FOR although a poet, soaring in the high region of his 
 fancies, with his garland and singing-robes about him, 
 might, without apology, speak more of himself than I mean 
 to do ; yet for me sitting here below in the cool element of 
 prose, a mortal thing among many readers, of no empyreal 
 conceit, to venture and divulge unusual things of myself, I 
 shall petition to the gentler sort, it may not be envy to me. 
 I must say, therefore, that after I had, for my first years, by 
 the ceaseless diligence and care of my father, whom God rec- 
 ompense, been exercised to the tongues, and some sciences, as 
 my age would suffer, by sundry masters and teachers, both 
 at home and at the schools, it was found that whether aught 
 was imposed me by them that had the overlooking, or be- 
 taken to of mine own choice in English, or other tongue, 
 prosing or versing, but chiefly this latter, the style, by certain 
 vital signs it had, was likely to live. But much latelier, in 
 the private academies of Italy, whither I was favored to re- 
 sort, perceiving that some trifles which I had in memory, 
 composed at under twenty or thereabout (for the manner is 
 that every one must give some proof of his wit and reading 
 there), met with acceptance above what was looked for ; 
 and other things which I had shifted in scarcity of books 
 and conveniences, to patch up amongst them, were received 
 with written encomiums, which the Italian is not forward to 
 bestow on men of this side the Alps, I began thus far to
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL PASSAGES. Ill 
 
 assent both to them and divers of my friends here at home, 
 and not less to an inward prompting, which now grew daily 
 upon me, that by labor and intent study, (which I take to be 
 my portion in this life,) joined with the strong propensity 
 of nature, I might perhaps leave something so written, to 
 after-times, as they should not willingly let it die. These 
 thoughts at once possessed me, and these other ; that if I 
 were certain to write as men buy leases, for three lives and 
 downward, there ought no regard be sooner had than to 
 God's glory, by the honor and instruction of my country. 
 For which cause, and not only for that I knew it would be 
 hard to arrive at the second rank among the Latins, I ap- 
 plied myself to that resolution which Ariosto followed against 
 the persuasions of Bembo, to fix all the industry and art I 
 could unite to the adorning of my native tongue; not to 
 make verbal curiosities the end, (that were a toilsome van- 
 ity,) but to be an interpreter and relater of the best and 
 sagest things among mine own citizens throughout this 
 island, in the mother dialect. That what the greatest and 
 choicest wits of Athens, Rome, or modern Italy, and those 
 Hebrews of old did for their country, I, in my proportion, 
 with this over and above, of being a Christian, might do for 
 mine ; not caring to be once named abroad, though perhaps I 
 could attain to that, but content with these British islands 
 as my world ; whose fortune hath hitherto been, that if the 
 Athenians, as some say, made their small deeds great and 
 renowned by their eloquent writers, England hath had her 
 noble achievements made small by the unskilful handling of 
 monks and mechanics. 
 
 Time serves not now, and perhaps I might seem too pro- 
 fuse, to give any certain account of what the mind at home, 
 in the spacious circuits of her musing, hath liberty to pro- 
 pose to herself, though of highest hope and hardest attempt- 
 ing. Whether that epic form, whereof the two poems of 
 Homer, and those other two of Virgil and Tasso are a diffuse,
 
 112 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 and the book of Job a brief model ; or whether the rules of 
 Aristotle herein are strictly to be kept, or nature to be fol- 
 lowed, which in them that know art, and use judgment, is 
 no transgression, but an enriching of art. And lastly, what 
 king or knight before the conquest, might be chosen, in 
 whom to lay the pattern of a Christian hero. And as Tasso 
 gave to a prince of Italy his choice, whether he would com- 
 mand him. to write of Godfrey's expedition against the infi- 
 dels, or Belisarius against the Goths, or Charlemagne against 
 the Lombards ; if to the instinct of nature and the embold- 
 ening of art aught may be trusted, and that there be noth- 
 ing adverse in our climate, or the fate of this age, it haply 
 would be no rashness, from an equal diligence and inclina- 
 tion, to present the like offer in our own ancient stories. Or 
 whether those dramatic constitutions, wherein Sophocles 
 and Euripides reign, shall be found more doctrinal and ex- 
 emplary to a nation. The Scripture also affords us a divine 
 pastoral drama in the Song of Solomon, consisting of two 
 persons, and a double chorus, as Origen rightly judges ; and 
 the Apocalypse of St. John is the majestic image of a high 
 and stately tragedy, shutting up and intermingling her sol- 
 emn scenes and acts with a seven-fold chorus of hallelujahs 
 and harping symphonies. And this my opinion, the grave 
 authority of Pareus, commenting that book, is sufficient 
 to confirm. Or if occasion should lead, to imitate those 
 magnific odes and hymns, wherein Pindarus and Callima- 
 chus are in most things worthy, some others in their frame 
 judicious, in their matter most an end faulty. But those 
 frequent songs throughout the laws and prophets, beyond all 
 these, not in their divine argument alone, but in the very 
 critical art of composition, may be easily made appear over 
 all the kinds of lyric poesy to be incomparable. These 
 abilities, wheresoever they be found, are the inspired gift of 
 God, rarely bestowed, but yet to some (though most abuse) 
 in every nation : and are of power, beside the office of a
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL PASSAGES. 113 
 
 pulpit, to inbreed and cherish in a great people the seeds 
 of virtue and public civility ; to allay the perturbations of 
 the mind, and set the affections in right tune ; to celebrate 
 in glorious and lofty hymns the throne and equipage of 
 God's almightiness, and what he suffers to be wrought with 
 high providence in his church ; to sing victorious agonies of 
 martyrs and saints, the deeds and triumphs of just and pious 
 nations, doing valiantly through faith against the enemies of 
 Christ ; to deplore the general relapses of kingdoms and 
 states from justice and God's true worship. Lastly, whatso- 
 ever in religion is holy and sublime, in virtue amiable or 
 grave, whatsoever hath passion or admiration in all the 
 changes of that which is called fortune from without, or the 
 wily subtleties and refluxes of man's thoughts from within ; 
 all these things, with a solid and treatable smoothness, to 
 point out and describe. Teaching over the whole book of 
 sanctity and virtue, through all the instances of example, 
 with such delight to those especially of soft and delicious 
 temper, who will not so much as look upon truth her- 
 self, unless they see her elegantly dressed ; that whereas the 
 paths of honesty and good life appear now rugged and diffi- 
 cult, though they be indeed easy and pleasant, they will then 
 appear to all men both easy and pleasant, though they were 
 rugged and difficult indeed. And what a benefit this would 
 be to our youth and gentry, may be soon guessed by what 
 we know of the corruption and bane which they suck in 
 daily from the writings and interludes of libidinous and 
 ignorant poetasters, who having scarce ever heard of that 
 which is the main consistence of a true poem, the choice of 
 such persons as they ought to introduce, and what is moral 
 and decent to each one, do for the most part lay up vicious 
 principles in sweet pills, to be swallowed down, and make 
 the taste of virtuous documents harsh and sour. But be- 
 cause the spirit of man cannot demean itself lively in this 
 body, without some recreating intermission of labor and
 
 114 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 serious things, it were happy for the commonwealth, if our 
 magistrates, as in those famous governments of old, would 
 take into their care, not only the deciding of our conten- 
 tious law cases and brawls, but the managing of our public 
 sports and festival pastimes, that they might be, not &uch as 
 were authorized awhile since, the provocations of drunken- 
 ness and lust, but such as may inure and harden our bodies, 
 by martial exercises, to all warlike skill and performance ; 
 and may civilize, adorn, and make discreet our minds, by 
 the learned and affable meeting of frequent academies, and 
 the procurement of wise and artful recitations, sweetened 
 with eloquent and graceful enticements to the love and 
 practice of justice, temperance, and fortitude, instructing 
 and bettering the nation at all opportunities, that the call of 
 wisdom and virtue may be heard everywhere, as Solomon 
 saith : " She crieth without, she uttereth her voice in the 
 streets, in the top of high places, in the chief con- 
 course, and in the openings of the gates." Whether this 
 may not be only in pulpits, but after another persuasive 
 method, at set and solemn paneguries, in theatres, porches, 
 or what other place or way may win most upon the people, 
 to receive at once both recreation and instruction ; let them 
 in authority consult. The thing which I had to say, and 
 those intentions which have lived within me, ever since I 
 could conceive myself anything worth to my country, I re- 
 turn to crave excuse, that urgent reason hath plucked from 
 me, by an abortive and foredated discovery. And the accom- 
 plishment of them lies not but in a power above man's to 
 promise ; but that none hath by more studious ways endeav- 
 ored, and with more unwearied spirit that none shall, that I 
 dare almost aver of myself, as far as life and free leisure will 
 extend ; and that the land had once enfranchised herself 
 from this impertinent yoke of prelacy, under whose inquisito- 
 rious and tyrannical duncery no free and splendid wit can 
 flourish. Neither do I think it shame to covenant with any
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL PASSAGES. 115 
 
 knowing reader, that for some few years yet I may go on 
 trust with him toward the payment of what I am now in- 
 debted, as being a work not to be raised from the heat of 
 youth, or the vapors of wine ; like that which flows at 
 waste from the pen of some vulgar amorist, or the trencher- 
 fury of a rhyming parasite ; nor to be obtained by the invo- 
 cation of dame Memory and her syren daughters ; but by 
 devout prayer to that eternal Spirit, who can enrich with 
 all utterance and knowledge, and sends out his seraphim 
 with the hallowed fire of his altar, to touch and purify 
 the lips of whom he pleases. To this must be added indus- 
 trious and select reading, steady observation, insight into all 
 seemly and generous arts and affairs ; till which in some 
 measure be compassed, at mine own peril and cost, I refuse 
 not to sustain this expectation from as many as are not loth 
 to hazard so much credulity upon the best pledges that I 
 can give them. Although it nothing content me to have 
 disclosed thus much beforehand, but that I trust hereby to 
 make it manifest with what small willingness I endure to 
 interrupt the pursuit of no less hopes than these, and leave a 
 calm and pleasing solitariness, fed with cheerful .and confi- 
 dent thoughts, to embark in a troubled sea of noises and 
 hoarse disputes ; from beholding the bright countenance of 
 truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies, to come 
 into the dim reflection of hollow antiquities sold by the 
 seeming bulk, and there be fain to club quotations with men 
 whose learning and belief lies in marginal stuffings ; who 
 when they have, like good sumpters, laid you down their 
 horse-load of citations and fathers at your door, with a rhap- 
 sody of who and who were bishops here or there, you may 
 take off their pack-saddles, their day's work is done, and 
 episcopacy, as they think, stoutly vindicated. Let any gen- 
 tle apprehension that can distinguish learned pains from 
 unlearned drudgery, imagine what pleasure or profoundness 
 can be in this, or what honor to deal against such adveraa-
 
 116 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 ries. But were it the meanest under-service, if God, by his 
 secretary, conscience, enjoin it, it were sad for me if I should 
 draw back ; for me especially, now when all men offer their 
 aid to help, ease, and lighten the difficult labors of the 
 Church to whose service, by the intentions of my parents and 
 friends, I was destined of a child, and in mine own resolu- 
 tions, till coming to some maturity of years, and perceiving 
 what tyranny had invaded the Church, that he who would 
 take orders, must subscribe slave, and take an oath withal ; 
 which unless he took with a conscience that would retch, he 
 must either strait perjure, or split his faith ; I thought it 
 better to prefer a blameless silence, before the sacred office 
 of speaking, bought and begun with servitude and forswear- 
 ing.
 
 WAKENING. 
 
 BY WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 
 
 A GOLDEN pen I mean to take, 
 A book of ivory white, 
 And in the mornings when I wake 
 
 The kind dream-thoughts to write, 
 Which come from heaven for love's support, 
 
 Like dews that fall at night. 
 For soon the delicate gifts decay, 
 As stirs the mired and smoky day. 
 
 " Sleep is like death," and after sleep 
 
 The world seems new begun ; 
 Its earnestness all clear and deep, 
 
 Its true solution won ; 
 White thoughts stand luminous and firm, 
 
 Like statues in the sun ; 
 Refreshed from super-sensuous founts, 
 The soul to purer vision mounts.
 
 JOHN GRAHAM, 
 
 FIRST VISCOUNT OF DUNDEE. 
 BY EDMUND LODGE. 
 
 THIS remarkable man, whose name can never be for- 
 gotten while military skill and prowess, and the most 
 loyal and active fidelity to an almost hopeless cause, shall 
 challenge recollection, was the eldest son of Sir William 
 Graham, of Claverhouse, in the County of Forfar, by Jane, 
 fourth daughter of John Carnegy, first Earl of Northesk. 
 His family was a scion which branched off from the ancient 
 stock of the great House of Montrose, early in the fifteenth 
 century, by the second marriage of William Lord Graham, 
 of Kincardine, to Mary, second daughter of Robert the 
 Third, King of Scotland, and had gradually acquired consid- 
 erable estates, chiefly by the bounty of the Crown. He re- 
 ceived his education in the University of St. Andrews, which 
 he left to seek on the Continent the more polished qualifica- 
 tions of a private gentleman of large fortune, the sphere to 
 which he seemed to have been destined. In France, how- 
 ever, the latent fire of his character broke forth ; he entered 
 as a volunteer into the army of Louis the Fourteenth ; and 
 having presently determined to adopt the military profes- 
 sion, accepted in 1672 a commission of Cornet in the Horse 
 Guards of William the Third, Prince of Orange, by whom, 
 in the summer of 1674, he was promoted to be Captain of a 
 troop, for his signal gallantry at the battle of Seneffe, in 
 which indeed he saved the life of that Prince by a personal
 

 
 JOHN GRAHAM. 119 
 
 effort. He asked soon after for the command of one of the 
 Scottish regiments in the Dutch service, and, strange to tell, 
 was refused, on which he threw up his commission, making 
 the cutting remark, that " the soldier who has not gratitude 
 cannot be brave," and returned to England, bringing with 
 him, however, the warmest recommendations from William 
 to Charles the Second ; and Charles, who had been just then 
 misadvised to subdue the obstinacy of the Scottish Cove- 
 nanters by force of arms, appointed him to lead a body of 
 horse which had been raised in Scotland for that purpose, 
 and gave him full powers to act as he might think fit against 
 them, although under the nominal command of the Duke of 
 Monmouth. His conduct in the performance of this im- 
 politic and cruel commission has left a stain on his memory 
 scarcely to be glossed over by the brilliancy of his subse- 
 quent merits. Bred from his infancy in an enthusiastic ven- 
 eration to monarchy, and to the Established Church, his 
 hatred to the Whigs, as they were then called in Scotland, 
 was almost a part of his nature ; and, under the influence of 
 a temper which never allowed him to be lukewarm in any 
 pursuit, his zeal degenerated on this occasion with a fright- 
 ful facility into a spirit of persecution. He watched and 
 dispersed, with the most severe vigilance, the devotional 
 meetings of those perverse and miserable sectaries, and 
 forced thousands of them to subscribe, at the point of the 
 sword, to an oath utterly subversive of the doctrines which 
 they most cherished. But this was not the worst. On the 
 1st of July, 1679, having attacked a conventicle on Loudoun 
 Hill, in Ayrshire, the neighboring peasants rose suddenly on 
 a detachment of his troops, and, with that almost supernatu- 
 ral power which a pure thirst of vengeance alone will some- 
 times confer on mere physical force, defeated them with 
 considerable loss. The fancied disgrace annexed to this 
 check raised Graham's fury to the highest pitch, and he per- 
 mitted himself to retaliate on the unarmed Whigs by cruelties
 
 120 EDMUND LODGE. 
 
 inconsistent with the character of a brave man. The track 
 of his march was now uniformly marked by carnage ; the 
 refusal of his test was punished with instant death ; and the 
 practice of these horrible excesses, which was continued for 
 some months, procured for him the appellation of " Bloody 
 Claverhouse " ; by which he is still occasionally mentioned 
 in that part of Scotland. He apologized for these horrors 
 by coldly remarking, that " if terror ended or prevented war, 
 it was true mercy." 
 
 It may be concluded that this intemperance had the full 
 approbation of the Crown, for we find that he was appointed 
 in 1682 Sheriff of the Shire of Wigton; received soon after 
 a commission of Captain in what was called the Royal Regi- 
 ment of Horse ; was sworn a Privy-Councillor in Scotland ; 
 and had a grant from the King of the Ca.tle of Dudhope, and 
 the office of Constable of Dundee. Nor was it less acceptable 
 such is the rage of party, especially when excited by re- 
 ligious discord to the Scottish Episcopalians, who from that 
 time seemed to have reposed in him the highest confidence. 
 James, however, in forming on his accession a new Privy 
 Council for that country, was prevailed on to omit his name, 
 on the ground of his having connected himself in marriage 
 with the fanatical family of Cochrane, Earl of Dundonald, 
 but that umbrage was soon removed, and in 1686 he was 
 restored to his seat in the Council, and appointed a Brigadier- 
 General ; in 1688 promoted to the rank of Major-General ; 
 and, on the 12th of November in that year, created by 
 patent to him, and the heirs male of his body, with remain- 
 der, in default of such issue, to his other heirs male, Viscount 
 of Dundee, and Baron Graham of Claverhouse, in Scotland. 
 The gift of these dignities was, in fact, the concluding act of 
 James's expiring government. Graham, who was then at- 
 tending that unhappy Prince in London, used every effort 
 that good sense and high spirit could suggest, to induce him to 
 remain in his capital, and await there with dignified firmness
 
 JOHN GRAHAM. 121 
 
 the arrival of the Prince of Orange ; undertaking for himself 
 to collect, with that promptitude which was almost peculiar 
 to him, ten thousand of the King's disbanded troops, and at 
 their head to annihilate the Dutch forces which William had 
 brought with him. Perhaps there existed not on the face of 
 the earth another man so likely to redeem such an engage- 
 ment ; but James, depressed and irresolute, refused the offer. 
 Struck, however, with the zeal and bravery, and indeed with 
 the personal affection, which had dictated it, he intrusted to 
 Dundee the direction of all his military affairs in Scotland, 
 whither that nobleman repaired just at the time that James 
 fled from London. 
 
 When he arrived at Edinburgh he found a Convention sit- 
 ting, as in London, of the Estates of the country, in which 
 he took his place. He complained to that assembly that a 
 design had been formed to assassinate him ; required that all 
 strangers should be removed from the town ; and, his request 
 having been denied, he left Edinburgh at the head of a troop 
 of horse, which he had hastily formed there of soldiers who 
 had deserted in England from his own regiment. In the 
 short interval afforded by the discussion of this matter, he 
 formed his plans. After a conference with the Duke of 
 Gordon, who then held the Castle for James, he set out for 
 Stirling, where he called a Parliament of the friends of that 
 Prince, and the revolutionists in Scotland saw their influ- 
 ence, even within a few clays, dispelled as it were by magic, in 
 obedience to his powerful energies. He was, in a manner, 
 without troops, depending on the affections of those around 
 him, which he had heated to enthusiasm, when a force sent 
 by the Convention to seize his person seemed to remind him 
 that he must have an army. He retired therefore into Loch- 
 aber ; summoned a meeting of. the chiefs of clans in the 
 Highlands, and presently found himself at the head of six 
 thousand of the hardy natives, well armed and accoutred. 
 He now wrote to James, who, in compliance with French 
 6
 
 122 EDMUND LODGE. 
 
 counsels, was wasting his time and means in Ireland, con- 
 juring him to embark with a part of his army for Scotland, 
 " where," as he told the king, " there were no regular troops, 
 except four regiments, which "William had lately sent down ; 
 where his presence would fix the wavering, and intimidate 
 the timid ; and where hosts of shepherds would start up war- 
 riors at the first wave of his banner upon their mountains." 
 With the candor and plainness of a soldier and a faithful 
 servant, he besought James to be content with the exercise of 
 his own religion, and to leave in Ireland the Earl of Melfort, 
 Secretary of State, between whom and himself some jealousy 
 existed which might be prejudicial to a service in which they 
 were alike devotedly sincere, however they might differ as to 
 the best means of advancing it. James rejected his advice. 
 " Dundee was furnished," says Burnet, " with some small 
 store of arms and ammunition, and had kind promises, en- 
 couraging him, and all that joined with him." 
 
 Left now to his own discretion and his own resources, he 
 displayed, together with the greatest military qualifications, 
 and the most exalted generosity and disinterestedness, all the 
 subtlety of a refined politician. On his arrival at Inverness 
 he found that a discord had long subsisted between the 
 people of the town and some neighboring chiefs, on an al- 
 leged debt from the one to the other, and that the two parties, 
 with their dependants, had assembled in arms to decide the 
 quarrel. He heard the allegations of the principals on each 
 side, with an affectation of the exactness of judicial inquiry, 
 and then, having convened the entire mass of the conflicting 
 parties in public, reproached them with the most cutting 
 severity, that they, "who were all equally friends to King 
 James, should be preparing, at a time when he most needed 
 their friendship, to draw those daggers against each other 
 which ought to be plunged only into the breasts of his ene- 
 mies." He then paid from his own purse the debt in dis- 
 pute ; and the late litigants, charmed by the grandeur of his
 
 JOHN GRAHAM. 123 
 
 conduct, instantly placed themselves in a cordial union under 
 his banner. To certain other chiefs, upon whose estates the 
 Earl of Argyle. who sought to restore his importance by at- 
 taching himself to the revolutionary party, had ancient claims 
 in law, and to others, who had obtained grants from the 
 Crown of some of that nobleman's forfeited lands, he repre- 
 sented the peril in which they would be placed by the suc- 
 cess of William's enterprise on the British throne, and 
 gained them readily to his beloved cause. He addressed 
 himself with signal effect to all the powerful men of the 
 north of Scotland ; fomented the angry feelings of those 
 who thought themselves neglected by the new government ; 
 flattered the vanity of those who, indifferent to the affairs of 
 either party, sought simply for power and importance ; cor- 
 rupted several officers of the regiments which were in 
 preparation to be sent against him ; and even managed to 
 maintain a constant correspondence with some members 
 of the Privy Council, by whom he was regularly apprised 
 of the plans contrived from time to time to counteract his 
 gigantic efforts. Nay, he contrived to detach, as it were in 
 a moment, from Lord Murray, heir to the Earl of Athol, 
 a body of a thousand men, raised by that nobleman on his 
 father's estates ; a defection of Highland vassals which had 
 never till then occurred. " While Murray," says my author, 
 " was reviewing them, they quitted their ranks ; ran to an 
 adjoining brook ; filled their bonnets with water ; drank to 
 King James's health ; and, with pipes playing, marched off 
 to Lord Dundee." 
 
 So acute and experienced a commander as William could 
 not be long unconscious of the importance of such an enemy. 
 He despatched into Scotland, at the head of between five and 
 six thousand picked troops, General M'Kay, who had long 
 served him in Holland with the highest military reputation. 
 In the mean time, James, who had been apprised of this dis- 
 position, sent orders to Dundee not to hazard a battle till
 
 124 EDMUND LODGE. 
 
 the arrival of a force from Ireland, which he now promised. 
 Two months, however, elapsed before it appeared, which 
 Dundee, burning with impatience, was necessitated to pass 
 in the mountains, in marches of unexampled rapidity, in 
 furious partial attacks, and masterly retreats. It has been 
 well said of him, that " the first messenger of his approach 
 was generally his own army in fight, and that the first intel- 
 ligence of his retreat, brought accounts that he was already 
 out of his enemy's reach." The long-expected aid at length 
 arrived, in the last week of June, 1689, consisting only of 
 five hundred raw and ill -provided recruits, but he instantly 
 made ready for action. He advanced to meet M'Kay, who 
 was preparing to invest the Castle of Blair, in Athol, a 
 fortress the possession whereof enabled James's army to 
 maintain a free communication between the northern and 
 southern Highlands, and determined to attack William's 
 troops on a small plain at the mouth of the pass of Killi- 
 cranky, after they should have marched through that re- 
 markable defile, on their road to Blair. On the 16th of 
 July, at noon, M'Kay's army arrived on the plain, and dis- 
 covered Dundee in array on the opposite hills. He had 
 resolved, for reasons abounding with military genius, to 
 defer his onset till the evening, and M'Kay, by various ex- 
 pedients vainly tempted him during the day to descend : at 
 length, half an hour before sunset, his Highlanders rushed 
 down with the celerity and the fury of lions, and William's 
 army was in an instant completely routed. Dundee, who 
 had fought on foot, now mounted his horse, and flew towards 
 the pass, to cut off their retreat, when, looking back, he found 
 that he had outstripped his men, and was nearly alone. He 
 halted, and, wavering his arm in the air, pointed to the pass, 
 as a signal to them to hasten their march, and to occupy it. 
 At that moment a ball from a musket aimed at him lodged 
 in his body, immediately under the arm so raised. He fell 
 from his horse, and, fainting, was carried off the field ; but,
 
 JOHN GRAHAM. 125 
 
 soon after recovering his senses for a fe\v seconds, he hastily 
 inquired " how things went," and on being answered " all 
 was well," "Then," said he, "I am well," and expired. 
 "William, on hearing of his death, said, " The war in Scot- 
 land is now ended." 
 
 The memory of this heroic partisan has been cherished in 
 the hearts, and celebrated by the pens, of numbers of his 
 countrymen. A poet thus pathetically addresses his shade, 
 and bewails the loss sustained by Scotland in his death : 
 
 " Ultime Scotorum, potuit quo sospite solo 
 
 Libertas patrise salva fuisse tuse. 
 Te moriente novos accepit Scotia cives, 
 
 Accepitque novos te moriente Deos. 
 Ilia tibi superesse negat, tu non potes illi. 
 
 Ergo Caledonia, nomen inane, vale 1 
 Tuque vale gentis priscse fortissimo ductor, 
 
 Optimo Scotorum, atque ultimo, Grame, vale ! " 
 
 And Sir John Dalrymple has left us some particulars of his 
 military character exquisitely curious and interesting. " In 
 his marches," says that author, " his men frequently wanted 
 bread, salt, and all liquors except water, during several weeks, 
 yet were ashamed to complain, when they observed that their 
 commander lived not more delicately than themselves. If 
 anything good was brought him to eat, he sent it to a faint 
 or sick soldier. If a soldier was weary, he offered to carry 
 his arms. He kept those who were with him from sinking 
 under their fatigues, not so much by exhortation as by pre- 
 venting them from attending to their sufferings ; for this 
 reason he walked on foot with the men ; now by the side of 
 one clan, and anon by that of another : he amused them with 
 jokes ; he nattered them with his knowledge of their gen- 
 ealogies ; he animated them by a recital of the deeds of their 
 ancestors, and of the verses of their bards. It was one of 
 his maxims that no general should fight with an irregular 
 army, unless he was acquainted with every man he com-
 
 126 EDMUND LODGE. 
 
 manded. Yet, with these habits of familiarity, the severity 
 of his discipline was dreadful : the only punishment he in- 
 flicted was death. All other punishments, he said, disgraced 
 a gentleman, and all who were with him were of that rank ; 
 but that death was a relief from the consciousness of crime. 
 It is reported of him that having seen a youth fly in his first 
 action, he pretended he had sent him to the rear on a mes- 
 sage. The youth fled a second time he brought him to 
 the front of the army, and saying that ' a gentleman's son 
 ought not to fall by the hands of a common executioner,' shot 
 him with his own pistol." 
 
 In society he is said to have been as much distinguished 
 by a delicacy and softness of manners and temper, and by 
 the most refined politeness, as he was by his sternness in war. 
 Sir Walter Scott, in his Romance of Old Mortality, in which 
 facts and fiction are blended with an uncommon felicity, 
 gives us the following picture of his person and demeanor, 
 evidently not the work of fancy, and probably in substance 
 the result of respectable and inveterate tradition : 
 
 " Graham of Claverhouse was rather low of stature, and 
 slightly, though elegantly, formed ; his gesture, language, and' 
 manners, were those of one whose life had been spent among 
 the noble and the gay. His features exhibited even femi- 
 nine regularity. An oval face, a straight and well-formed 
 nose, dark hazel eyes, a complexion just sufficiently tinged 
 with brown to save it from the charge of effeminacy, a short 
 upper lip, curved upwards like that of a Grecian statue, and 
 slightly shaded by small mustachios of light brown, joined to 
 a profusion of long curled locks of the same color, which fell 
 down on each side of his face, contributed to form such a 
 countenance as limners like to paint, and ladies to look upon. 
 The severity of his character, as well as the higher attributes 
 of undaunted and enterprising valor which even his enemies 
 were compelled to admit, lay concealed under an exterior 
 which seemed adapted to the court or the saloon rather than
 
 JOHN GRAHAM. 127 
 
 to the field. The same gentleness and gayety of expression 
 which reigned in his features seemed to inspire his actions 
 and gestures ; and, on the whole, he was generally esteemed, 
 at first sight, rather qualified to be the votary of pleasure 
 than of ambition. But under this soft exterior was hidden a 
 spirit unbounded in daring and in aspiring, yet cautious and 
 prudent as that of Machiavel himself. Profound in politics, 
 and imbued, of course, with that disregard for individual 
 rights which its intrigues usually generate, this leader was 
 cool in pursuing success, careless of death himself, and ruth- 
 less in inflicting it upon others. Such are the characters 
 formed in times of civil discord, when the highest qualities, 
 perverted by party spirit, and inflamed by habitual opposi- 
 tion, are too often combined with vices and excesses, which 
 deprive them at once of their merit and of their lustre."
 
 THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE.* 
 
 BY W. EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN. 
 
 SOUND the fife, and cry the slogan, 
 Let the pribroch shake the air 
 With its wild triumphal music, 
 
 "Worthy of the freight we bear. 
 Let the ancient hills of Scotland 
 
 Hear once more the battle-song 
 Swell within their glens and valleys 
 
 As the clansmen march along ! 
 Never from the field of combat, 
 
 Never from the deadly fray, 
 "Was a nobler trophy carried 
 
 Than we bring with us to-day, 
 Never, since the valiant Douglas 
 
 On his dauntless bosom bore 
 Good King Robert's heart the priceless 
 
 To our dear Redeemer's shore ! 
 Lo ! we bring with us the hero, 
 
 Lo ! we bring the conquering Graeme, 
 Crowned as best beseems a victor 
 
 From the altar of his fame ; 
 Fresh and bleeding from the battle 
 
 Whence his spirit took its flight, 
 
 * John Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, was killed at 
 the battle of Killiecrankie in Scotland.
 
 THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE. 129 
 
 Midst the crashing charge of squadrons, 
 
 And the thunder of the fight ! 
 Strike, I say, the notes of triumph, 
 
 As we march o'er moor and lea ! 
 Is there any here will venture 
 
 To bewail our dead Dundee ? 
 Let the widows of the traitors 
 
 Weep until their eyes are dim ! 
 Wail ye may full well for Scotland, 
 
 Let none dare to mourn for him ! 
 See ! above his glorious body , 
 
 Lies the royal banner's fold ; 
 See ! his valiant blood is mingled 
 
 With its crimson and its gold. 
 See how calm he looks, and stately, 
 
 Like a warrior on his shield, 
 Waiting till the flush of morning 
 
 Breaks along the battle-field ! 
 See never more, my comrades, 
 
 Shall we see that falcon eye 
 Redden with its inward lightning, 
 
 As the hour of fight drew nigh ! 
 Never shall we hear the voice that 
 
 Clearer than the trumpet's call, 
 Bade us strike for King and Country. 
 
 Bade us win the field, or fall ! 
 On the heights of Killiecrankie 
 
 Yester-morn our army lay : 
 Slowly rose the mist in columns 
 
 From the river's broken way ; 
 Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent, 
 
 And the Pass was wrapt hi gloom, 
 When the clansmen rose together 
 
 From their lair amidst the broom. 
 
 6 I
 
 130 W. EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN. 
 
 Then we belted on our tartans, 
 
 And our bonnets down we drew, 
 And we felt our broadswords' edges, 
 
 And we proved them to be true ; 
 And we prayed the prayer of soldiers, 
 
 And we cried the gathering-cry, 
 And we clasped the hands of kinsmen, 
 
 And we swore to do or die ! 
 Then our leader rode before us 
 
 On his war-horse black as night, 
 Well the Cameronian rebels 
 
 Know that charger in the fight ! 
 And a cry of exultation 
 
 From the bearded warriors rose ; 
 For we loved the house of Claver'se, 
 
 And we thought of good Montrose. 
 But he raised his hand for silence 
 
 " Soldiers ! I have sworn a vow: 
 Ere the evening star shall glisten 
 
 On Schehallion's lofty brow, 
 Either we shall rest in triumph, 
 
 Or another of the Grammes 
 Shall have died in battle-harness 
 
 For his Country and King James ! 
 Think upon the Royal Martyr, 
 
 Think of what his race endure, 
 Think of him whom butchers murdered 
 
 On the field of Magus Muir : 
 By his sacred blood I charge ye, 
 
 By the ruined hearth and shrine, 
 By the blighted hopes of Scotland, 
 
 By your injuries and mine, 
 Strike this day as if the anvil 
 
 Lay beneath your blows the while,
 
 THE BURIAL-MAKCH OF DUNDEE. 131 
 
 Be they covenanting traitors, 
 
 Or the brood of false Argyle ! 
 Strike ! and drive the trembling rebels 
 
 Backwards o'er the stormy Forth ; 
 Let them tell their pale Convention 
 
 How they fared within the North. 
 Let them tell that Highland honor 
 
 Is not to be bought nor sold, 
 That we scorn their prince's anger 
 
 As we loathe his foreign gold. 
 Strike ! and when the fight is over, 
 
 If ye look in vain for me, 
 Where the dead are lying thickest, 
 
 Search for him that was Dundee ! " 
 
 Loudly then the hills re-echoed 
 
 With our answer to his call, 
 But a deeper echo sounded 
 
 In the bosoms of us all. 
 For the lands of wide Breadalbane, 
 
 Not a man who heard him speak 
 Would that day have left the battle. 
 
 Burning eye and flushing cheek 
 Told the clansmen's fierce emotion, 
 
 And they harder drew their breath ; 
 For their souls were strong within them, 
 
 Stronger than the grasp of death. 
 Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet 
 
 Sounding in the Pass below, 
 And the distant tramp of horses, 
 
 And the voices of the foe : 
 Down we crouched amid the bracken, 
 
 Till the Lowland ranks drew near, 
 Panting like the hounds in summer, 
 
 When they scent the stately deer.
 
 132 W. EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN. 
 
 From the dark defile emerging, 
 
 Next we saw the squadrons come, 
 Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers 
 
 Marching to the tuck of drum ; 
 Through the scattered wood of birches, 
 
 O'er the broken ground and heath, 
 Wound the long battalion slowly, 
 
 Till they gained the plain beneath ; 
 Then we bounded from our covert, 
 
 Judge how looked the Saxons then, 
 When they saw the rugged mountains 
 
 Start to life with armed men ! 
 Like a tempest down the ridges 
 
 Swept the hurricane of steel, 
 Rose the slogan of Macdonald, 
 
 Flashed the broadsword of Lochiel ! 
 Vainly sped the withering volley 
 
 'Mongst the foremost of our band, 
 On we poured until we met them, 
 
 Foot to foot, and hand to hand. 
 Horse and man went down like drift-wood 
 
 When the floods are black at Yule, 
 And their carcasses are whirling 
 
 In the Garry's deepest pool. 
 Horse and man went down before us, 
 
 Living foe there tarried none 
 On the field of Killiecrankie, 
 
 When that stubborn fight was done ! 
 
 And the evening star was shining 
 On Schehallion's distant head, 
 
 When we wiped our bloody broadswords, 
 And returned to count the dead. 
 
 There we found him gashed and gory, 
 Stretched upon the cumbered plain,
 
 THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE. 133 
 
 As he told us where to seek him, 
 
 In the thickest of the slain. 
 And a smile was on his visage, 
 
 For within his dying ear 
 Pealed the joyful note of triumph, 
 
 And the clansmen's clamorous cheer : 
 So, amidst the battle's thunder, 
 
 Shot, and steel, and scorching flame, 
 In the glory of his manhood 
 
 Passed the spirit of the Graeme ! 
 
 Open wide the vaults of Atholl, 
 
 "Where the bones of heroes rest, 
 Open wide the hallowed portals 
 
 To receive another guest ! 
 Last of Scots, and last of freemen, 
 
 Last of all that dauntless race, 
 Who would rather die unsullied 
 
 Than outlive the land's disgrace ! 
 thou lion-hearted warrior ! 
 
 Reck not of the after-time ; 
 Honor may be deemed dishonor, 
 
 Loyalty be called a crime. 
 Sleep in peace with kindred ashes 
 
 Of the noble and the true, 
 Hands that never failed their country, 
 
 Hearts that never baseness knew. 
 Sleep ! and till the latest trumpet 
 
 Wakes the dead from earth and sea, 
 Scotland shall not boast a braver 
 
 Chieftain than our own Dundee !
 
 MIGNON AS AN ANGEL 
 
 BT GOETHE. 
 
 IT chanced that the birthday of two twin-sisters, whose be- 
 havior had been always very good, was near; I prom- 
 ised that, on this occasion, the little present they had so 
 well deserved should be delivered to them by an angel. 
 They were on the stretch of curiosity regarding this phenom- 
 enon. I had chosen Mignon for the part ; and accordingly, 
 at the appointed day, I had her suitably equipped hi a 
 long light snow-white dress. She was, of course, provided 
 with a golden girdle round her waist, and a golden fillet on 
 her hair. I at first proposed to omit the wings ; but the 
 young ladies who were decking her, insisted on a pair of 
 large golden pinions, in preparing which they meant to 
 show their highest art. Thus did the strange apparition, 
 with a lily in the one hand, and a little basket in the other, 
 glide in among the girls : she surprised even me. " There 
 comes the angel ! " said I. The children all shrank back ; 
 at last they cried : " It is Mignon ! " yet they durst not 
 venture to approach the wondrous figure. 
 
 " Here are your gifts," said she, putting down the basket. 
 They gathered around her, they viewed, they felt, they 
 questioned her. 
 
 " Art though an angel ? " asked one of them. 
 
 " I wish I were," said Mignon. 
 
 Why dost thou bear a lily ? "

 
 MIGNON AS AN ANGEL. 135 
 
 " So pure and so open should my heart be ; then were I 
 happy." 
 
 " What wings are these ? Let us see them ! " 
 
 "They represent far finer ones, which are not yet un- 
 folded." 
 
 And thus significantly did she answer all their other 
 childlike, innocent inquiries. The little party having satis- 
 fied their curiosity, and the impression of the show begin- 
 ning to abate, we were for proceeding to undress the little 
 angel. This, however, she resisted : she took her cithern ; 
 she seated herself here, on this high writing-table, and sang 
 a little song with touching grace : 
 
 Such let me seem, till such I be ; 
 
 Take not my snow-white dress away ; 
 Soon from this dusk of earth I flee 
 
 Up to the glittering lands of day. 
 
 There first a little space I rest, 
 Then wake so glad, to scene so kind ; 
 
 In earthly robes no longer drest, 
 This band, this girdle left behind. 
 
 And those calm shining sons of morn, 
 
 They ask not who is maid or boy ; 
 No robes, no garments there are worn, 
 
 Our body pure from sin's alloy. 
 
 Through little life not much I toiled, 
 Yet anguish long this heart has wrung, 
 
 Untimely woe my blossom spoiled ; 
 Make me again forever young !
 
 THE CAGE AT CRANFORD. 
 
 BY MES. GASKELL. 
 
 HAVE I told you anything about my friends at Cran- 
 ford since the year 1856? I think not. 
 
 You remember the Gordons, don't you ? She that was 
 Jessie Brown, who married her old love, Major Gordon : 
 and from being poor became quite a rich lady : but for all 
 that never forgot any of her old friends in Cranford. 
 
 Well ! the Gordons were travelling abroad, for they were 
 very fond of travelling ; people who have had to spend part 
 of their lives in a regiment always are, I think. They were 
 now at Paris, in May, 1856, and were going to stop there, 
 and in the neighborhood all summer, but Mr. Ludovic was 
 coming to England soon ; so Mrs. Gordon wrote me word. 
 I was glad she told me, for just then I was waiting to make 
 a little present to Miss Pole, with whom I was staying ; so 
 I wrote to Mrs. Gordon, and asked her to choose me out 
 something pretty and new and fashionable, that would be 
 acceptable to Miss Pole. Miss Pole had just been talking 
 a great deal about Mrs. Fitz Adam's caps being so unfash- 
 ionable, which I suppose made me put in that word fashion- 
 able ; but afterwards I wished I had sent to say my present 
 was not to be too fashionable ; for there is such a thing, I 
 can assure you ! The price of my present was not to be 
 more than twenty shillings, but that is a very handsome sum 
 if you put it in that way, though it may not sound so much 
 if you only call it a sovereign.
 
 THE CAGE AT CRANFOBD. 137 
 
 Mrs. Gordon wrote back to me, pleased, as she always 
 was, with doing anything for her old friends. She told me 
 she had been out for a day's shopping before going into the 
 country, and had got a cage for herself of the newest and 
 most elegant description, and had thought that she could not 
 do better than get another like it as my present for Miss 
 Pole, as cages were so much better made in Paris than any- 
 where else. I was rather dismayed when I read this letter, 
 for however pretty a cage might be, it was something for 
 Miss Pole's own self, and not for her parrot, that I had in- 
 tended to get. Here had I been finding ever so many rea- 
 sons against her buying a new cap at Johnson's fashion-show, 
 because I thought that the present which Mrs. Gordon was 
 to choose for me in Paris might turn out to be an elegant 
 and fashionable head-dress ; a kind of cross between a tur- 
 ban and a cap, as I see those from Paris mostly are ; and 
 now I had to veer round, and advise her to go as fast as she 
 could, and secure Mr. Johnson's cap before any other pur- 
 chaser snatched it up. But Miss Pole was too sharp for me. 
 
 " Why, Mary," said she, " it was only yesterday you were 
 running down that cap like anything. You said, you know, 
 that lilac was too old a color for me ; and green too young ; 
 and that the mixture was very unbecoming." 
 
 " Yes, I know," said I ; " but I have thought better of it 
 I thought about it a great deal last night, and I think I 
 thought they would neutralize each other; and the shad- 
 ows of any color are, you know something I know com- 
 plementary colors." I was not sure of my own meaning, 
 but I had an idea in my head, though I could not express it. 
 She took me up shortly. 
 
 " Child, you don't know what you are saying. And be- 
 sides, I don't want compliments at my time of life. I lay 
 awake, too, thinking of the cap. I only buy one ready-made 
 once a year, and of course it 's a matter for consideration ; 
 and I came to the conclusion that you were quite right."
 
 138 MRS. GASKELL. 
 
 "0 dear Miss Pole! I was quite wrong; if you only 
 knew I did think it a very pretty cap only " 
 
 "Well! do just finish what you've got to say. You're 
 almost as bad as Miss Matty in your way of talking, without 
 being half as good as she is in other ways ; though I 'm very 
 fond of you, Mary, I don't mean I am not ; but you must see 
 you 're very off and on, and very muddle-headed. It 's the 
 truth, so you will not mind my saying so." 
 
 It was just because it did seem like the truth at that time 
 that I did mind her saying so ; and, in despair, I thought I 
 would tell her all. 
 
 " I did not mean what I said ; I don't think lilac too old 
 or green too young : and I think the mixture very becoming 
 to you ; and I think you will never get such a pretty cap 
 again, at least in Cranford." It was fully out, so far, at 
 least. 
 
 " Then, Mary Smith, will you tell me what you did mean, 
 by speaking as you did, and convincing me against my will, 
 and giving me a bad night ? " 
 
 " I meant O Miss Pole, I meant to surprise you with 
 a present from Paris ; and I thought it would be a cap. 
 Mrs. Gordon was to choose it,^nd Mr. Ludovic to bring it. 
 I dare say it is in England now ; only it 's not a cap. And 
 I did not want you to buy Johnson's cap, when I thought I 
 was getting another for you." 
 
 Miss Pole found this speech " muddle-headed," I have no 
 doubt, though she did not say so, only making an odd noise 
 of perplexity. I went on : "I wrote to Mrs. Gordon, and 
 asked her to get you a present something new and pretty. 
 I meant it to be a dress, but I suppose I did not say so ; I 
 thought it would be a cap, for Paris is so famous for caps, 
 and it is " 
 
 " You 're a good girl, Mary," (I was past thirty, but did 
 not object to being called a girl ; and, indeed, I generally 
 felt like a girl at Cranford, where everybody was so much
 
 THE CAGE AT CRANFORD. 139 
 
 older than I was,) " but when you want a thing, say what 
 you want ; it is the best way in general. And now I sup- 
 pose Mrs. Gordon has bought something quite different ? 
 a pair of shoes, I dare say, for people talk a deal of Paris 
 shoes. Anyhow, I 'm just as much obliged to you, Mary, 
 my dear. Only you should not go and spend your money 
 on me." 
 
 " It was not much money ; and it was not a pair of shoes. 
 You '11 let me go and get the cap, won't you ? It was so 
 pretty somebody will be sure to snatch it up." 
 
 " I don't like getting a cap that 's sure to be unbecoming." 
 
 " But it is not ; it was not. I never saw you look so well 
 in anything," said I. 
 
 " Mary, Mary, remember who is the father of lies ! " 
 
 " But he 's not my father," exclaimed I, in a hurry, for I 
 saw Mrs. Fitz Adam go down the street in the direction of 
 Johnson's shop. " I '11 eat my words ; they were all false : 
 only just let me run down and buy you that cap that 
 pretty cap." 
 
 " "Well ! run off, child. I liked it myself till you put me 
 out of taste with it." 
 
 I brought it back in triumph from under Mrs. FitzAdam's 
 very nose, as she was hanging hi meditation over it ; and 
 the more we saw of it, the more we felt pleased with our 
 purchase. We turned it on this side, and we turned it on 
 that ; and though we hurried it away into Miss Pole's bed- 
 room at the sound of a double knock at the door, when we 
 found it was only Miss Matty and Mr. Peter, Miss Pole 
 could not resist the opportunity of displaying it, and said in 
 a solemn way to Miss Matty : " Can I speak to you for a 
 few minutes in private ? " And I knew feminine delicacy 
 too well to explain what this grave prelude was to lead to ; 
 aware how immediately Miss Matty's anxious tremor would 
 be allayed by the sight of the cap. I had to go on talk- 
 ing to Mr. Peter, however, when I would far rather have
 
 140 MRS. GASKELL. 
 
 been in the bedroom, and heard the observations and com- 
 ments. 
 
 We talked of the new cap all day ; what gowns it would 
 suit ; whether a certain bow was not rather too coquettish 
 for a woman of Miss Pole's age. "No longer young," as 
 she called herself, after a little struggle with the words, 
 though at sixty-five she need not have blushed as if she 
 were telling a falsehood. But at last the cap was put away, 
 and with a wrench we turned our thoughts from the subject 
 "We had been silent for a little while, each at our work with 
 a candle between us, when Miss Pole began : 
 
 " It was very kind of you, Mary, to think of giving me a 
 present from Paris." 
 
 " Oh, I was only too glad to be able to get you some- 
 thing! I hope you will like it, though it is not what I 
 expected." 
 
 " I am sure I shall like it. And a surprise is always so 
 pleasant." 
 
 " Yes ; but I think Mrs. Gordon has made a very odd 
 choice." 
 
 " I wonder what it is. I don't like to ask, but there 's a 
 great deal in anticipation ; I remember hearing dear Miss 
 Jenkyns say that ' anticipation was the soul of enjoyment,' 
 or something like that. Now there is no anticipation in a 
 surprise ; that 's the worst of it." 
 
 " Shall I tell you what it is ? " 
 
 " Just as you like, my dear. If it is any pleasure to you, 
 I am quite willing to hear." 
 
 " Perhaps I had better not. It is something quite dif- 
 ferent to what I expected, and meant to have got ; and I 'm 
 not sure if I like it as well." 
 
 " Relieve your mind, if you like, Mary. In all dis- 
 appointments sympathy is a great balm." 
 
 " Well, then, it 's something not for you ; it 's for Polly. 
 It 's a cage. Mrs. Gordon says they make such pretty ones 
 in Paris."
 
 THE CAGE AT CRANFORD. 141 
 
 I could see that Miss Pole's first emotion was disappoint- 
 ment. But she was very fond of her cockatoo, and the 
 thought of his smartness in his new habitation made her be 
 reconciled in a moment ; besides that she was really grate- 
 ful to me for having planned a present for her. 
 
 " Polly ! Well, yes ; his old cage is very shabby ; he is 
 eo continually pecking at it with his sharp bill. I dare say 
 Mrs. Gordon noticed it when she called here last October. 
 I shall always think of you, Mary, when I see him in it. 
 Now we can have him in the drawing-room, for I dare say 
 a French cage will be quite an ornament to the room." 
 
 And so she talked on, till we worked ourselves up into 
 high delight at the idea of Polly in his new abode, present- 
 able in it even to the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson. The next 
 morning Miss Pole said she had been dreaming of Polly 
 with her new cap on his head, while she herself sat on a 
 perch in the new cage and admired him. Then, as if 
 ashamed of having revealed the fact of imagining "such 
 arrant nonsense " in her sleep, she passed on rapidly to the 
 philosophy of dreams, quoting some book she had lately 
 been reading, which was either too deep in itself, or too 
 confused in her repetition for me to understand it. After 
 breakfast, we had the cap out again ; and that in its differ- 
 ent aspects occupied us for an hour or so ; and then, as it 
 was a fine day, we turned into the garden, where Polly was 
 hung on a nail outside the kitchen window. He clamored 
 and screamed at the sight of his mistress, who went to look 
 for an almond for him. I examined his cage meanwhile, 
 old discolored wicker-work, clumsily made by a Cranford 
 basket-maker. I took out Mrs. Gordon's letter ; it was 
 dated the loth, and this was the 20th, for I had kept it 
 Becret for two days in my pocket. Mr. Ludovic was on 
 the point of setting out for England when she wrote. 
 
 " Poor Polly ! " said I, as Miss Pole, returning, fed him 
 with the almond.
 
 142 MRS. GASKELL. 
 
 "Ah! Polly does not know what a pretty cage he is 
 going to have," said she, talking to him as she would have 
 done to a child ; and then turning to me, she asked when I 
 thought it would come ? We reckoned up dates, and made 
 out that it might arrive that very day. So she called to her 
 little stupid servant-maiden Fanny, and bade her go out and 
 buy a great brass-headed nail, very strong, strong enough to 
 bear Polly and the new cage, and we all three weighed the 
 cage in our hands, and on her return she was to come up 
 into the drawing-room with the nail and a hammer. 
 
 Fanny was a long time, as she always was, over her er- 
 rands ; but as soon as she came back, we knocked the nail, 
 with solemn earnestness, into the house-wall, just outside the 
 drawing-room window ; for, as Miss Pole observed, when I 
 was not there she had no one to talk to, and as in summer- 
 time she generally sat with the window open, she could com- 
 bine two purposes, the giving air and sun to Polly-Cock- 
 atoo, and the having his agreeable companionship in her 
 solitary hours. 
 
 " When it rains, my dear, or even in a very hot sun, I 
 shall take the cage in. I would not have your pretty pres- 
 ent spoilt for the world. It was very kind of you to think 
 of it ; I am quite come round to liking it better than any 
 present of mere dress ; and dear Mrs. Gordon has shown 
 all her usual pretty observation in remembering my Polly- 
 Cockatoo." 
 
 " Polly-Cockatoo " was his grand name ; I had only once 
 or twice heard him spoken of by Miss Pole in this formal 
 manner, except when she was speaking to the servants ; 
 then she always gave him his full designation, just as most 
 people call their daughters Miss, in speaking of them to 
 strangers or servants. But since Polly was to have a new 
 cage, and all the way from Paris too, Miss Pole evidently 
 thought it necessary to treat him with unusual respect. 
 
 We were obliged to go out to pay some calls ; but we left
 
 THE CAGE AT CRANFORD. 143 
 
 strict orders with Fanny what to do if the cage arrived in 
 our absence, as (we had calculated) it might. Miss Pole 
 stood ready bonneted and shawled at the kitchen door, I 
 behind her, and cook behind Fanny, each of us listening to 
 the conversation of the other two. 
 
 "And Fanny, mind if it comes you coax Polly- Cockatoo 
 nicely into it. He is very particular, and may be attached 
 to his old cage, though it is so shabby. Remember, birds 
 have their feelings as much as we have ! Don't hurry him 
 in making up his mind." 
 
 " Please, ma'am, I think an almond would help him to 
 get over his feelings," said Fanny, dropping a curtsey at 
 every speech, as she had been taught to do at her charity 
 school. 
 
 " A very good idea, very. If I have my keys in my 
 pocket I will give you an almond for him. I think he is 
 sure to like the view up the street from the window; he 
 likes seeing people, I think." 
 
 " It 's but a dull look-out into the garden ; nowt but 
 dumb flowers," said cook, touched by this allusion to the 
 cheerfulness of the street, as contrasted with the view from 
 her own kitchen window. 
 
 " It 's a very good look-out for busy people," said Miss 
 Pole, severely. And then, feeling she was likely to get 
 the worst of it in an encounter with her old servant, she 
 withdrew with meek dignity, being deaf to some sharp re- 
 ply ; and of course I, being bound to keep order, was deaf 
 too. If the truth must be told, we rather hastened our 
 steps, until we had banged the street door behind us. 
 
 We called on Miss Matty, of course ; and then on Mrs. 
 Hoggins. It seemed as if ill-luck would have it that we 
 went to the only two households of Cranford where there 
 was the encumbrance of a man, and in both places the man 
 was where he ought not to have been namely, in his own 
 house, and in the way. Miss Pole out of civility to me,
 
 144 MRS. GASKELL. 
 
 and because she really was full of the new cage for Polly, 
 and because we all in Cranford relied on the sympathy of 
 our neighbors in the veriest trifle that interested us told 
 Miss Matty, and Mr. Peter, and Mr. and Mrs. Hoggins ; he 
 was standing in the drawing-room, booted and spurred, and 
 eating his hunk of bread and cheese in the very presence 
 of his aristocratic wife, my lady that was. As Miss Pole 
 said afterwards, if refinement was not to be found in Cran- 
 ford, blessed as it was with so many scions of county 
 families, she did not know where to meet with it. Bread 
 and cheese in a drawing-room ! Onions next. 
 
 But for all Mr. Hoggins's vulgarity, Miss Pole told him 
 of the present she was about to receive. 
 
 " Only think ! a new cage for Polly Polly Polly- 
 Cockatoo, you know, Mr. Hoggins. You remember him, 
 and the bite he gave me once because he wanted to be put 
 back in his cage, pretty bird ? " 
 
 " I only hope the new cage will be strong as well as 
 
 pretty, for I must say a " He caught a look from his 
 
 wife, I think, for he stopped short. " Well, we 're old 
 friends, Polly and I, and he put some practice in my way 
 once. I shall be up the street this afternoon, and perhaps 
 I shall step in and see this smart Parisian cage." 
 
 " Do ! " said Miss Pole, eagerly. " Or, if you are in a 
 hurry, look up at my drawing-room window ; if the cage 
 is come, it will be hanging out there, and Polly in it." 
 
 We had passed the omnibns that met the train from 
 London some time ago, so we were not surprised as we re- 
 turned home to see Fanny half out of the window, and 
 cook evidently either helping or hindering her. Then they 
 both took their heads in ; but there was no cage hanging 
 up. We hastened up the steps. 
 
 Both Fanny and the cook met us in the passage. 
 
 " Please, ma'am," said Fanny, " there 's no bottom to the 
 cage, and Polly would fly away."
 
 THE CAGE AT CRANFORD. 145 
 
 " And there 's no top," exclaimed cook. " He might get 
 out at the top quite easy." 
 
 " Let me see," said Miss Pole, brushing past, thinking 
 no doubt that her superior intelligence was all that was 
 needed to set things to rights. On the ground lay a bun- 
 dle, or a circle of hoops, neatly covered over with calico, no 
 more like a cage for Polly-Cockatoo than I am like a cage. 
 Cook took something up between her finger and thumb, and 
 lifted the unsightly present from Paris. How I wish it had 
 stayed there ! but foolish ambition has brought people to 
 ruin before now; and my twenty shillings are gone, sure 
 enough, and there must be some use or some ornament in- 
 tended by the maker of the thing before us. 
 
 "Don't you think it's a mousetrap, ma'am?" asked 
 Fanny, dropping her little curtsey. 
 
 For reply, the cook lifted up the machine, and showed 
 how easily mice might run out ; and Fanny shrank back 
 abashed. Cook was evidently set against the new inven- 
 tion, and muttered about its being all of a piece with 
 French things French cooks, French plums, (nasty dried- 
 up things,) French rolls (as had no substance in 'em.) 
 
 Miss Pole's good manners, and desire of making the best 
 of things in my presence, induced her to try and drown 
 cook's mutterings, 
 
 " Indeed, I think it will make a very nice cage for Polly- 
 Cockatoo. How pleased he will be to go from one hoop to 
 another, just like a ladder, and with a board or two at the 
 bottom, and nicely tied up at the top " 
 
 Fanny was struck with a new idea. 
 
 " Please, ma'am, my sister-in-law has got an aunt as lives 
 lady's-maid with Sir John's daughter Miss Arley. And 
 they did say as she wore iron petticoats all made of 
 hoops " 
 
 " Xonsense, Fanny ! " we all cried ; for such a thing had 
 not been heard of in all Drumble, let alone Cranford, and I 
 7 j
 
 146 MRS. GASKELL. 
 
 was rather looked upon in the light of a fast young woman 
 by all the laundresses of Cranford, because I had two corded 
 petticoats. 
 
 " Go mind thy business, wench," said cook, with the ut- 
 most contempt ; " I '11 warrant we '11 manage th' cage without 
 thy help." 
 
 "It is near dinner-time, Fanny, and the cloth not laid," 
 said Miss Pole, hoping the remark might cut two ways ; 
 but cook had no notion of going. She stood on the bottom 
 step of the stairs, holding the Paris perplexity aloft in the 
 air. 
 
 " It might do for a meat-safe," said she. " Cover it o'er 
 wi' canvas, to keep th' flies out. It is a good framework, I 
 reckon, anyhow ! " She held her head on one side, like a 
 connoisseur in meat-safes, as she was. 
 
 Miss Pole said, " Are you sure Mrs. Gordon called it a 
 cage, Mary? Because she is a woman of her word, and 
 would not have called it so if it was not." 
 
 " Look here ; I have the letter in my pocket." 
 
 " ' I have wondered how I could best fulfil your commis- 
 sion for me to purchase something to the value of um, 
 um, never mind 'fashionable and pretty for dear Miss 
 Pole, and at length I have decided upon one of the new 
 kind of " cages " ' (look here, Miss Pole ; here is the word, 
 C A G E), ' which are made so much lighter and more ele- 
 gant in Paris than in England. Indeed, I am not sure if 
 they have ever reached you, for it is not a month since I 
 saw the first of the kind in Paris.' " 
 
 "Does she say anything about Polly-Cockatoo?" asked 
 Miss Pole. " That would settle the matter at once, as 
 showing that she had him in her mind." 
 
 " No nothing." 
 
 Just then Fanny came along the passage with the tray 
 full of dinner things in her hands. When she had put 
 them down, she stood at the door of the dining-room taking
 
 THE CAGE AT CRANFORD. 147 
 
 a distant view of the article. " Please, ma'am, it looks like 
 a petticoat without any stuff in it ; indeed it does, if I 'm to 
 be whipped for saying it." 
 
 But she only drew down upon herself a fresh objurgation 
 from the cook ; and sorry and annoyed, I seized the oppor- 
 tunity of taking the thing out of cook's hand, and carrying 
 it up stairs, for it was full time to get ready for dinner. But 
 we had very little appetite for our meal, and kept constantly 
 making suggestions, one to the other, as to the nature and 
 purpose of this Paris " cage," but as constantly snubbing 
 poor little Fanny's reiteration of " Please, ma'am, I do be- 
 lieve it 's a kind of petticoat indeed I do." At length 
 Miss Pole turned upon her with almost as much vehemence 
 as cook had done, only in choicer language. 
 
 " Don't be so silly, Fanny. Do you think ladies are like 
 children, and must be put in go-carts ; or need wire-guards 
 like fires to surround them ; or can get warmth out of bits of 
 whalebone and steel ; a likely thing indeed ! Don't keep 
 talking about what you don't understand." 
 
 So our maiden was mute for the rest of the meal. After 
 dinner we had Polly brought up stairs in her old cage, and I 
 held out the new one, and we turned it about in every way. 
 At length Miss Pole said : 
 
 " Put Polly-Cockatoo back, and shut him up in his cage. 
 You hold this French thing up," (alas ! that my present 
 should be called a " thing,") " and I '11 sew a bottom on to 
 it. I '11 lay a good deal, they 've forgotten to sew in the 
 bottom before sending it off." So I held and she sewed ; 
 and then she held, and 1 sewed, till it was all done. Just 
 as we had put Polly-Cockatoo in, and were closing up the 
 top with a pretty piece of old yellow ribbon and, indeed, 
 it was not a bad-looking cage after all our trouble Mr. 
 Hoggins came up stairs, having been seen by Fanny before 
 he had time to knock at the door. 
 
 " Hallo ! " said he, almost tumbling over us, as we were 
 sitting on the floor at our work. " What 's this ? "
 
 148 MRS. GASKELL. 
 
 " It 's this pretty present for Polly- Cockatoo," said Miss 
 Pole, raising herself up with as much dignity as she could, 
 " that Mary has had sent from Paris for me." Miss Pole 
 was in great spirits now we had got Polly in ; I can 't say 
 that I was. 
 
 Mr. Hoggins began to laugh in his boisterous vulgar way. 
 
 " For Polly ha ! ha ! It 's meant for you, Miss Pole 
 ha ! ha ! It 's a new invention to hold your gowns out 
 ha! ha!" 
 
 " Mr. Hoggins ! you may be a surgeon, and a very clever 
 one, but nothing not even your profession gives you a 
 right to be indecent." 
 
 Miss Pole was thoroughly roused, and I trembled in my 
 shoes. But Mr. Hoggins only laughed the more. Polly 
 screamed in concert, but Miss Pole stood in stiff rigid pro- 
 priety, very red in the face. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Miss Pole, I am sure. But I am 
 pretty certain I am right. It's no indecency that I can 
 see ; my wife and Mrs. Fitz Adam take in a Paris fashion- 
 book between 'em, and I can't help seeing the plates of 
 fashions sometimes ha ! ha ! ha ! Look, Polly has got 
 out of his queer prison ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 Just then Mr. Peter came in ; Miss Matty was so curious 
 to know if the expected present had arrived. Mr. Hoggins 
 took him by the arm, and pointed to the poor thing lying 
 on the ground, but could not explain for laughing. Miss 
 Pole said : 
 
 " Although I am not accustomed to give an explanation 
 of my conduct to gentlemen, yet, being insulted in my own 
 house by by Mr. Hoggins, I must appeal to the brother 
 of my old friend my very oldest friend. Is this article 
 a lady's petticoat, or a bird's cage ? " 
 
 She held it up as she made this solemn inquiry. Mr. 
 Hoggins seized the moment to leave the room, in shame, as 
 I supposed, but, in reality, to fetch his wife's fashion-book ;
 
 THE CAGE AT CRANFORD. 149 
 
 and, before I had completed the narration of the story of 
 my unlucky commission, he returned, and, holding the 
 fashion-plate open by the side of the extended article, 
 demonstrated the identity of the two. 
 
 But Mr. Peter had always a smooth way of turning off 
 anger, by either his fun or a compliment. " It is a cage," 
 said he, bowing to Miss Pole ; " but it is a cage for an 
 angel, instead of a bird ! Come along, Hoggins, I want to 
 speak to you ! " 
 
 And, with an apology, he took the offending and victo- 
 rious surgeon out of Miss Pole's presence. For a good 
 while we said nothing ; and we were now rather shy of 
 little Fanny's superior wisdom when she brought up tea. 
 But towards night our spirits revived, and we were quite 
 ourselves again, when Miss Pole proposed that we should 
 cut up the pieces of steel or whalebone which, to do them 
 justice, were very elastic and make ourselves two good 
 comfortable English calashes out of them with the aid of a 
 piece of dyed silk which Miss Pole had by her.
 
 VERSES ON SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 BY EDMUND SPENSEK. 
 
 YOU knew who knew not ? Astrophel. 
 (That I should live to say I knew, 
 And have not in possession still !) 
 Things known permit me to renew : 
 Of him you know his merit such, 
 I cannot say you hear too much. 
 
 Within these woods of Arcady, 
 
 He chief delight and pleasure took ; 
 And on the mountain Partheny, 
 Upon the crystal liquid brook, 
 The Muses met him every day, 
 That taught him song to write and say. 
 
 "When he descended from the mount, 
 
 His personage seemed most divine ; 
 A thousand graces one might count 
 Upon his lovely cheerful eyne. 
 
 To hear him speak and sweetly smile, 
 You were in Paradise the while. 
 
 A sweet attractive kind of grace, 
 
 A full assurance given by looks ; 
 Continual comfort in a face, 
 
 The lineaments of Gospel books :
 
 VERSES ON SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 151 
 
 I trow that countenance cannot lie, 
 Whose thoughts are legible in th' eye. 
 
 Above all others, this is he, 
 
 Which erst approved in his song 
 That love and honor might agree, 
 And that pure love will do no wrong. 
 Sweet saints, it is no sin or blame 
 To love a man of virtuous name. 
 
 Did never love so sweetly breathe 
 
 In any mortal breast before : 
 Did never Muse inspire beneath 
 A poet's brain with finer store. 
 
 He wrote of love with high conceit, 
 And beauty rear'd above her height.
 
 PRESCOTT'S INFIRMITY OF SIGHT. 
 
 BY GEORGE TICKNOR. 
 
 WHEN the " Ferdinand and Isabella " was published, 
 in the winter of 1837-8, its author was nearly 
 forty-two years old. His character, some of whose traits 
 had been prominent from childhood, while others had been 
 slowly developed, was fully formed. His habits were set- 
 tled for life. He had a perfectly well-defined individuality, 
 as everybody knew who knew anything about his occupa- 
 tions and ways. 
 
 Much of what went to constitute this individuality was 
 the result of his infirmity of sight, and of the unceasing 
 struggle he had made to overcome the difficulties it entailed 
 upon him. For, as we shall see hereafter, the thought of 
 this infirmity, and of the embarrassments it brought with it, 
 was ever before him. It colored, and in many respects it 
 controlled, his whole life. 
 
 The violent inflammation that resulted from the fierce 
 attack of rheumatism in the early months of 1815 first start- 
 led him, I think, with the apprehension that he might pos- 
 sibly be deprived of sight altogether, and that thus his future 
 years would be left in " total eclipse, without all hope of 
 day." But from this dreary apprehension, his recovery, 
 slow, and partial as it was, and the buoyant spirits that en- 
 tered so largely into his constitution, at last relieved him. 
 He even, from tune to time, as the disease fluctuated to and 
 fro, had hopes of an entire restoration of his sight.
 
 PRESCOTT'S INFIRMITY OF SIGHT. 153 
 
 But before long, he began to judge things more exactly 
 as they were, and saw plainly that anything like a full re- 
 covery of his sight was improbable, if not impossible. He 
 turned his thoughts, therefore, to the resources that would 
 still remain to him. The prospect was by no means a pleas- 
 ant one, but he looked at it steadily and calmly. All 
 thought of the profession which had long been so tempting 
 to him he gave up. He saw that he could never fulfil its 
 duties. But intellectual occupation he could not give up 
 It was a gratification and resource which his nature de- 
 manded, and would not be refused. The difficulty was to 
 find out how it could be obtained. During the three months 
 of his confinement in total darkness at St. Michael's, he first 
 began to discipline his thoughts to such orderly composition 
 in his memory as he might have written down on paper, if 
 his sight had permitted it. " I have cheated," he says, in a 
 letter to his family written at the end of that discouraging 
 period, "I have cheated many a moment of tedium by 
 compositions which were soon banished, from my mind for 
 want of an amanuensis." 
 
 A.mong these compositions was a Latin ode to his friend 
 Gardiner, which was prepared wholly without books, but 
 which, though now lost, like the rest of his Latin verses, he 
 repeated years afterwards to his Club, who did not fail to 
 thins it good. It is evident, however, that, for a consider- 
 able time, he resorted to such mental occupations and exer- 
 cises rather as an amusement than as anything more serious. 
 Nor did he at first go far with them even as a light and tran- 
 sient relief from idleness ; for, though he never gave them 
 up altogether, and though they at last became a very impor- 
 tant elfement in his success as an author, he soon found an 
 agreealie substitute for them, at least so far as his imme- 
 diate, e\ery-day wants were concerned. 
 
 The sibstitute to which I refer, but which itself implied 
 much previous reflection and thought upon what he should 
 7*
 
 154 GEORGE TICKNOR. 
 
 commit to paper, was an apparatus to enable the blind to 
 write. He heard of it in London during his first residence 
 there in the summer of 1816. A lady, at whose house he 
 visited frequently, and who became interested in his misfor- 
 tune, " told him," as he says in a letter to his mother, " of a 
 newly invented machine by which blind people are enabled 
 to write. I have," he adds, " before been indebted to Mrs. 
 Delafield for an ingenious candle-screen. If this machine 
 can be procured, you will be sure to feel the effects of it." 
 
 He obtained it at once ; but he did not use it until nearly 
 a month afterwards, when, on the 24th of August, at Paris, 
 he wrote home his first letter with it, saying, " It is a very 
 happy invention for me." And such it certainly proved to 
 be, for he never ceased to use it from that day ; nor does it 
 now seem possible that, without the facilities it afforded hm, 
 he ever would have ventured to undertake any of the works 
 which have made his name what it is. 
 
 The machine if machine it can properly be called is 
 an apparatus invented by one of the well-known Wedgewood 
 family, and is very simple both in its structure and use. It 
 looks, as it lies folded up on the table, like a clunsy 
 portfolio, bound in- morocco, and measures about ten inches 
 by nine when unopened. Sixteen stout parallel brass vires 
 fastened on the right-hand side into a frame of the same size 
 with the cover, much like the frame of a school-boy's slate, 
 and crossing it from side to side, mark the number of lines 
 that can be written on a page, and guide the hand in its 
 blind motions. This framework of wires is folded dowa upon 
 a sheet of paper thoroughly impregnated with a black sub- 
 stance, especially on its ' under surface, beneath wh ch lies 
 the sheet of common paper that is to receive the vvriting. 
 There are thus, when it is in use, three layers on the 
 right-hand side of the opened apparatus ; viz. the vires, the 
 blackened sheet of paper, and the white sheet, all lying 
 successively in contact with each other, the two that are
 
 PRESCOTT'S INFIRMITY OF SIGHT. 155 
 
 underneath being held firmly in their places by the frame- 
 work of wires which is uppermost. The whole apparatus 
 is called a noctograph. 
 
 When it has been adjusted, as above described, the person 
 using it writes with an ivory style, or with a style made of 
 some harder substance, like agate, on the upper surface of 
 the blackened paper, which, wherever the style presses on 
 it, transfers the coloring matter of its under surface to the 
 white paper beneath it, the writing thus produced looking 
 much like that done with a common black-lead pencil. 
 
 The chief difficulty in the use of such an apparatus 
 is obvious. The person employing it never looks upon 
 his work ; never sees one of the marks he is making. He 
 trusts wholly to the wires for the direction of his' hand. He 
 makes his letters and words only from mechanical habit. 
 He must, therefore, write straight forward, without any op- 
 portunity for correction, however gross may be the mistakes 
 he has made, or however sure he may be that he has made 
 them ; for, if he were to go back in order to correct an error, 
 he would only make his page still more confused, and prob- 
 ably render it quite illegible. When, therefore, he has 
 made a mistake, great or small, all he can do is to go for- 
 ward, and rewrite further on the word or phrase he first in- 
 tended to write, rarely attempting to strike out what was 
 wrong, or to insert, in its proper place, anything that may 
 have been omitted. It is plain, therefore, that the person 
 who resorts to this apparatus as a substitute for sight ought 
 previously to prepare and settle in his memory what he 
 wishes to write, so as to make as few mistakes as possible. 
 
 With the best care his manuscript will not be very leg- 
 ible. Without it, he may be sure it can hardly be deci- 
 phered at all. 
 
 That Mr. Prescott, under his disheartening infirmities, 
 I refer not only to his imperfect sight, but to the rheumatism 
 from which he was seldom wholly free, should, at the age
 
 156 GEORGE TICKNOR. 
 
 of five-and-twenty or thirty, with no help but this simple ap- 
 paratus, have aspired to the character of a historian dealing 
 with events that happened in times and countries far distant 
 from his own, and that are recorded chiefly in foreign lan- 
 guages and by authors whose conflicting testimony was often 
 to be reconciled by laborious comparison, is a remarkable 
 fact in literary history. It is a problem the solution of 
 which was, I believe, never before undertaken ; certainly 
 never before accomplished. Nor do I conceive that he him- 
 self could have accomplished it, unless to his uncommon in- 
 tellectual gifts had been added great animal spirits, a strong, 
 persistent will, and a moral courage which was to be daunt- 
 ed by no obstacle that he might deem it possible to remove 
 by almost any amount of effort.* 
 
 That he was not insensible to the difficulties of his under- 
 taking, we have partly seen, as we have witnessed how his 
 hopes fluctuated while he was struggling through the ar- 
 rangements for beginning to write his " Ferdinand and Isa- 
 bella," and, in fact, during the whole period of its compo- 
 sition. But he showed the same character, the same fer- 
 tility of resource, every day of his life, and provided, both 
 by forecast and self-sacrifice, against the embarrassments of 
 his condition as they successively presented themselves. 
 
 The first thing to be done, and the thing always to be re- 
 peated day by day, was to strengthen, as much as possible, 
 what remained of his sight, and at any rate, to do nothing 
 
 * The case of Thierry the nearest known to me was differ- 
 ent. His great work, " Histoire de la Conqucte de 1' Angleterre par 
 les Normands," was written before he became blind. What he pub- 
 lished afterward was dictated, wonderful, indeed, all of it, but 
 especially all that relates to what he did for the commission of the 
 government concerning the Tiers fitat, to be found in that grand 
 collection of "Documents in<?dits sur 1'Histoire de France," begun 
 under the auspices and influence of M. Guizot, when he was minister 
 of Louis-Philippe.
 
 PRESCOTT'S INFIRMITY OF SIGHT. 157 
 
 that should tend to exhaust its impaired powers. In 1821, 
 when he was still not without some hope of its recovery, he 
 made this memorandum. " I will make it my principal pur- 
 pose to restore my eye to ite primitive vigor, and will do 
 nothing habitually that can seriously injure it." To this end 
 he regulated his life with an exactness that I have never 
 known equalled. Especially in whatever related to the 
 daily distribution of his time, whether in regard to his intel- 
 lectual labors, to his social enjoyments, or to the care of his 
 physical powers, including his diet, he was severely exact, 
 managing himself, indeed, in this last respect, under the 
 general directions of his wise medical adviser, Dr. Jackson, 
 but carrying out these directions with an ingenuity and 
 fidelity all his own. 
 
 He was an early riser, although it was a great effort for 
 him to be such. From boyhood it seemed to be contrary 
 to his nature to get up betimes in the morning. He was, 
 therefore, always awaked, and after silently, and sometimes 
 slowly and with reluctance, counting twenty, so as fairly to 
 arouse himself, he resolutely sprang out of bed ; or, if he 
 failed, he paid a forfeit, as a memento of his weakness, to 
 the servant who had knocked at his chamber-door.* His 
 failures, however, were rare. When he was called, he was 
 told the state of the weather and of the thermometer. This 
 was important, as he was compelled by his rheumatism 
 almost always present, and, when not so, always appre- 
 hended to regulate his dress with care ; and, finding it 
 difficult to do so in any other way, he caused each of its 
 heavier external portions to be marked by his tailor with 
 
 * When he was a bachelor, the servant, after waiting a certain 
 number of minutes at the door without receiving an answer, went in 
 and took away the bed-clothes. This was, at that period, the office 
 of faithful Nathan Webster, who was remembered kindly in Mr. Pres- 
 cott's will, and who was for nearly thirty years in the family, a true 
 and valued friend of all its members.
 
 158 GEORGE TICKNOR. 
 
 the number of ounces it weighed, and then put them on 
 according to the temperature, sure that their weight would 
 indicate the measure of warmth and protection they would 
 afford.* 
 
 As soon as he was dressed, he took his early exercise in 
 the open air. This, for many years, was done on horse- 
 back, and, as he loved a spirited horse and was often think- 
 ing more of his intellectual pursuits than of anything else 
 while he was riding, he sometimes caught a fall. But he 
 was a good rider, and was sorry to give up this form of 
 exercise and resort to walking or driving, as he did, by 
 order of his physician, in the last dozen years of his life. 
 No weather, except a severe storm, prevented him at any 
 period from thus, as he called it, " winding himself up." 
 Even in the coldest of our very cold winter mornings, it 
 was his habit, so long as he could ride, to see the sun rise on 
 a particular spot three or four miles from town. In a letter 
 to Mrs. Ticknor, who was then in Germany, dated March, 
 1836, at the end of a winter memorable for its extreme se- 
 verity, he says, " You will give me credit for some spunk 
 when I tell you that I have not been frightened by the 
 cold a single morning from a ride on horseback to Jamaica 
 Plain and back again before breakfast. My mark has been 
 to see the sun rise by Mr. Greene's school, if you remember 
 where that is." When the^ rides here referred to were 
 taken, the thermometer was often below zero of Fahrenheit. 
 
 On his return home, after adjusting his dress anew, with 
 reference to the temperature within doors, he sat down, 
 almost always in a very gay humor, to a moderate and even 
 spare breakfast, a meal he much liked, because, as he said, 
 
 * As in the case of the use of wine, hereafter to be noticed, he 
 made, from year to year, the most minute memoranda about the use 
 of clothes, finding it necessary to be exact on account of the rheuma- 
 tism which, besides almost constantly infesting his limbs, always af- 
 fected his sight when it became severe.
 
 PRESCOTT'S INFIRMITY OF SIGHT. 159 
 
 he could then have his family with him in a quiet way, and 
 so begin the day happily. From the breakfast-table he 
 went at once to his study. There, while busied with what 
 remained of his toilet, or with the needful arrangements for 
 his regular occupations, Mrs. Prescott read to him, generally 
 from the morning papers, but sometimes from the current 
 literature of the day. At a fixed hour seldom later than 
 ten his reader, or secretary, came. In this, as in every- 
 thing, he required punctuality ; but he noted tardiness only 
 by looking significantly at his watch ; for it is the testimony 
 of all his surviving secretaries, that he never spoke a severe 
 word to either of them in the many years of their familiar 
 intercourse. 
 
 When they had met in the study, there was no thought 
 but of active work for about three hours.* His infirmities, 
 however, were always present to warn him how cautiously it 
 must be done, and he was extremely ingenious in the means 
 he devised for doing it without increasing them. The 
 shades and shutters for regulating the exact amount of light 
 which should be admitted ; his own position relatively to 
 its direct rays, and to those that were reflected from sur- 
 rounding objects ; the adaptation of his dress and of the 
 temperature of the room to his rheumatic affections ; and 
 the different contrivances for taking notes from the books 
 that were read to him, and for impressing on his memory, 
 with the least possible use of his sight, such portions of 
 
 * I speak here of the time during which he was busy with his 
 Histories. In the intervals between them, as, for instance, between 
 the "Ferdinand and Isabella" and the "Mexico," between the 
 " Mexico " and " Peru," &c., his habits were very different. At 
 these periods he indulged, sometimes for many months, in a great 
 deal of light, miscellaneous reading, which he used to call " literary 
 loafing." This he thought not only agreeable, but refreshing and 
 useful ; though sometimes he complained bitterly of himself for car- 
 rying his indulgences of this sort too far.
 
 160 GEORGE TICKNOE. 
 
 each as were needful for his immediate purpose, were all 
 of them the result of painstaking experiments, skilfully and 
 patiently made. But their ingenuity and adaptation were 
 less remarkable than the conscientious consistency with 
 which they were employed from day to day for forty years. 
 
 In relation to all such arrangements, two circumstances 
 should be noted. 
 
 The first is, that the resources of his eye were always 
 very small and uncertain, except for a few years, beginning 
 in 1840, when, from his long-continued prudence or from 
 some inscrutable cause, there seemed to be either an increase 
 of strength in the organ, or else such a diminution of its 
 sensibility as enabled him to use it more, though its strength 
 might really be diminished. 
 
 Thus, for instance, he was able to use his eye very little 
 in the preparation of the " Ferdinand and Isabella," not 
 looking into a book sometimes for weeks and even months 
 together, and yet occasionally he could read several hours 
 in a day if he carefully divided the whole into short portions, 
 so as to avoid fatigue. While engaged in the composition 
 of the " Conquest of Mexico," on the contrary, he was able 
 to read with considerable regularity, and so he was while 
 working on the " Conquest of Peru," though, on the whole, 
 with less.* 
 
 * How uncertain was the state of his eye, even when it was 
 strongest, may be seen from memoranda made at different times, 
 within less than two years of each other. The first is in January, 
 1829, when he was full of grateful feelings for an unexpected increase 
 of his powers of sight. " By the blessing of Heaven," he says, " I 
 have been enabled to have the free use of my eye in the daytime dur- 
 ing the last weeks, without the exception of a single day, although 
 deprived, for nearly a fortnight, of my accustomed exercise. I hope 
 I have not abused this great privilege." But this condition of things 
 did not last long. Great fluctuations followed. In August and Sep. 
 tember he was much discouraged by severe inflammations ; and in 
 October, 1830, when he had been slowly writing the "Ferdinand
 
 PRESCOTT'S INFIRMITY OF SIGHT. 161 
 
 But he had, during nearly all this time, another difficulty 
 to encounter. There had come on prematurely that grad- 
 ual alteration of the eye which is the consequence of advanc- 
 ing years, and for which the common remedy is spectacles. 
 Even when he was using what remained to him of sight on 
 the " Conquest of Mexico " with a freedom which not a little 
 animated him in his pursuits, he perceived this discouraging 
 change. In July, 1841, he says: " My eye, for some days, 
 feels dim. ' I guess and fear,' as Burns says." And in 
 June, 1842, when our families were spending together at 
 Lebanon Springs a few days which he has recorded as 
 otherwise very happy, he spoke to me more than once in a 
 tone of absolute grief, that he should never again enjoy the 
 magnificent spectacle of the starry heavens. To this sad 
 deprivation he, in fact, alludes himself in his Memoranda of 
 that period, where, in relation to his eyes, he says : " I find 
 a misty veil increasing over them, quite annoying when 
 
 reading. The other evening B said, ' How beautiful 
 
 the heavens are with so many stars ! ' I could hardly see 
 two. It made me sad." 
 
 Spectacles, however, although they brought their appro- 
 priate relief, brought also an inevitable inconvenience. 
 They fatigued his eye. He could use it, therefore, less 
 and less, or if he used it at all, beyond a nicely adjusted 
 amount, the excess was followed by a sort of irritability, 
 weakness, and pain in the organ which he had not felt for 
 many years. This went on increasing with sad regularity. 
 But he knew that it was inevitable, and submitted to it pa- 
 tiently. In the latter part of his life he was able to use his 
 eye very little indeed for the purpose of reading, in the 
 last year, hardly at all. Even in several of the years pre- 
 
 and Isabella " for about a year, his sight for a time became so much 
 impaired that he was brought I use his own words "seriously to 
 consider what steps he should take in relation to that work, if his 
 sight should fail him altogether."
 
 162 GEORGE TICKNOE. 
 
 ceding, he used it only thirty-five minutes in each day, 
 divided exactly by the watch into portions of five minutes 
 each, with at least half an hour between, and always stop- 
 ping the moment pain was felt, even if it were felt at the first 
 instant of opening the book. I doubt whether a more per- 
 sistent, conscientious care was ever taken of an impaired 
 physical power. Indeed, I do not see how it could have 
 been made more thorough. But all care was unavailing, 
 and he at last knew that it was so. The decay could not be 
 arrested. He spoke of it rarely, but when he perceived 
 that in the evening twilight he could no longer walk about 
 the streets that were familiar to him with his accustomed 
 assurance, he felt it deeply. Still he persevered, and was 
 as watchful of what remained of his sight as if his hopes of 
 its restoration had continued unchecked. Indeed, I think 
 he always trusted that he was saving something by his anx- 
 ious care ; he always believed that great prudence on one 
 day would enable him to do a little more work on the next 
 than he should be able to do without so much caution. 
 
 The other circumstance that should be noticed in relation 
 to the arrangements for his pursuits is, the continually in- 
 creased amount of light he was obliged to use, and which he 
 could use without apparent injury. 
 
 In Bedford Street, where he first began his experiments, 
 he could, from the extreme sensitiveness of his eye, bear 
 very little light. But, even before he left that quiet old 
 mansion, he cut out a new window in his working-room, 
 arranging it so that the light should fall more strongly and 
 more exclusively upon the book he might be using. This 
 did very well for a time. But when he removed to Beacon 
 Street, the room he built expressly for his own use contained 
 six contiguous windows ; two of which, though large, were 
 glazed each with a single sheet of the finest plate-glass, 
 nicely protected by several curtains of delicate fabric and of 
 a light-blue* color, one or more of which could be drawn up
 
 PRESCOTT'S INFIRMITY OF SIGHT. 163 
 
 over each window to temper the light while the whole light 
 that was admitted through any one opening could be ex- 
 cluded by solid wooden shutters. At first, though much 
 light was commonly used, these appliances for diminishing 
 it were all more or less required. But, gradually, one after 
 another of them was given up, and, at last, I observed that 
 none was found important. He needed and used all the 
 light he could get. 
 
 The change was a sad one, and he did not like to allude 
 to it. But during the last year of his life, after the first 
 slight access of paralysis, which much disturbed the organ 
 for a time, and rendered its action very irregular, he spoke 
 plainly to me. He said he must soon cease to use his eye 
 for any purpose of study, but fondly trusted that he should 
 always be able to recognize the features of his friends, and 
 should never become a burden to those he loved by needing 
 to be led about. His hopes were, indeed, fulfilled, but not 
 without the sorrow of all. The day before his sudden 
 death he walked the streets as freely as he had done for 
 years. 
 
 Still, whatever may have been the condition of his eye at 
 any period, from the fierce attack of 1815 to the very end 
 of his life, it was always a paramount subject of anxiety 
 with him. He never ceased to think of it, and to regulate 
 the hours, and almost the minutes, of his daily life by it. 
 Even in its best estate he felt that it must be spared ; in its 
 worst, he was anxious to save something by care and absti- 
 nence. He said, "he reckoned time by eyesight, as dis- 
 tances on railroads are reckoned by hours." 
 
 One thing in this connection may be noted as remarkable. 
 He knew that, if he would give up literary labor altogether, 
 his eye would be better at once, and would last longer. 
 His physicians all told him so, and their opinion was ren- 
 dered certain by his own experience ; for whenever he ceased 
 to work for some time, as during a visit to New York in
 
 164 GEORGE TICKNOR. 
 
 1842 and a visit to Europe in 1850, in short, whenever 
 he took a journey or indulged himself in holidays of such a 
 sort as prevented him from looking into books at all or 
 thinking much about them, his general health immediately 
 became more vigorous than might have been expected from 
 a relief so transient, and his sight was always improved; 
 sometimes materially improved. But he would not pay the 
 price. He perferred to submit, if it should be inevitable, to 
 the penalty of ultimate blindness, rather than give up his 
 literary pursuits. 
 
 He never liked to work more than three hours consecu- 
 tively. At one o'clock, therefore, he took a walk of about 
 two miles, and attended to any little business abroad that 
 was incumbent on him, coming home generally refreshed 
 and exhilarated, and ready to lounge a little and gossip. 
 Dinner followed, for the greater part of his life about three 
 o'clock, although, during a few years, he dined in winter at 
 five or six, which he preferred, and which he gave up only 
 because his health demanded the change. In the summer 
 he always dined early, so as to have the late afternoon for 
 driving and exercise during our hot season. 
 
 He enjoyed the pleasures of the table, and even its luxu- 
 ries, more than most men. But he restricted himself care- 
 fully in the use of them, adjusting everything with reference 
 to its effect on the power of using his eye immediately after- 
 wards, and especially on his power of using it the next day. 
 Occasional indulgence when dining out or with friends at 
 home he found useful, or at least not injurious, and was en- 
 couraged in it by his medical counsel. But he dined abroad, 
 as he did everything of the sort, at regulated intervals, and 
 not only determined beforehand in what he should deviate 
 from his settled habits, but often made a record of the result 
 for his future government. 
 
 The most embarrassing question, however, as to diet, re- 
 garded the use of wine, which, if at first it sometimes seemed
 
 PRESCOTT'S INFIRMITY OF SIGHT. 165 
 
 to be followed by bad consequences, was yet, on the whole, 
 found useful, and was prescribed to him. To make every- 
 thing certain, and settle the precise point to which he should 
 go, he instituted a series of experiments, and between March, 
 1818, and November, 1820, a period of two years and 
 nine months, he recorded the exact quantity of wine that 
 he took every day, except the few days when he entirely 
 abstained. It was Sherry or Madeira. In the great ma- 
 jority of cases four fifths, I should think it ringed from 
 one to two glasses, but went up sometimes to four or five, 
 and even to six. He settled at last, upon two or two and 
 a half as the quantity best suited to his case, and persevered 
 in this as his daily habit, until the last year of his life, dur- 
 ing which a peculiar regimen was imposed upon him from 
 the peculiar circumstances of his health. In all this I wish 
 to be understood that he was rigorous with himself, much 
 more so than persons thought who saw him only when he 
 was dining with friends, and when, but equally upon system 
 and principle, he was much more free. 
 
 He generally smoked a single weak cigar after dinner, 
 and listened at the same time to light reading from Mrs. 
 Prescott. A walk of two miles more or less followed ; 
 but always enough, after the habit of riding was given up, to 
 make the full amount of six miles' walking for the day's 
 exercise, and then, between five and eight, he took a cup of 
 tea, and had his reader with him for work two hours more. 
 
 The labors of the day were now definitively ended. He 
 came down from his study to his library, and either sat 
 there or walked about while Mrs. Prescott read to him 
 from some amusing book, generally a novel, and, above all 
 other novels, those of Scott and Miss Edgeworth. In all 
 this he took great solace. He enjoyed the room as well as 
 the reading, and, as he moved about, would often stop be- 
 fore the books, especially his favorite books, and be 
 sure that they were all in their proper places, drawn up ex-
 
 166 GEORGE TICKNOK. 
 
 actly to the front of their respective shelves, like soldiers 
 on a dress-parade, sometimes speaking of them, and 
 almost to them, as if they were personal friends. 
 
 At half past ten, having first taken nearly another glass 
 of wine, he went to bed, fell asleep quickly, and slept soundly 
 and well. Suppers he early gave up, although they were a 
 form of social intercourse much liked in his father's house, 
 and common thirty or forty years ago in the circle to which 
 he belonged. Besides all other reasons against them, he 
 found that the lights commonly on the table shot their hori- 
 zontal rays so as to injure his suffering organ. Larger even- 
 ing parties, which were not so liable to this objection, he 
 liked rather for their social influences than for the pleasure 
 they gave him ; but he was seen in them to the last, though 
 rarely and only for a short time in each. Earlier in life, 
 when he enjoyed them more and stayed later, he would, 
 in the coldest winter nights, after going home, run up and 
 down on a plank walk, so arranged in the garden of the 
 Bedford-Street house that he could do it with his eyes shut, 
 for twenty minutes or more, in order that his system might 
 be refreshed, and his sight invigorated, for the next morn- 
 ing's work.* Later, unhappily, this was not needful. His 
 eye had lost the sensibility that gave its value to such a 
 habit. 
 
 In his exercise, at all its assigned hours, he was faithful 
 and exact. If a violent storm prevented him from going 
 out, or if the bright snow on sunny days in winter rendered 
 it dangerous for him to expose his eye to its brilliant reflec- 
 
 * Some persons may think this to have been a fancy of my 
 friend, or an over-nice estimate of the value of the open air. But 
 others have found the same benefit who needed it less. Sir Charles 
 Bell says, in his journal, that he used to sit in the open air a great 
 deal, and read or draw, because on the following day he found himself 
 so much better able to work. Some of the best passages in his great 
 treatises were, he says, written under these circumstances.
 
 PRESCOTT'S INFIRMITY OF SIGHT. 167 
 
 tion, he would dress himself as for the street and walk vig- 
 orously about the colder parts of the house, or he would 
 saw and chop fire-wood, under cover, being, in the latter 
 case, read to all the while. 
 
 The result he sought, and generally obtained, by these 
 efforts was not, however, always to be had without suffering. 
 The first mile or two of his walk often cost him pain 
 sometimes sharp pain in consequence of the rheumatism, 
 which seldom deserted his limbs ; but he never on this 
 account gave it up ; for regular exercise in the open air 
 was, as he well knew, indispensable to the preservation of 
 whatever remained of his decaying sight. He persevered, 
 therefore, through the last two suffering years of his life, 
 when it was peculiarly irksome and difficult for him to 
 move ; and even in the days immediately preceding his first 
 attack of paralysis, when he was very feeble, he was out 
 at his usual hours. His will, in truth, was always stronger 
 than the bodily ills that beset him, and prevailed over them 
 to the last.* 
 
 * On one occasion, when he was employed upon a work that 
 interested him because it related to a friend, he was attacked with 
 pains that made a sitting posture impossible. But he would not 
 yield. He took his noctograph to a sofa, and knelt before it so as to 
 be able to continue his work. This resource, however, failed, and 
 then he laid himself down flat upon the floor. This extrarordinary 
 operation went on during portions of nine successive days.
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 BY DANTE. 
 
 THIS most gentle lady reached such favor among the 
 people, that when she passed along the way persons 
 ran to see her, which gave me wonderful delight. And 
 when she was near any one, such modesty took possession 
 of his heart, that he did not dare to raise his eyes or to re- 
 turn her salutation ; and to this, should any one doubt it, 
 many, as having experienced it, could bear witness for me. 
 She, crowned and clothed with humility, took her way, dis- 
 playing no pride in that which she saw and heard. Many, 
 when she had passed, said, " This is not a woman ; rather is 
 she one of the most beautiful angels of heaven." Others 
 said, " She is a miracle. Blessed be the Lord who can per- 
 form such a marvel ! " I say that she showed herself so 
 gentle and so full of all beauties, that those who looked on 
 her felt within themselves a pure and sweet delight such as 
 they could not tell in words ; nor was there any who could 
 look at her and not feel need at first to sigh. These and 
 more wonderful things proceeded from her, marvellously and 
 with power. Wherefore I, thinking on all this, proposed 
 to say some words, in which I would exhibit her mar- 
 vellous and excellent influences, to the end that not only 
 those who might actually behold her, but also others, might 
 know of her whatever words could tell. Then I wrote this 
 sonnet :

 
 BEATRICE. 169 
 
 So gentle and so modest doth appear 
 My lady when she giveth her salute, 
 That every tongue becometh trembling mute, 
 Nor do the eyes to look upon her dare. 
 
 And though she hears her praises, she doth go 
 Benignly clothed with humility, 
 And like a thing come down she seems to be 
 From heaven to earth, a miracle to show. 
 
 So pleaseth she whoever cometh nigh, 
 
 She gives the heart a sweetness through the eyes, 
 Which none can understand who doth not prove. 
 
 And from her lip there seems indeed to move 
 A spirit sweet and in Love's very guise, 
 Which goeth saying to the soul, "Ah, sigh !"
 
 A LOVE STORY.* 
 
 BY ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 BASH MARRIAGES. AIT EARLY WIDOWHOOD. AFFLICTION REN- 
 DERED A BLESSING TO THE SUFFERERS J AND TWO ORPHANS 
 LEFT, THOUGH NOT DESTITUTE, YET FRIENDLESS. 
 
 Love built a stately house ; where Fortune came, 
 And spinning fancies, she was heard to say 
 
 That her fine cobwebs did support the frame; 
 
 Whereas they were supported by the same. 
 But Wisdom quickly swept them all away. 
 
 HERBERT. 
 
 MRS. DOVE was the only child of a clergyman who 
 held a small vicarage in the West Riding. Leonard 
 Bacon, her father, had been left an orphan in early youth. 
 He had some wealthy relations by whose contributions he 
 was placed at an endowed grammar-school in the country, 
 and having through their influence gained a scholarship, to 
 which his own deserts might have entitled him, they con- 
 tinued to assist him sparingly enough indeed at the 
 University, till he succeeded to a fellowship. Leonard was 
 made of Nature's finest clay, and Nature had tempered it 
 with the choicest dews of heaven. 
 
 He had a female cousin about three years younger than 
 himself, and in like manner an orphan, equally destitute, but 
 
 * Southey always intended to complete this story, but he did not live 
 to fulfil his purpose. It is here brought together for the first time in 
 America, from the pages of that admirable work which has now taken 
 its place as an English classic, " The Doctor."
 
 A LOVE STORY. 171 
 
 far more forlorn. Man hath a fleece about him which en- 
 ables him to bear the bufferings of the storm ; but woman 
 when young, and lovely, and poor, is as a shorn lamb for 
 which the wind has not been tempered. 
 
 Leonard's father and Margaret's had been bosom friends. 
 They were subalterns in the same regiment, and, being for a 
 long time stationed at Salisbury, had become intimate at the 
 house of Mr. Trewbody, a gentleman of one of the oldest 
 families in "Wiltshire. Mr. Trewbody had three daughters. 
 Melicent, the eldest, was a celebrated beauty, and the knowl- 
 edge of this had not tended to improve a detestable temper. 
 The two youngest, Deborah and Margaret, were lively, good- 
 natured, thoughtless, and attractive. They danced with the 
 two lieutenants, played to them on the spinnet, sung with 
 them and laughed with them, till this mirthful intercourse 
 became serious, and, knowing that it would be impossible to 
 obtain their father's consent, they married the men of their 
 hearts without it. Palmer and Bacon were both without 
 fortune, and without any other means of subsistence than 
 their commissions. For four years they were as happy as 
 love could make them ; at the end of that time Palmer was 
 seized with an infectious fever. Deborah was then far ad- 
 vanced in pregnancy, and no solicitations could induce Bacon 
 to keep from his friend's bedside. The disease proved fatal ; 
 it communicated to Bacon and his wife ; the former only 
 survived his friend ten days, and he and Deborah were then 
 laid in the same grave. They left an only boy of three 
 years old, and in less than a month the widow Palmer was 
 delivered of a daughter. 
 
 In the first impulse of anger at the flight of his daughters, 
 and the degradation of his family, (for Bacon was the son 
 of a tradesman, and Palmer was nobody knew who,) Mr. 
 Trewbody had made his will, and left the whole sum, which 
 he had designed for his three daughters, to the eldest 
 "Whether the situation of Margaret and the two orphans
 
 172 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 might have touched him, is perhaps doubtful, for the fam- 
 ily were either light-hearted or hard-hearted, and his heart 
 was of the hard sort ; but he died suddenly a few months 
 before his sons-in-law. The only son, Trewman Trewbody, 
 Esq., a "Wiltshire fox-hunter, like his father, succeeded to 
 the estate ; and as he and his eldest sister hated each other 
 cordially, Miss Melicent left the manor-house, and estab- 
 lished herself in the Close at Salisbury, where she lived in 
 that style which a portion of 6,000 enabled her in those 
 days to support. 
 
 The circumstance which might appear so greatly to have 
 aggravated Mrs. Palmer's distress, if such distress be capable 
 of aggravation, prevented her perhaps from eventually sink- 
 ing under it. If the birth of her child was no alleviation 
 
 O 
 
 of her sorrow, it brought with it new feelings, new duties, 
 new cause for exertion, and new strength for it. She wrote 
 to Melicent and to her brother, simply stating her own 
 destitute situation, and that of the orphan Leonard ; she be- 
 lieved that their pride would not suffer them either to let 
 her starve or go to the parish for support, and in this she 
 was not disappointed. An answer was returned by Miss 
 Trewbody, informing her that she had nobody to thank but 
 herself for her misfortunes ; but that, notwithstanding the 
 disgrace which she had brought upon the family, she might 
 expect an annual allowance of ten pounds from the writer, 
 and a like sum from her brother ; upon this she must retire 
 into some obscure part of the country, and pray God to for- 
 give her for the offence she had committed, in marrying 
 beneath her birth, and against her father's consent. 
 
 Mrs. Palmer had also written to the friends of Lieutenant 
 Bacon, her own husband had none who could assist her. 
 She expressed her willingness and her anxiety to have the 
 care of her sister's orphan, but represented her forlorn state. 
 They behaved more liberally than her own kin had done, 
 and promised five pounds a year as long as the boy should
 
 A LOVE STORY. 173 
 
 require it. With this and her pension she took a cottage in 
 a retired village. Grief had acted upon her heart like the 
 rod of Moses upon the rock in the desert ; it had opened 
 it, and the well-spring of piety had gushed forth. Affliction 
 made her religious, and religion brought with it consolation, 
 and comfort, and joy. Leonard became as dear to her as 
 Margaret. The sense of duty educed a pleasure from every 
 privation to which she subjected herself for the sake of 
 economy ; and, in endeavoring to fulfil her duties in that 
 state of life to which it had pleased God to call her, she 
 was happier than she had ever been in her father's house, 
 and not less so than in her marriage state. Her happiness 
 indeed was different in kind, but it was higher in degree. 
 For the sake of these dear children she was contented to 
 live, and even prayed for life ; while, if it had respected 
 herself only, death had become to her rather an object of 
 desire than of dread. In this manner she lived seven years 
 after the loss of her husband, and was then carried off by an 
 acute disease, to the irreparable loss of the orphans, who 
 were thus orphaned indeed. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A LADY DESCRIBED WHOSE SINGLE LIFE WAS NO BLESSEDNESS 
 EITHER TO HERSELF OR OTHERS. A VERACIOUS EPITAPH AND 
 AN APPROPRIATE MONUMENT. 
 
 Beauty ! my Lord, 'tis the worst part of woman ! 
 A weak, poor thing, assaulted every hour 
 By creeping minutes of defacing time; 
 A superficies which each breath of care 
 Blasts off; and every humorous stream of grief, 
 Which flows from forth these fountains of our eyes, 
 Washeth away, as rain doth winter's snow. 
 
 GOFF. 
 
 Miss TREWBODY behaved with perfect propriety upon 
 the news of her sister's death. She closed her front win-
 
 174 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 dows for two days ; received no visitors for a week ; was 
 much indisposed, but resigned to the will of Providence, in 
 reply to messages of condolence ; put her servants in mourn- 
 ing, and sent for Margaret, that she might do her duty to 
 her sister's child by breeding her up under her own eye. 
 Poor Margaret was transferred from the stone floor of her 
 
 O 
 
 mother's cottage to the Turkey carpet of her aunt's parlor. 
 She was too young to comprehend at once the whole evil of 
 the exchange ; but she learned to feel and understand it 
 during years of bitter dependence, unalleviated by any hope, 
 except that of one day seeing Leonard, the only creature on 
 earth whom she remembered with affection. 
 
 Seven years elapsed, and during all those years Leonard 
 was left to pass his holidays, summer and winter, at the 
 grammar-school where he had been placed at Mrs. Palmer's 
 death : for although the master regularly transmitted with 
 his half-yearly bill the most favorable accounts of his dis- 
 position and general conduct, as well as of his progress in 
 learning, no wish to see the boy had ever arisen in the 
 hearts of his nearest relations ; and no feeling of kindness, 
 or sense of decent humanity, had ever induced either the 
 fox-hunter Trewman, or Melicent his sister, to invite him 
 for Midsummer or Christmas. At length in the seventh 
 year a letter announced that his school-education had been 
 
 completed, and that he was elected to a scholarship at 
 
 College, Oxford, which scholarship would entitle him to a 
 fellowship in due course of time : in the intervening years 
 some little assistance from his liberal benefactors would be 
 required ; and the liberality of those kind friends would be 
 well bestowed upon a youth who bade so fair to do honor 
 to himself, and to reflect no disgrace upon his honorable con- 
 nections. The head of the family promised his part, with 
 an ungracious expression of satisfaction at thinking that, 
 " thank God, there would soon be an end of these demands 
 upon him." Miss Trewbody signified her assent in the
 
 A LOVE STORY. 175 
 
 same amiable and religious spirit. However much her 
 sister had disgraced her family, she replied, " Please God, 
 it should never be said that she refused to do her duty." 
 
 The whole sum which these wealthy relations contributed 
 was not very heavy, an annual ten pounds each ; but 
 they contrived to make their nephew feel the weight of 
 every separate portion. The Squire's half came always 
 with a brief note, desiring that the receipt of the enclosed 
 sum might be acknowledged without delay, not a word of 
 kindness or courtesy accompanied it : and Miss Trewbody 
 never failed to administer with her remittance a few edify- 
 ing remarks upon the folly of his mother in marrying 
 beneath herself ; and the improper conduct of his father in 
 connecting himself with a woman of family, against the 
 consent of her relations ; the consequence of which was, 
 that he had left a child dependent upon those relations for 
 support. Leonard received these pleasant preparations of 
 charity only at distant intervals, when he regularly expected 
 them, with his half-yearly allowance. But Margaret mean- 
 time was dieted upon the food of bitterness, without one 
 circumstance to relieve the misery of her situation. 
 
 At the time of which I am now speaking, Miss Trewbody 
 was a maiden lady of forty-seven, in the highest state of 
 preservation. The whole business of her life had been to 
 take care of a fine person, and in this she had succeeded 
 admirably. Her library consisted of two books : " Nelson's 
 Festivals and Fasts " was one, the other was " The Queen's 
 Cabinet Unlocked"; and there was not a cosmetic in the 
 latter which she had not faithfully prepared. Thus by 
 means, as she believed, of distilled waters of various kinds, 
 May-dew and buttermilk, her skin retained its beautiful 
 texture still, and much of its smoothness ; and she knew at 
 times how to give it the appearance of that brilliancy which 
 it had lost. But that was a profound secret. Miss Trew- 
 body, remembering the example of Jezebel, always felt
 
 176 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 conscious that she was committing a sin when she took the 
 rouge-box in her hand, and generally ejaculated in a low 
 voice, the Lord forgive me ! when she laid it down : but, 
 looking hi the glass at the same time, she indulged a hope 
 that the nature of the temptation might be considered as 
 an excuse for the transgression. Her other great business 
 was to observe with the utmost precision all the punctilios 
 of her situation in life ; and the time which was not devoted 
 to one or other of these worthy occupations, was employed 
 in scolding her servants, and tormenting her niece. This 
 employment, for it was so habitual that it deserved that 
 name, agreed excellently with her constitution. She was 
 troubled with no acrid humors, no fits of bile, no diseases 
 of the spleen, no vapors or hysterics. The morbid matter 
 was all collected in her temper, and found a regular vent at 
 her tongue. This kept the lungs in vigorous health ; nay, 
 it even seemed to supply the place of wholesome exercise, 
 and to stimulate the system like a perpetual blister, with 
 this peculiar advantage, that instead of an inconvenience it 
 was a pleasure to herself, and all the annoyance was to her 
 dependants. 
 
 Miss Trewbody lies buried in the Cathedral at Salisbury, 
 where a monument was erected to her memory worthy of 
 remembrance itself for its appropriate inscription and ac- 
 companiments. The epitaph recorded her as a woman 
 eminently pious, virtuous, and charitable, who lived univer- 
 sally respected, and died sincerely lamented, by all who had 
 the happiness of knowing her. This inscription was upon 
 a marble shield supported by two Cupids, who bent their 
 heads over the edge, with marble tears larger than gray 
 pease, and something of the same color, upon their cheeks. 
 These were the only tears which her death occasioned, and 
 the only Cupids with whom she had ever any concern.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 177 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A SCENE WHICH WILL PUT SOME OF THOSE READERS WHO HAVE 
 BEEN MOST IMPATIENT WITH THE AUTHOR, IN THE BEST HUMOR 
 WITH HIM. 
 
 There is no argument of more antiquity and elegancy than is the mat- 
 ter of Love ; for it seems to be as old as the world, and to bear date from 
 the first time that man and woman was : therefore in this, as in the finest 
 metal, the freshest wits have in all ages shown their best workmanship. 
 
 ROBERT WILMOT. 
 
 WHEN Leonard had resided three years at Oxford, one 
 of his college-friends invited him to pass the long vacation 
 at his father's house, which happened to be within an easy 
 ride of Salisbury. One morning, therefore, he rode to that 
 city, rung at Miss Trewbody's door, and having sent in his 
 name, was admitted into the parlor, where there was no one 
 to receive him, while Miss Trewbody adjusted her head- 
 dress at the toilette, before she made her appearance. Her 
 feelings while she was thus employed were not of the 
 pleasantest kind toward this unexpected guest ; and she was 
 prepared to accost him with a reproof for his extravagance 
 in undertaking so long a journey, and with some mortifying 
 questions concerning the business which brought him there. 
 But this amiable intention was put to flight, when Leonard, 
 as soon as she entered the room, informed her, that having 
 accepted an invitation into that neighborhood, from his friend 
 and fellow-collegian, the son of Sir Lambert Bowles, he had 
 taken the earliest opportunity of coming to pay his respects 
 to her, and acknowledging his obligations, as bound alike 
 by duty and inclination. The name of Sir Lambert Bowles 
 acted upon Miss Trewbody like a charm ; and its mollify- 
 ing effect was not a little aided by the tone of her nephew's 
 address, and the sight of a fine youth in the first bloom of 
 manhood, whose appearance and manners were such, that 
 8* L
 
 178 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 she could not be surprised at the introduction he had ob- 
 tained into one of the first families in the county. The 
 scowl, therefore, which she brought into the room upon her 
 brow, passed instantly away, and was succeeded by so 
 gracious an aspect, that Leonard, if he had not divined the 
 cause, might have mistaken this gleam of sunshine for fair 
 weather. 
 
 A cause which Miss Trewbody could not possibly suspect 
 had rendered her nephew's address thus conciliatory. Had 
 he expected to see no other person in that house, the visit 
 would have been performed as an irksome obligation, and 
 his manner would have appeared as cold and formal as the 
 reception which he anticipated. But Leonard had not for- 
 gotten the playmate and companion with whom the happy 
 years of his childhood had been passed. Young as he was 
 at their separation, his character had taken its stamp dur- 
 ing those peaceful years, and the impression which it then 
 received was indelible. Hitherto hope had never been to 
 him so delightful as memory. His thoughts wandered back 
 into the past more frequently than they took flight into the 
 future ; and the favorite form which his imagination called 
 up was that of the sweet child, who in winter partook his 
 bench in the chimney-corner, and in summer sat with him 
 in the porch, and strung the fallen blossoms of jessamine 
 upon stalks of grass. The snowdrop and the crocus re- 
 minded him of their little garden, the primrose of their 
 sunny orchard-bank, and the bluebells and the cowslip of 
 the fields, wherein they were allowed to run wild, and 
 gather them in the merry month of May. Such as she 
 then was he saw her frequently in sleep, with her blue 
 eyes, and rosy cheeks, and flaxen curls: and in his day- 
 dreams he sometimes pictured her to himself such as he 
 supposed she now might be, and dressed up the image with 
 all the magic of ideal beauty. His heart, therefore, was at 
 his lips when he inquired for his cousin. It was not with-
 
 A LOVE STORY. 179 
 
 out something like fear, and an apprehension of disappoint- 
 ment, that he awaited her appearance ; and he was secretly 
 condemning himself for the romantic folly which he had 
 encouraged, when the door opened, and a creature came in, 
 less radiant, indeed, but more winning than his fancy 
 had created, for the loveliness of earth and reality was 
 about her. 
 
 "Margaret," said Miss Trewbody, "do you remember 
 your cousin Leonard ? " 
 
 Before she could answer, Leonard had taken her hand. 
 "'Tis a long while, Margaret, since we parted! ten 
 years ! But I have not forgotten the parting nor the 
 blessed days of our childhood." 
 
 She stood trembling like an aspen leaf, and looked wist- 
 fully in his face for a moment, then hung down her head, 
 without power to utter a word in reply. But he felt her 
 tears fall fast upon his hand, and felt also that she returned 
 its pressure. 
 
 Leonard had some difficulty to command himself, so as to 
 bear a part in conversation with his aunt, and keep his eyes 
 and his thoughts from wandering. He accepted, however, 
 her invitation to stay and dine with her with undissembled 
 satisfaction, and the pleasure was not a little heightened 
 when she left the room to give some necessary orders in 
 consequence. Margaret still sate trembling and in silence. 
 He took her hand, pressed it to his lips, and said in a low 
 earnest voice, " Dear, dear Margaret ! " She raised her 
 eyes, and fixing them upon him with one of those looks, 
 the perfect remembrance of which can never be effaced from 
 the heart to which they have been addressed, replied in a 
 lower but not less earnest tone, " Dear Leonard ! " and from 
 that moment their lot was sealed for time and for eternity.
 
 180 EGBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MORE CONCERNING LOVE AND THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Happy the bonds that hold ye; 
 Sure they be sweeter far than liberty, 
 There is no blessedness but in such bondage; 
 Happy that happy chain ; such links are heavenly. 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 I WILL not describe the subsequent interviews between 
 Leonard and his cousin, short and broken, but precious as 
 they were ; nor that parting one, in which hands were 
 plighted with the sure and certain knowledge that hearts 
 had been interchanged. Remembrance will enable some of 
 my readers to portray the scene, and then perhaps a sigh 
 may be heaved for the days that are gone : Hope will pic- 
 ture it to others and with them the sigh will be for the 
 days that are to come. 
 
 There was not that indefinite deferment of hope in this 
 case at which the heart sickens. Leonard had been bred 
 up in poverty from his childhood ; a parsimonious allowance, 
 grudgingly bestowed, had contributed to keep him frugal at 
 college, by calling forth a pardonable if not a commendable 
 sense of pride in aid of a worthier principle. He knew 
 that he could rely upon himself for frugality, industry, and 
 a cheerful as well as a contented mind. He had seen the 
 miserable state of bondage in which Margaret existed with 
 her aunt, and his resolution was made to deliver her from 
 that bondage as soon as he could obtain the smallest bene- 
 fice on which it was possible for them to subsist. They 
 agreed to live rigorously within their means, however poor, 
 and put their trust in Providence. They could not be de- 
 ceived in each other, for they had grown up together; and 
 they knew that they were not deceived in themselves. 
 Their love had the freshness of youth, but prudence and
 
 A LOVE STORY. 181 
 
 forethought were not wanting; the resolution which they 
 had taken brought with it peace of mind, and no misgiving 
 was felt in either heart when they prayed for a blessing 
 upon their purpose. In reality it had already brought a 
 blessing with it; and this they felt; for love, when it de- 
 serves that name, produces in us what may be called a 
 regeneration of its own a second birth dimly, but yet 
 in some degree, resembling that which is effected by Divine 
 Love when its redeeming work is accomplished in the soul. 
 
 Leonard returned to Oxford happier than all this world's 
 wealth or this world's honors could have made him. He 
 had now a definite and attainable hope an object in life 
 which gave to life itself a value. For Margaret, the world 
 no longer seemed to her like the same earth which she had 
 till then inhabited. Hitherto she had felt herself a forlorn 
 and solitary creature, without a friend; and the sweet 
 sounds and pleasant objects of nature, had imparted as little 
 cheerfulness to her as to the debtor who sees green fields in 
 sunshine from his prison, and hears the lark singing at lib- 
 erty. Her heart was open now to all the exhilarating and 
 all the softening influences of birds, fields, flowers, vernal 
 suns, and melodious streams. She was subject to the same 
 daily and hourly exercise of meekness, patience, and hu- 
 mility ; but the trial was no longer painful ; with love in 
 her heart, and hope and sunshine in her prospect, she found 
 even a pleasure in contrasting her present condition with 
 that which was in store for her. 
 
 In these our days every young lady holds the pen of a 
 ready writer, and words flow from it as fast as it can indent 
 its zigzag lines, according to the reformed system of writing, 
 which said system improves handwritings by making 
 them all alike arid all illegible. At that time women wrote 
 better and spelt worse ; but letter-writing was not one of 
 their accomplishments. It had not yet become one of the 
 general pleasures and luxuries of life, perhaps the greatest
 
 182 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 gratification which the progress of civilization has given 
 us. There was then no mail-coach to waft a sigh across the 
 country at the rate of eight miles an hour. Letters came 
 slowly and with long intervals between; but when they 
 came, the happiness which they imparted to Leonard and 
 Margaret lasted during the interval, however long. To 
 Leonard it was as an exhilarant and a cordial which rejoiced 
 and strengthened him. He trod the earth with a lighter and 
 more elated movement on the day when he received a letter 
 from Margaret, as if he felt himself invested with an impor- 
 tance which he had never possessed till the happiness of an- 
 other human being was inseparably associated with his own. 
 
 So proud a thing it was for him to wear 
 
 Love's golden chain, 
 With which it is best freedom to be bound.* 
 
 Happy, indeed, if there be happiness on earth, as that 
 same sweet poet says, is he 
 
 Who love enjoys, and placed hath his mind 
 Where fairest virtues fairest beauties grace, 
 
 Then in himself such store of worth doth find 
 That he deserves to find so good a place.* 
 
 This was Leonard's case ; and when he kissed the paper 
 which her hand had pressed, it was with a consciousness of 
 the strength and sincerity of his affection, which at once re- 
 joiced and fortified his heart. To Margaret his letters were 
 like summer dew upon the herb that thirsts for such refresh- 
 ment. Whenever they arrived, a headache became the 
 cause or pretext for retiring earlier than usual to her cham- 
 ber, that she might weep and dream over the precious lines. 
 
 True gentle love is like the summer dew, 
 
 Which falls around when all is still and hush ; 
 
 And falls unseen until its bright drops strew 
 
 With odors, herb and flower, and bank and bush. 
 
 * Drummond.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 183 
 
 O love ! when womanhood is in the flush, 
 And man 's a young and an unspotted thing, 
 
 His first-breathed word, and her half-conscious blush, 
 Are fair as light in heaven, or flowers in spring* 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 AN EARLY BEREAVEMENT. TRUE LOVE ITS OWN COMFORTEE. A 
 LONELY FATHER AND AN ONLY CHILD. 
 
 Read ye that run the awful truth, 
 
 With which I charge my page; 
 A worm is in the bud of youth, 
 
 And at the root of age. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 LEONARD was not more than eight-and-twenty when he 
 obtained a living, a few miles from Doncaster. He took 
 his bride with him to the vicarage. The house was as hum- 
 ble as the benefice, which was worth less than 50 a year ; 
 but it was soon made the neatest cottage in the country 
 round, and upon a happier dwelling the sun never shone. 
 A few acres of good glebe were attached to it ; and the gar- 
 den was large enough to afford healthful and pleasurable 
 employment to its owners. The course of true love never 
 ran more smoothly ; but its course was short. 
 
 how this spring of love resembleth 
 
 The uncertain glory of an April day, 
 Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, 
 
 And by and by a cloud takes all away ! t 
 
 Little more than five years from the time of their mar- 
 riage had elapsed, before a head-stone in the adjacent 
 churchyard told where the remains of Margaret Bacon had 
 been deposited, in the thirtieth year of her age. 
 
 * Allan Cunningham. t Shakespeare.
 
 184 EGBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 When the stupor and the agony of that bereavement had 
 passed away, the very intensity of Leonard's affection be- 
 came a source of consolation. Margaret had been to him a 
 purely ideal object during the years of his youth; death 
 had again rendered her such. Imagination had beautified 
 and idolized her then ; faith sanctified and glorified her now. 
 She had been to him on earth all that he had fancied, all 
 that he had hoped, all that he had desired. She would 
 again be so in heaven. And this second union nothing 
 could impede, nothing could interrupt, nothing could dis- 
 solve. He had only to keep himself worthy of it by cher- 
 ishing her memory, hallowing his heart to it while he per- 
 formed a parent's duty to their child ; and so doing to await 
 his own summons, which must one day come, which every 
 day was brought nearer, and which any day might bring. 
 
 'T is the only discipline we are born for ; 
 All studies else are but as circular lines, 
 And death the centre where they must all meet.* 
 
 The same feeling which from his chidhood had refined 
 Leonard's heart, keeping it pure and undefiled, had also 
 corroborated the natural strength of his character, and made 
 him firm of purpose. It was a saying of Bishop Andrewesj 
 that " good husbandry is good divinity " ; " the truth where- 
 of," says Fuller, " no wise man will deny." Frugality he 
 had always practised as a needful virtue, and found that, in 
 an especial manner, it brings with it its own reward. He 
 now resolved upon scrupulously setting apart a fourth of his 
 small income to make a provision for his child, in case of 
 her surviving him, as in the natural course of things might 
 be expected. If she should be removed before him for 
 this was an event the possibility of which he always bore in 
 mind he had resolved, that whatever should have been 
 accumulated with this intent, should be disposed of to some 
 
 * Massinger.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 185 
 
 other pious purpose, for such, within the limits to which 
 his poor means extended, he properly considered this. 
 And having entered on this prudential course with a calm 
 reliance upon Providence, in case his hour should come be- 
 fore that purpose could be accomplished, he was without 
 any earthly hope or fear, those alone excepted from 
 which no parent can be free. 
 
 The child had been christened Deborah, after her maternal 
 grandmother, for whom Leonard ever gratefully retained a 
 most affectionate and reverential remembrance. She was 
 a healthy, happy creature in body and in mind ; at first 
 
 one of those little prating girls 
 Of whom fond parents tell such tedious stories ; * 
 
 afterwards, as she grew up, a favorite with the village 
 schoolmistress, and with the whole parish ; docile, good- 
 natured, lively and yet considerate, always gay as a lark and 
 busy as a bee. One of the pensive pleasures in which 
 Leonard indulged was to gaze on her unperceived, and 
 trace the likeness to her mother. 
 
 O Christ ! 
 
 How that which was the life's life of our heing, 
 Can pass away, and we recall it thus ! t 
 
 That resemblance which was strong in childhood lessened 
 as the child grew up ; for Margaret's countenance had ac- 
 quired a cast of meek melancholy during those years in 
 which the bread of bitterness had been her portion ; and, 
 when hope came to her, it was that " hope deferred," which 
 takes from the cheek its bloom, even when the heart, instead 
 of being made sick, is sustained by it. But no unhappy 
 circumstances depressed the constitutional buoyancy of her 
 daughter's spirits. Deborah brought into the world the 
 
 * Dryden. t Isaac Comnenus.
 
 186 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 happiest of all nature's endowments, an easy temper and a 
 light heart. Resemblant therefore as the features were, 
 the dissimiltude of expression was more apparent; and 
 when Leonard contrasted in thought the sunshine of hilarity 
 that lit up his daughter's face, with the sort of moonlight 
 loveliness which had given a serene and saint-like character 
 to her mother's, he wished to persuade himself, that as the 
 early translation of the one seemed to have been thus pre- 
 figured, the other might be destined to live for the happi- 
 ness of others till a good old age, while length of years in 
 their course should ripen her for heaven. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OBSERVATIONS WHICH SHOW, THAT WHATEVER PRIDE MEN MAT 
 TAKE IN THE APPELLATIONS THEY ACQUIRE IN THEIR PROGRESS 
 THROUGH THE WORLD, THEIR DEAREST NAME DIES BEFORE 
 THEM. 
 
 Thus they who reach 
 Gray hairs, die piecemeal. SOUTHEY. 
 
 THE name of Leonard must now be dropped as we pro- 
 ceed. Some of the South American tribes, among whom 
 the Jesuits labored with such exemplary zeal, and who take 
 their personal appellations (as most names were originally 
 derived) from beasts, birds, plants, and other visible objects, 
 abolish upon the death of every individual the name by 
 which he was called, and invent another for the thing from 
 which it was taken, so that their language, owing to this 
 curiously inconvenient custom, is in a state of continual 
 change. An abolition almost as complete with regard to 
 the person had taken place in the present instance. The 
 name, Leonard, was consecrated to him by all his dearest 
 and fondest recollections. He had been known by it on
 
 A LOVE STORY. 187 
 
 his mother's knees, and in the humble cottage of that aunt 
 who had been to him a second mother ; and by the wife of 
 his bosom, his first, last, and only love. Margaret had 
 never spoken to him, never thought of him, by any other 
 name. From the hour of her death, no human voice ever 
 addressed him by it again. He never heard himself so 
 called, except in dreams. It existed only in the dead let- 
 ter ; he signed it mechanically in the course of business, 
 but it had ceased to be a living name. 
 
 Men willingly prefix a handle to their names, and tack 
 on to them any two or more honorary letters of the alphabet 
 as a tail ; they drop their surnames for a dignity, and 
 change them for an estate or a title. They are pleased 
 to be Doctor'd and Professor'd ; to be Captain'd, Major'd, 
 Colonel'd, General' d, or Admiral'd ; to be Sir John'd, my- 
 Lorded, or your-Grace'd. "You and I," says Cranmer in 
 his Answer to Gardiner's book upon Transubstantiation 
 "you and I were delivered from our surnames when we 
 were consecrated Bishops ; sithence which time we have so 
 commonly been used of all men to be called Bishops, you of 
 "Winchester, and I of Canterbury, that the most part of the 
 people know not that your name is Gardiner, and mine 
 Cranmer. And I pray God, that we being called to the 
 name of Lords, have not forgotten our own baser estates, 
 that once we were simple squires ! " But the emotion with 
 which the most successful suitor of Fortune hears himself 
 first addressed by a new and honorable title, conferred upon 
 him for his public deserts, touches his heart less (if that 
 heart be sound at the core), than when after long absence, 
 some one who is privileged so to use it, accosts him by his 
 Christian name, that household name which he has never 
 heard but from his nearest relations, and his old familiar 
 friends. By this it is that we are known to all around us 
 in childhood ; it is used only by our parents and our nearest 
 kin when that stage is passed ; and, as they drop off, it dies 
 as to its oral uses with them.
 
 188 ROBERT SOUTHEY. . 
 
 It is because we are remembered more naturally in our 
 family and paternal circles by our baptismal than our he- 
 reditary names, and remember ourselves more naturally by 
 them, that the Eoman Catholic, renouncing, upon a princi- 
 ple of perverted piety, all natural ties when he enters a 
 convent, and voluntarily dies to the world, assumes a new 
 one. This is one manifestation of that intense selfishness 
 which the law of monastic life inculcates, and affects to 
 sanctify. Alas, there need no motives of erroneous relig- 
 ion to wean us from the ties of blood and of affection ! They 
 are weakened and dissolved by fatal circumstances, and the 
 ways of the world, too frequently and too soon. 
 
 " Our men of rank," said my friend one day when he was 
 speaking upon this subject, "are not the only persons who 
 go by different appellations in different parts of their lives. 
 We all moult our names in the natural course of life. I 
 was Dan in my father's house, and should still be so with 
 my uncle William and Mr. Guy, if they were still living. 
 Upon my removal to Doncaster, my master and mistress 
 called me Daniel, and my acquaintance Dove. In Holland 
 I was Mynheer Duif. Now I am the Doctor, and not 
 among my patients only ; friends, acquaintance, and stran- 
 gers, address me by this appellation ; even my wife calls 
 me by no other name ; and I shall never be anything but 
 the Doctor again, till I am registered at my burial by the 
 same name as at my christening." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE DOCTOR IS INTRODUCED, BY THE SMALL-POX, TO HIS FUTUKE 
 
 Long-waiting love doth entrance find 
 Into the slow-believing mind. 
 
 SYDNEY GODOLPHIN. 
 
 WHEN Deborah was about nineteen, the small-pox broke 
 out in Doncaster, and soon spread over the surrounding
 
 A LOVE STORY. 189 
 
 country, occasioning everywhere a great mortality. At 
 that time inoculation had very rarely been practised in 
 the provinces ; and the prejudice against it was so strong, 
 that Mr. Bacon, though convinced in his own mind that the 
 practice was not only lawful, but advisable, refrained from 
 having his daughter inoculated till the disease appeared in 
 his own parish. He had been induced to defer it during 
 her childhood, partly because he was unwilling to offend the 
 prejudices of his parishioners, which he hoped to overcome 
 by persuasion and reasoning when time and opportunity 
 might favor ; still more, because he thought it unjustifiable 
 to introduce such a disease into his own house, with immi- 
 nent risk of communicating it to others, which were other- 
 wise in no danger, in which the same preparations would 
 not be made, and where, consequently, the danger would be 
 greater. But when the malady had shown itself in the par- 
 ish, then he felt that his duty as a parent required him to 
 take the best apparent means for the preservation of his 
 child ; and that as a pastor also it became him now in his 
 own family to set an example to his parishioners. 
 
 Deborah, who had the most perfect reliance upon her 
 father's judgment, and lived in entire accordance with his 
 will in all things, readily consented ; and seemed to regard 
 the beneficial consequences of the experiment to others with 
 hope, rather than to look with apprehension to it for herself. 
 Mr. Bacon therefore went to Doncaster and called upon 
 Mr. Dove. " I do not," said he, " ask whether you would 
 advise me to have my daughter inoculated ; where so great 
 a risk is to be incurred, in the case of an only child, you 
 might hesitate to advise it. But if you see nothing in her 
 present state of health, or in her constitutional tendencies, 
 which would render it more than ordinarily dangerous, it is 
 her own wish and mine, after due consideration on my part, 
 that she should be committed to your care, putting our 
 trust in Providence."
 
 190 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 Hitherto there had been no acquaintance between Mr. 
 Bacon and the Doctor, farther than that they knew each 
 other by sight and by good report. This circumstance led 
 to a growing intimacy. During the course of his attend- 
 ance, the Doctor fell in friendship with the father, and the 
 father with him. 
 
 " Did he fall in love with his patient?" 
 
 "No, ladies." 
 
 You have already heard that he once fell in love, and 
 how it happened. And you have also been informed that 
 he caught love once, though I have not told you how, 
 because it would have led me into too melancholy a tale. 
 In this case he neither fell in love, nor caught it, nor ran 
 into it, nor walked into it ; nor was he overtaken in it, as a 
 boon companion in liquor, or a runaway in his flight. Yet 
 there was love between the parties at last, and it was love for 
 love, to the heart's content of both. How this came to pass 
 will be related at the proper time and in the proper place. 
 
 For here let me set before the judicious reader certain 
 pertinent remarks by the pious and well-known author of a 
 popular treatise upon the Right Use of Reason, a trea- 
 tise which has been much read to little purpose. That au- 
 thor observes, that " those writers and speakers whose chief 
 business is to amuse or delight, to allure, terrify, or persuade 
 mankind, do not confine themselves to any natural order, but 
 in a cryptical or hidden method, adapt everything to their 
 designed ends. Sometimes they omit those things which 
 might injure their design, or grow tedious to their hearers, 
 though they seem to have a necessary relation to the point in 
 hand ; sometimes they add those things which have no great 
 reference to the subject, but are suited to allure or refresh 
 the mind and the ear. They dilate sometimes, and flourish 
 long upon little incidents, and they skip over, and but 
 lightly touch the dryer part of the theme. They omit things 
 essential which are not beautiful ; they insert little needless
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 191 
 
 circumstances, and beautiful digressions : they invert times 
 and actions, in order to place everything in the most affect- 
 ing light; they place the first things last, and the last 
 things first with wondrous art ; and yet so manage it as to 
 conceal their artifice, and lead the senses and passions of 
 their hearers into a pleasing and powerful captivity." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ME. BACON'S PARSONAGE. CHRISTIAN RESIGNATION. TIME AND 
 CHANGE. WILKIE AND THE MONK IN THE ESCURIAL. 
 
 The idea of her life shall sweetly creep 
 
 Into his study of imagination; 
 
 And every lovely organ of her life 
 
 Shall come apparelled in more precious habit, 
 
 More moving delicate, and full of life, 
 
 Into the eye and prospect of his soul, 
 
 Than when she lived indeed. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 IN a Scotch village the Manse is sometimes the only good 
 house, and generally it is the best ; almost, indeed, what in 
 old times the Mansion used to be in an English one. In Mr. 
 Bacon's parish, the vicarage, though humble as the benefice 
 itself, was the neatest. The cottage in which he and Marga- 
 ret passed their childhood, had been remarkable for that com- 
 fort which is the result and the reward of order and neatness : 
 and when the reunion which blessed them both rendered the 
 remembrance of those years delightful, they returned in 
 this respect to the way in which they had been trained up, 
 practised the economy which they had learned there, and 
 loved to think how entirely their course of life, in. all its cir- 
 cumstances, would be after the heart of that person, if she 
 could behold it, whose memory they both with equal affec- 
 tion cherished. After his bereavement, it was one of the 
 widower's pensive pleasures to keep everything in the same
 
 192 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 state as when Margaret was living. Nothing was neglected 
 that she used to do, or that she would have done. .The 
 flowers were tended as carefully as if she were still to enjoy 
 their fragrance and their beauty ; and the birds who came 
 in winter for their crumbs, were fed as duly for her sake, as 
 they had formerly been by her hands. 
 
 There was no superstition in this, nor weakness. Im- 
 moderate grief, if it does not exhaust itself by indulgence, 
 easily assumes the one character or the other, or takes a 
 type of insanity. But he had looked for consolation, where, 
 when sincerely sought, it is always to be found ; and he had 
 experienced that religion effects in a true believer all that 
 philosophy professes, and more than all that mere philos- 
 ophy can perform. The wounds which stoicism would cau- 
 terize, religion heals. 
 
 There is a resignation with which, it may be feared, 
 most of us deceive ourselves. To bear what must be 
 borne, and submit to what cannot be resisted, is no more 
 than what the unregenerate heart is taught -by the instinct 
 of animal nature. But to acquiesce in the afflictive dispen- 
 sations of Providence, to make one's own will conform in 
 all things to that of our Heavenly Father, to say to him 
 in the sincerity of faith, when we drink of the bitter cup, 
 " Thy will be done ! " to bless the name of the Lord as 
 much from the heart when he takes away as when he gives, 
 and with a depth of feeling, of which, perhaps, none but the 
 afflicted heart is capable, this is the resignation which re- 
 ligion teaches, this the sacrifice which it requires.* This 
 sacrifice Leonard had made, and he felt that it was accepted. 
 
 * This passage was written when- Southey was bowing his head 
 under the sorest and saddest of his many troubles. He thus alludes 
 to it in a letter to J. W. Waiter, dated October 5, 1834. 
 
 " On the next leaf is the passage of which I spoke in my letter from 
 York. It belongs to an early chapter in the third volume ; and very- 
 remarkable it is that it should have been written just at that time."
 
 A LOVE STORY. 193 
 
 Severe, therefore, as his loss had been, and lasting as its 
 effects were, it produced in him nothing like a settled sor- 
 row, nor even that melancholy which sorrow leaves behind. 
 Gibbon has said to himself, that as a mere philosopher he 
 could not agree with the Greeks, in thinking that those who 
 die in their youth are favored by the Gods : 
 
 e Ov of 6fol <f>ihov<riv dirodirf) cruel vtos. 
 
 It was because he was "a mere philosopher," that he 
 failed to perceive a truth which the religious heathen ac- 
 knowledged, and which is so trivial, and of such practical 
 value, that it may now be seen inscribed upon village tomb- 
 stones. The Christian knows that "Blessed are the dead 
 which die in the Lord ; even so saith the Spirit." And the 
 heart of the Christian mourner, in its deepest distress, hath 
 the witness of the Spirit to that consolatory assurance. 
 
 In this faith Leonard regarded his bereavement. His 
 loss, he knew, had been Margaret's gain. What, if she had 
 been summoned in the flower of her years, and from a state 
 of connubial happiness which there had been nothing to dis- 
 turb or to alloy ? How soon might that flower have been 
 blighted, how surely must it have faded, how easily 
 might that happiness have been interrupted, by some of 
 those evils which flesh is heir to ! And as the separation 
 was to take place, how mercifully had it been appointed 
 that he, who was the stronger vessel, should be the survivor ! 
 Even for their child this was the best, greatly as she needed, 
 and would need, a mother's care. His paternal solicitude 
 would supply that care, as far as it was possible to supply 
 it ; but had he been removed, mother and child must have 
 been left to the mercy of Providence, without any earthly 
 protector, or any means of support. 
 
 For her to die was gain ; in him, therefore, it were sinful 
 as well as selfish to repine, and of such selfishness and sin 
 his heart acauitted him. If a wish could have recalled her
 
 194 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 to life, no such wish would ever have by him been uttered, 
 nor ever have by him been felt; certain he was, that he 
 loved her too well to bring her again into this world of in- 
 stability arid trial. Upon earth there can be no safe happi- 
 ness. 
 
 Ah ! male FORTUNE; devota est ara MANENTI. 
 Fallit, et hcec nullas accipit ara preces* 
 
 All things here are subject to Time and Mutability : 
 
 Quod till largo, dedit Hara dextra, 
 Hora furaci rapid, sinistra.^ 
 
 We must be in eternity before we can be secure against 
 cnange. " The world," says Cowper, " upon which we close 
 our eyes at night, is never the same with that on which we 
 open them in the morning." 
 
 It was to the perfect Order he should find in that state 
 upon which he was about to enter, that the judicious Hooker 
 looked forward at his death with placid and profound con- 
 tentment. Because he had been employed in contending 
 against a spirit of insubordination and schism which soon 
 proved fatal to his country ; and because his life had been 
 passed under the perpetual discomfort of domestic discord, 
 the happiness of Heaven seemed, in his estimation, to consist 
 primarily in Order, as, indeed, in all human societies this is 
 the first thing needful. The discipline which Mr. Bacon had 
 undergone was very different in kind : what he delighted to 
 think was, that the souls of those whom death and redemp- 
 tion have made perfect, are in a world where there is no 
 change, nor parting, where nothing fades, nothing passes 
 away and is no more seen, but the good and the beautiful 
 are permanent. 
 
 Miser, chi speme in cosa mortal pone ; 
 Ma, chi non ve la pone ? J 
 
 * Wallius. t Casimir. J Petrarch.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 195 
 
 When "Wilkie was in the Escurial looking at Titian's 
 famous picture of the Last Supper, in the refectory there, 
 an old Jeronimite said to him, " I have sat daily in sight of 
 that picture for now nearly threescore years ; during that 
 time my companions have dropped off, one after another, 
 all who were my seniors, all who were my contemporaries, 
 and many, or most of those who were younger than myself; 
 more than one generation has passed away, and there the 
 figures in the picture have remained unchanged ! I look at 
 them till I sometimes think that they are the realities, and 
 we but shadows ! " * 
 
 I wish I could record the name of the monk by whom 
 that natural feeling was so feelingly and strikingly ex- 
 pressed. 
 
 " The shows of things are better than themselves," 
 
 says the author of the Tragedy of Nero, whose name also 
 I could wish had "been forthcoming ; and the classical reader 
 will remember the lines of Sophocles : 
 
 'Op<3 yap THJLCIS ouSei/ ovras oXXo, ir\t)v 
 EiScuX', ocrotTTfp c3^ev, 77 Koixprjv (TKtdv. t 
 
 These are reflections which should make us think 
 
 Of that same time when no more change shall be, 
 
 But steadfast rest of all things, firmly stayd 
 
 Upon the pillars of Eternity, 
 
 That is contraire to mutability ; 
 
 For all that moveth doth in change delight : 
 
 But thenceforth all shall rest eternally 
 
 With Him that is the God of Sabaoth hight, 
 
 O that great Sabaoth God grant me that sabbath's sight.} 
 
 * See the very beautiful lines of Wordsworth in the " Yarrow 
 Revisited." The affecting incident is introduced in "Lines on a 
 Portrait." 
 
 \ Sophocles. J Spenser.
 
 196 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A COUNTRY PARISH. SOME WHOLESOME EXTRACTS, SOME TRUE 
 ANECDOTES, AND SOME USEFUL HINTS, WHICH WILL NOT BE 
 TAKEN BY THOSE WHO NEED THEM MOST. 
 
 Non e inconveniente, che ddle cose ddettabili alcune ne sieno utili, cosi come 
 dell' utili molte ne sono ddettabili, et in tutte due alcune si truovano 
 honeste. 
 
 LEONE MEDICO (HEBREO.) 
 
 MR. BACON s parsonage was as humble a dwelling in all 
 respects as the cottage in which his friend Daniel was born. 
 A best kitchen was its best room, and in its furniture an 
 Observantine Friar would have seen nothing that he could 
 have condemned as superfluous. His college and later 
 school books, with a few volumes which had been presented 
 to him by the more grateful of his pupils, composed his 
 scanty library : they were either books of needful reference, 
 or such as upon every fresh perusal might afford new 
 delight. But he had obtained the use of the Church Li- 
 brary at Doncaster by a payment of twenty shillings, accord- 
 ing to the terms of the foundation. Folios from that 
 collection might be kept three months, smaller volumes, 
 one or two, according to their size; and as there were 
 many works in it of solid contents as well as sterling value, 
 he was in no such want of intellectual food, as too many of 
 his brethren are, even at this time. How much good might 
 have been done, and how much evil might probably have 
 been prevented, if Dr. Bray's design for the foundation 
 of parochial libraries had been everywhere carried into 
 effect ! 
 
 The parish contained between five and six hundred souls. 
 There was no one of higher rank among them than entitled 
 him, according to the custom of those days, to be styled
 
 A LOVE STORY. 197 
 
 gentleman upon his tombstone. They were plain people, 
 who had neither manufactories to corrupt, alehouses to 
 brutalize, nor newspapers to mislead them. At first com- 
 ing among them he had won their good-will by his affability 
 and benign conduct, and he had afterwards gained their 
 respect and affection in an equal degree. 
 
 There were two services at his church, but only one ser- 
 mon, which never fell short of fifteen minutes in length, and 
 seldom extended to half an hour. It was generally abridged 
 from some good old divine. His own compositions were 
 few,, and only upon points on which he wished carefully 
 to examine and digest his own thoughts, or which were 
 peculiarly suited to some or other of his hearers. His whole 
 stock might be deemed scanty in these days ; but there was 
 not one in it which would not well bear repetition, and the 
 more observant of his congregation liked that they should be 
 repeated. 
 
 Young ministers are earnestly advised long to refrain 
 from preaching their own productions, in an excellent little 
 book addressed by a Father to his Son, preparatory to his 
 receiving holy orders. Its title is a " Monitor for Young 
 Ministers," and every parent who has a son so circum- 
 stanced would do well to put it into his hands. " It is not 
 possible," says this judicious writer, " that a young minister 
 can at first be competent to preach his sermons with effect, 
 even if his abilities should qualify him to write well. His 
 very youth and youthful manner, both in his style of writing 
 and in his delivery, will preclude him from being effective. 
 Unquestionably it is very rare indeed for a man of his age 
 to have his mental abilities sufficiently chastened, or his 
 method sufficiently settled, to be equal to the composition 
 of a sermon fit for public use, even if it should receive the 
 advantage of chaste and good delivery. On every account, 
 therefore, it is wise and prudent to be slow and backward in 
 venturing to produce his own efforts, or in thinking that
 
 198 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 they are fit for the public ear. There is an abundant field 
 of the works of others open to him from the wisest and the 
 best of men, the weight of whose little fingers, in argument 
 or instruction, will be greater than his own loins even at his 
 highest maturity. There is clearly no want of new compo- 
 sitions, excepting on some new or occasional emergencies : 
 for there is not an open subject in the Christian religion, 
 which has not been discussed by men of the greatest learn- 
 ing and piety, who have left behind them numerous works 
 for our assistance and edification. Many of these are so 
 neglected that they are become almost new ground for our 
 generation. To these he may freely resort, till expe- 
 rience and a rational and chastened confidence shall warrant 
 him in believing himself qualified to work upon his own 
 resources." 
 
 " He that learns of young men," says Rabbi Jose Bar 
 Jehudah, " is like a man that eats unripe grapes, or that 
 drinks wine out of the wine-press ; but he that learneth of 
 the ancient, is like a man that eateth ripe grapes, and drink- 
 eth wine that is old." * 
 
 It was not in pursuance of any judicious advice like this 
 that Mr. Bacon followed the course here pointed out, but 
 from his own good sense and natural humility. His only 
 ambition was to be useful ; if a desire may be called ambi- 
 tious which orgiuated in the sincere sense of duty. To 
 think of distinguishing himself in any other way, would for 
 him, he well knew, have been worse than an idle dream. 
 The time expended in composing a sermon as a perfunctory 
 official business, would have been worse than wasted for 
 himself, and the time employed in delivering it, no better 
 than wasted upon his congregation. He was especially 
 careful never to weary them, and, therefore, never to preach 
 anything which was not likely to engage their attention, 
 and make at least some present impression. His own ser- 
 
 * Lightfoot.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 199 
 
 mons effected this, because they were always composed with 
 some immediate view, or under the influence of some deep 
 and strong feeling: and in his adopted ones, the different 
 manner of the different authors produced an awakening 
 effect. Good sense is as often to be found among the illit- 
 erate, as among those who have enjoyed the opportunities 
 of education. Many of his hearers who knew but one 
 meaning of the word style, and had never heard it used in 
 any other, perceived a difference in the manner of Bishops 
 Hall and Sanderson and Jeremy Taylor, of Barrow and 
 South and Scott, without troubling themselves about the 
 cause, or being in the slightest degree aware of it. 
 
 Mr. Bacon neither undervalued his parishioners, nor over- 
 valued the good which could be wrought among them by 
 direct instruction of this kind. While he used perspicuous 
 language, he knew that they who listened to it would be 
 able to follow the argument ; and as he drew always from 
 the wells of English undefiled, he was safe on that point. 
 But that all even of the adults would listen, and that all 
 even of those who did, would do anything more than hear, 
 he was too well acquainted with human nature to expect. 
 
 A woman in humble life was asked one day on the way 
 back from church, whether she had understood the sermon ; 
 a stranger had preached, and his discourse resembled one of 
 Mr. Bacon's neither in length nor depth. " "Wud I hae the 
 persumption ? " was her simple and contented answer. The 
 quality of the discourse signified nothing to her ; she had 
 done her duty, as well as she could, in hearing it ; and she 
 went to her house justified rather than some of those who 
 had attended to it critically ; or who had turned to the text 
 in their Bibles when it was given out. 
 
 " Well, Master Jackson," said his minister, walking home- 
 ward after service with an industrious laborer, who was a 
 constant attendant ; " well, Master Jackson, Sunday must be 
 a blessed day of rest for you, who work so hard all the
 
 200 EGBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 week ! And you make a good use of the day, for you are 
 always to be seen at church!" "Ay, sir," replied Jack- 
 son, " it is indeed a blessed day ; I works hard enough ah 1 
 the week, and then I conies to church o' Sundays, and sets 
 me down, and lays my legs up, and thinks o' nothing." 
 
 " Let my candle go out in a stink, when I refuse to con- 
 fess from whom I have lighted it." * The author to whose 
 little book f I am beholden for this true anecdote, after say- 
 ing, " Such was the religion of this worthy man," justly 
 adds, " and such must be the religion of most men of his sta- 
 tion. Doubtless, it is a wise dispensation that it is so. 
 For so it has been from the beginning of the world, and 
 there is no visible reason to suppose that it can ever be 
 otherwise." 
 
 " In spite," says this judicious writer, " of all the zealous 
 wishes and efforts of the most pious and laborious teachers, 
 the religion of the bulk of the people must and will ever be 
 little more than mere habit, and confidence in others. This 
 must of necessity be the case with all men, who, from defect 
 of nature or education, or from other worldy causes, have 
 not the power or the disposition to think ; and it cannot be 
 disputed that the far greater number of mankind are of this 
 class. These facts give peculiar force to those lessons 
 which teach the importance and efficacy of good example 
 from those who are blessed with higher qualifications ; and 
 they strongly demonstrate the necessity, that the zeal of 
 those who wish to impress the people with the deep and 
 awful mysteries of religion should be tempered by wisdom 
 and discretion, no less than by patience, forbearance, and 
 a great latitude of indulgence for uncontrollable circum- 
 stances. They also call upon us most powerfully to do all 
 we can to provide such teachers, and imbue them with such 
 principles as shall not endanger the good cause by over 
 
 * Fuller. t Few Words on many Subjects.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 201 
 
 earnest efforts to effect more than, in the nature of things, 
 can be done ; or disturb the existing good by attempting 
 more than will be borne, or by producing hypocritical pre- 
 tences of more than can be really felt." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 SHOWING HOW THE VICAR DEALT WITH THE JUVENILE PART OF 
 HIS FLOCK J AND HOW HE WAS OF OPINION THAT THE MORE 
 PLEASANT THE WAT IN WHICH CHILDREN ARE TRAINED UP TO 
 GO CAN BE MADE FOR THEM, THE LESS LIKELY THEY WILL 
 BE TO DEPART FROM IT. 
 
 Sweet were the sauce would please each kind of taste, 
 The life, likewise, were pure that never swerved; 
 
 For spiteful tongues, in cankered stomachs placed, 
 Deem worst of things which best, percase, deserved. 
 
 But what for that ? This medicine may suffice, 
 
 To scorn the rest, and seek to please the wise. 
 
 SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 THE first thing which Mr. Bacon had done after taking 
 possession of his vicarage, and obtaining such information 
 about his parishioners as the more considerate of them 
 could impart, was to inquire into the state of the children 
 in every household. He knew that to win the mother's 
 good-will was the surest way to win that of the family, and 
 to win the children was a good step toward gaining that 
 of the mother. In those days reading and writing were 
 thought as little necessary for the lower class, as the art 
 of spelling for the class above them, or indeed for any 
 except the learned. Their ignorance in this respect was 
 sometimes found to be inconvenient, but by none, perhaps, 
 except here and there by a conscientious and thoughtful 
 clergyman, was it felt to be an evil, an impediment in 
 the way of that moral and religious instruction, without 
 
 which men are in danger of becoming as the beasts that 
 9*
 
 202 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 perish. Yet the common wish of advancing their children 
 in the world, made most parents in this station desire to 
 obtain the advantage of what they called book-learning for 
 any son, who was supposed to manifest a disposition likely 
 to profit by it. To make him a scholar was to raise him a 
 step above themselves. 
 
 Qui ha les lettres, ha I'adresse 
 
 Au double d'un qui n'en ha point.* 
 
 Partly for this reason, and still more that industrious moth- 
 ers might be relieved from the care of looking after their 
 children, there were few villages in which, as in Mr. 
 Bacon's parish, some poor woman in the decline of life and 
 of fortune did not obtain day-scholars enough to eke out her 
 scanty means of subsistence. 
 
 The village schoolmistress, such as Shenstone describes 
 
 O * 
 
 in his admirable poem, and such as Kirke White drew from 
 the life, is no longer a living character. The new system 
 of education has taken from this class of women the staff 
 of their declining age, as the spinning-jennies have silenced 
 the domestic music of the spinning-wheel. Both changes 
 have come on unavoidably in the progress of human affairs. 
 It is well when any change brings with it nothing worse 
 than some temporary and incidental evil ; but if the moral 
 machinery can counteract the great and growing evils of 
 the manufacturing system, it will be the greatest moral 
 miracle that has ever been wrought. 
 
 Sunday schools, which make Sunday a day of toil to the 
 teachers, and the most irksome day of the week to the chil- 
 dren, had not at that time been devised as a palliative for 
 the profligacy of large towns, and the worsened and worsen- 
 ing condition of the poor. Mr. Bacon endeavored to make 
 the parents perform their religious duty toward their chil- 
 dren, either by teaching them what they could themselves 
 teach, or by sending them where their own want of knowl- 
 * Baif.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 203 
 
 edge might be supplied. Whether the children went to 
 school or not, it was his wish that they should be taught 
 their prayers, the Creed, and the Commandments, at home. 
 These he thought were better learned at the mother's knees 
 than from any other teacher ; and he knew also how whole- 
 some for the mother it was, that the child should receive 
 from her its first spiritual food, the milk of sound doctrine. 
 In a purely agi'icultural parish, there were at that time no 
 parents in a state of such brutal ignorance as to be unable 
 to teach these, though they might never have been taught 
 to read. When the father or mother could read, he ex- 
 pected that they should also teach their children the 
 Catechism ; in other cases this was left to his humble 
 coadjutrix, the schoolmistress. 
 
 During the summer and part of the autumn, he followed 
 the good old usage of catechising the children, after the 
 second lesson in the evening service. His method was to 
 ask a few questions in succession, and only from those who 
 he knew were able to answer them ; and after each answer 
 he entered into a brief exposition suited to their capacity. 
 His manner was so benevolent, and he had made himself 
 so familiar in his visits, which were at once pastoral and 
 friendly, that no child felt alarmed at being singled out; 
 they regarded it as a mark of distinction, and the parents 
 were proud of seeing them thus distinguished. This prac- 
 tice was discontinued in winter ; because he knew that to 
 keep a congregation in the cold is not the way either to 
 quicken or cherish devotional feeling. Once a week during 
 Lent he examined all the children, on a week-day ; the last 
 examination was in Easter week, after which each was sent 
 home happy with a homely cake, the gift of a wealthy 
 parishioner, who by this means contributed not a little to 
 the good effect of the pastor's diligence. 
 
 The foundation was thus laid by teaching the rising gen- 
 eration their duty towards God and towards their neighbor,
 
 204 EGBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 and so far training them in the way that they should go. 
 In the course of a few years every household, from the 
 highest to the lowest, (the degrees were neither great 
 nor many,) had learned to look upon him as their friend. 
 There was only one in the parish whose members were 
 upon a parity with him in manners, none in literary cul- 
 ture ; but in good-will, and in human sympathy, he was 
 upon a level with them all. Never interfering in the con- 
 cerns of any family, unless his interference was solicited, he 
 was consulted upon all occasions of trouble or importance. 
 Incipient disputes, which would otherwise have afforded 
 grist for the lawyer's mill, were adjusted by his mediation ; 
 and anxious parents, when they had cause to apprehend 
 that their children were going wrong, knew no better 
 course than to communicate their fears to him, and re- 
 quest that he would administer some timely admonition. 
 Whenever he was thus called on, or had of himself per- 
 ceived that reproof or warning was required, it was given 
 in private, or only in presence of the parents, and always 
 with a gentleness which none but an obdurate disposition 
 could resist. His influence over the younger part of his 
 flock was the greater because he was no enemy to any in- 
 nocent sports, but, on the contrary, was pleased to see them 
 dance round the May-pole, encouraged them to dress their 
 doors with oaken boughs on the day of King Charles's 
 happy restoration, and to wear an oaken garland in the 
 hat, or an oak-apple on its sprig in the button-hole; went 
 to see their bonfire on the 5th of November, and enter- 
 tained the morris-dancers when they called upon him in 
 their Christmas rounds. 
 
 Mr. Bacon was in his parish what a moralizing old poet 
 wished himself to be, in these pleasing stanzas : 
 
 I would I were an excellent divine. 
 
 That had the Bible at my fingers' ends,
 
 A LOVE STOEY. 205 
 
 That men might hear out of this mouth of mine 
 
 How God doth make his enemies his friends ; 
 Rather than with a thundering and long prayer 
 Be led into presumption, or despair. 
 
 This would I be, and would none other be 
 
 But a religious servant of my God: 
 And know there is none other God but He 
 
 And willingly to suffer Mercy's rod, 
 Joy in his grace and live but in his love, 
 And seek my bliss but in the world above. 
 
 And I would frame a kind of faithful prayer 
 
 For all estates within the state of grace j 
 That careful love might never know despair, 
 
 Nor servile fear might faithful love deface ; 
 And this would I both day and night devise 
 To make my humble spirits exercise. 
 
 And I would read the rules of sacred life, 
 
 Persuade the troubled soul to patience, 
 The husband care, and comfort to the wife, 
 
 To child and servant due obedience, 
 Faith to the friend and to the neighbor peace, 
 That love might live, and quarrels all might cease ; 
 
 Pray for the health of all that are diseased, 
 
 Confession unto all that are convicted, 
 And patience unto all that are displeased, 
 
 And comfort unto all that are afflicted, 
 And mercy unto all that have offended, 
 And grace to all, that all may be amended.* 
 
 * N. B., supposed to be Nicholas Breton.
 
 206 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 8OME ACCOUNT OF A RETIRED TOBACCONIST AND HIS FAMILY. 
 
 Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem. 
 
 HORACE. 
 
 IN all Mr. Bacon's views he was fortunate enough to 
 have the hearty concurrence of the wealthiest person in the 
 parish. This was a good man, Allison by name, who, hav- 
 ing realized a respectable fortune in the metropolis as a 
 tobacconist, and put out his sons in life according to their 
 respective inclinations, had retired from business at the age 
 of threescore, and established himself with an unmarried 
 daughter, and a maiden sister some ten years younger than 
 himself, in his native village, that he might there, when his 
 hour should come, be gathered to his fathers. 
 
 " The providence of God," says South, " has so ordered 
 the course of things, that there is no action, the usefulness 
 of which has made it the matter of duty and of a profession, 
 but a man may bear the continual pursuit of it, without 
 loathing or satiety. The same shop and trade that employs 
 a man in his youth, employs him also in his age. Every 
 morning he rises fresh to his hammer and his anvil : custom 
 has naturalized his labor to him ; his shop is his element, 
 and he cannot, with any enjoyment of himself, live out of 
 it." The great preacher contrasts this with the wearisome- 
 ness of an idle life, and the misery of a continual round of 
 what the world calls pleasure. " But now," says he, " if 
 God has interwoven such a contentment with the works 
 of our ordinary calling, how much superior and more re- 
 fined must that be that arises from the survey of a pious 
 and well-governed life ? " 
 
 This passage bears upon Mr. Allison's case, partly in the 
 consolatory fact which it states, and wholly in the applica-
 
 A LOVE STORY. 207 
 
 tion which South has made of it. At the age of fourteen 
 he had been apprenticed to an uncle in Bishop?gate Street 
 Within; and twenty years 'after, on that uncle's death, had 
 succeeded to his old and well-established business. But 
 though he had lived there prosperously and happily six and 
 twenty years longer, he had contracted no such love for it 
 as to overcome the recollections of his childhood. Grateful 
 as the smell of snuff and tobacco had become to him, he 
 still remembered that cowslips and violets were sweeter ; 
 and that the breath of a May morning was more exhila- 
 rating than the air of his own shop, impregnated as it was 
 with the odor of the best Virginia. So having buried his 
 wife, who was a Londoner, and made over the business to 
 his eldest son, he returned to his native place, with the 
 intention of dying there ; but he was in sound health of 
 body and mind, and his green old age seemed to promise, 
 as far as anything can promise, length of days. 
 
 Of his two other sons, one had chosen to be a clergyman, 
 and approved his choice both by his parts and diligence; 
 for he had gorie off from Merchant-Tailors' School to St. 
 John's, Oxford, and was then a fellow of that college. The 
 other was a mate in the Merchants' service, and would soon 
 have the command of a ship in it. The desire of seeing 
 the world led him to this way of life ; and that desire had 
 been unintentionally implanted by his father, who, in making 
 himself acquainted with everything relating to the herb out 
 of which his own fortune was raised, had become fond of 
 reading voyages and travels. His conversation induced the 
 lad to read these books, and the books confirmed the incli- 
 nation which had already been excited ; and, as the boy was 
 of an adventurous temper, he thought it best to let him 
 follow the pursuit on which his mind was bent. 
 
 The change to a Yorkshire village was not too great for 
 Mr. Allison, even after residing nearly half a century in 
 Bishopsgate Street Within. The change in his own house- 
 hold, indeed, rendered it expedient for him to begin, in this
 
 208 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 sense, a new life. He had lost his mate ; the young birds 
 were full-fledged and had taken flight ; and it was time that 
 he should look out a retreat for himself and the single nest- 
 ling that remained under his wing, now that his son and 
 successor had brought home a wife. The marriage had 
 been altogether with his approbation ; but it altered his 
 position in the house ; and in a still greater degree his 
 sister's ; moreover, the nest would soon be wanted for an- 
 other brood. Circumstances thus compelled him to put in 
 effect what had been the dream of his youth, and the still 
 remote intention of his middle age. 
 
 Miss Allison, like her brother, regarded this removal as a 
 great and serious change, preparatory to the only greater 
 one in this world that now remained for both ; but, like 
 him, she regarded it rather seriously than sadly, or sadly 
 only in the old sober meaning of the word ; and there was 
 a soft, sweet, evening sunshine in their prospect, which both 
 partook, because both had retained a deep affection for the 
 scenes of their childhood. To Betsey, her niece, nothing 
 could be more delightful than the expectation of such a re- 
 moval. She, who was then only entering her teens, had 
 nothing to regret in leaving London ; and the place to 
 which she was going was the very spot which, of all others 
 in this wide world, from the time in which she was con- 
 scious of forming a wish, she had wished most to see. Her 
 brother, the sailor, was not more taken with the story of 
 Pocahontas and Captain Smith, or Dampier's Voyages, than 
 she was with her aunt's details of the farm and the dairy at 
 Thaxted Grange, the May-games and the Christmas gam- 
 bols, the days that were gone, and the elders who were 
 departed. To one born and bred in the heart of London, 
 who had scarcely ever seen a flock of sheep, except when 
 they were driven through the streets to or from Smithfield, 
 no fairy tale could present more for the imagination than a 
 description of green fields and rural life. The charm of 
 truth heightened it, and the stronger charm of natural
 
 A LOVE STORY. 209 
 
 piety; for the personages of the tale were her near kin, 
 whose names she had learned to love, and whose living 
 memory she revered, but whose countenances she never 
 could behold till she should be welcomed by them in the 
 everlasting mansions of the righteous. 
 
 None of the party were disappointed when they had es- 
 tablished themselves at the Grange. Mr. Allison found full 
 occupation at first in improving the house, and afterwards 
 in his fields and garden. Mr. Bacon was just such a clergy- 
 man as he would have chosen for his parish priest, if it had 
 been in his power to choose, only he would have had him 
 provided with a better benefice. The single thing on which 
 there was a want of agreement between them was, that 
 the Vicar neither smoked nor took snuff; he was not the 
 worst company on this account, for he had no dislike to 
 the fragrance of a pipe ; but his neighbor lost the pleasure 
 which he would have had in supplying him with the best 
 Pig-tail, and with Strasburg or Rappee. Miss Allison fell 
 into the habits of her new station the more easily, because 
 they were those which she had witnessed in her early 
 youth ; she distilled waters, dried herbs, and prepared con- 
 serves, which were at the service of all who needed them 
 in sickness. Betsey attached herself at first sight to Deborah, 
 who was about five years elder, and soon became to her as 
 a sister. The aunt rejoiced in finding so suitable a friend 
 and companion for her niece ; and as this connection was a 
 pleasure and an advantage to the Allisons, so was it of the 
 greatest benefit to Deborah. 
 
 What of her ensues 
 
 I list not prophesy, but let Time's news 
 Be known, when 't is brought forth. Of this allow 
 If ever you have spent time worse ere now ; 
 If never yet, the Author then doth say, 
 He wishes earnestly you never may.* 
 
 * Shakespeare.
 
 210 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MOKE CONCERNING THE AFORESAID TOBACCONIST. 
 
 I donbt nothing at all but that you shall like the man every day better 
 than other ; for verily I think he lacketh not of those qualities which 
 should become any honest man to have, over and besides the gift of 
 nature wherewith God hath above the common rate endued him. 
 
 ARCHBISHOP CKANMER. 
 
 MR. ALLISON was as quiet a subject as Peter Hopkins, 
 but he was not like him a political quietist from indiffer- 
 ence, for he had a warm sense of loyalty, and a well-rooted 
 attachment to the constitution of his country in church and 
 state. His ancestors had suffered in the Great Rebellion, 
 and much the greater part of their never large estates had 
 been alienated to raise the fines imposed upon them as de- 
 linquents. The uncle, whom he succeeded in Bishopsgate 
 Street, had, in his early apprenticeship, assisted at burning 
 the Rump, and in maturer years had joined as heartily in 
 the rejoicings when the Seven Bishops were released from 
 the Tower: he subscribed to Walker's "Account "of the 
 Sufferings of the Clergy," and had heard sermons preached 
 by the famous Dr. Scott (which were afterwards incorpo- 
 rated in his great work upon the Christian Life) iu the 
 church of St. Peter-le-Poor (oddly so called, seeing that 
 there are few districts within the City of London so rich, 
 insomuch that the last historian of the metropolis believed 
 the parish to have scarcely a poor family in it), and in 
 All-hallows, Lombard Street, where, during the reign of 
 the Godly, the puritanical vestry passed a resolution, that 
 if any persons should come to the church " on the day 
 called Christ's birthday," they should be compelled to 
 leave it. 
 
 In these principles Mr. Allison had grown up ; and with- 
 out any profession of extra religion, or ever wearing a
 
 A LOVE STORY. 211 
 
 sanctified face, he had in the evening of his life attained 
 " the end of the commandment, which is charity, proceeding 
 from a pure heart, and a good conscience, and a faith un- 
 feigned." London in his days was a better school for young 
 men in trade than it ever was before, or has been since. 
 The civic power had quietly and imperceptibly put an end 
 to that club-law which once made the apprentices a tur- 
 bulent and formidable body, at any moment armed as well 
 as ready for a riot ; and masters exercised a sort of parental 
 control over the youth intrusted to them, which in later 
 times it may be feared has not been so conscientiously ex- 
 erted, because it is not likely to be so patiently endured. 
 Trade itself had not then been corrupted by that ruinous 
 spirit of competition, which, more than any other of the 
 evils now pressing upon us, deserves to be called the curse 
 of England in the present age. At all times men have 
 been to be found, who engaged in hazardous speculations, 
 gamester like, according to their opportunities, or who, mis- 
 taking the means for the end, devoted themselves with 
 miserable fidelity to the service of Mammon. But " Live 
 and let live," had not yet become a maxim of obsolete mo- 
 rality. We had our monarchy, or hierarchy, and our aristoc- 
 racy, God be praised for the benefits which have been 
 derived from all three, and God in his mercy continue them 
 to us ! but we had no plutarchy, no millionnaires, no great 
 capitalists to break down the honest and industrious trader 
 with the weight of their overbearing and overwhelming 
 wealth. They who had enriched themselves in the course 
 of regular and honorable commerce withdrew from business, 
 and left the field to others. Feudal tyranny had passed 
 away, and moneyed tyranny had not yet arisen in its stead, 
 a tyranny baser in its origin, not more merciful in its 
 operations, and with less in its appendages to redeem it. 
 
 Trade, in Mr. Allison's days, was a school of thrift and 
 probity, as much as of profit and loss ; such his shop had
 
 212 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 been when he succeeded to it upon his uncle's decease, and 
 such it continued to be when he transmitted it to his son. 
 Old Mr. Strahan the printer (the founder of his typarchical 
 dynasty) said to Dr. Johnson, that " there are few ways in 
 which a man can be more innocently employed than in get- 
 ting money " ; and he added, that " the more one thinks of 
 this the juster it will appear." Johnson agreed with him ; 
 and though it was a money-maker's observation, and though 
 the more it is considered now, the more fallacious it will be 
 found, the general system of trade might have justified it 
 at that time. The entrance of an exciseman never occa- 
 sioned any alarm or apprehension at No. 118 Bishopsgate 
 Street Within, nor any uncomfortable feeling, unless the 
 officer happened to be one who, by giving unnecessary 
 trouble, and by gratuitous incivility in the exercise of 
 authority, made an equitable law odious in its execution. 
 They never there mixed weeds with their tobacco, nor 
 adulterated it in any worse way; and their snuff was never 
 rendered more pungent by stirring into it a certain propor- 
 tion of pounded glass. The duties were honestly paid, with 
 a clear perception that the impost fell lightly upon all whom 
 it affected, and affected those only who chose to indulge 
 themselves in a pleasure which was still cheap, and which, 
 without any injurious privation, they might forego. Nay, 
 when our good man expatiated upon the uses of tobacco, 
 which Mr. Bacon demurred at, and the Doctor sometimes 
 playfully disputed, he ventured an opinion, that among the 
 final causes for which so excellent an herb had been cre- 
 ated, the facilities afforded by it towards raising the revenue 
 in a well-governed country like our own, might be one. 
 
 There was a strong family likeness between him and his 
 sister, both in countenance and disposition. Elizabeth Alli- 
 son was a person for whom the best and wisest man might 
 have thanked Providence if she had been allotted to him for 
 helpmate. But though she had, in Shakespeare's language,
 
 A LOVE STORY. 213 
 
 " withered on the virgin thorn," hers had not been a life of 
 single blessedness : she had been a blessing first to her par- 
 ents ; then to her brother and her brother's family, where she 
 relieved an amiable but sickly sister-in-law from those do- 
 mestic offices which require activity and forethought ; lastly, 
 after the dispersion of his sons, the transfer of the business 
 to the eldest, and the breaking-up of his old establishment, 
 to the widower and his daughter, the only child who cleaved 
 to him, not like Ruth to Naomi, by a meritorious act of 
 duty, for in her case it was in the ordinary course of things, 
 without either sacrifice or choice ; but the effect in endear- 
 ing her to him was the same. 
 
 In advanced stages of society, and nowhere more than in 
 England at this time, the tendency of all things is to weaken 
 the relations between parent and child, and frequently to de- 
 stroy them, reducing human nature in this respect nearer to 
 the level of animal life. Perhaps the greater number of 
 male children who are " born into the world," in our part 
 of it, are put out at as early an age, proportionately, as the 
 young bird is driven from its nest, or the young beast turned 
 off by its dam as being capable of feeding and protecting 
 itself; and in many instances they are as totally lost to the 
 parent, though not in like manner forgotten. Mr. Allison 
 never saw all his children together after his removal from 
 London. The only time when his three sons met at the 
 Grange was when they came there to attend their father's 
 funeral j nor would they then have been assembled, if the 
 Captain's ship had not happened to have recently arrived in 
 port. 
 
 This is a state of things more favorable to the wealth 
 than to the happiness of nations. It was a natural and pious 
 custom in patriarchal times that the dead should be gath- 
 ered unto their people. " Bury me," said Jacob, when he 
 gave his dying charge to his sons, " bury me with my 
 fathers in the cave that is in the field of Machpelah, which
 
 214 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 is before Mamre in the land of Canaan, which Abraham 
 bought with the field of Ephron the Hittite, for a posses- 
 sion of a burying-place. There they buried Abraham and 
 Sarah his wife ; there they buried Isaac and Rebecca his 
 wife ; and there I buried Leah." Had such a passage 
 occurred in Homer, or in Dante, all critics would have con- 
 curred in admiring the truth and beauty of the sentiment. 
 He had buried his beloved Rachel by the way where she 
 died ; but, although he remembered this at his death, the 
 orders which he gave were, that his own remains should be 
 laid in the sepulchre of his fathers. The same feeling pre- 
 vails among many, or most of those savage tribes who are 
 not utterly degraded. With them the tree is not left to lie 
 where it falls. The body of one who dies on an expedition 
 is interred on the spot, if distance or other circumstances 
 render it inconvenient to transport the corpse ; but, how- 
 ever long the journey, it is considered as a sacred duty that 
 the bones should at some time or other be brought home. 
 In Scotland, where the common rites of sepulture are 
 performed with less decency than in any other Christian 
 country, the care with which family burial-grounds in the 
 remoter parts are preserved, may be referred as much to 
 natural feeling as to hereditary pride. 
 
 But as indigenous flowers are eradicated by the spade and 
 plough, so this feeling is destroyed in the stirring and bust- 
 ling intercourse of commercial life. No room is left for it ; 
 as little of it at this time remains in wide America as in 
 thickly-peopled England. That to which soldiers and sail- 
 ors are reconciled by the spirit of their profession, and the 
 chances of war and of the seas, the love of adventure and 
 the desire of advancement cause others to regard with the 
 same indifference ; and these motives are so prevalent, that 
 the dispersion of families and the consequent disruption of 
 natural ties, if not occasioned by necessity, would now 
 in most instances be the effect of choice. Even those
 
 A LOVE STORY. 215 
 
 to whom it is an inevitable evil, and who feel it deeply as 
 such, look upon it as something in the appointed course of 
 things, as much as infirmity and age and death. 
 
 It is well for us that in early life we never think of the 
 vicissitudes which lie before us ; or look to them only with 
 pleasurable anticipations as they approach. 
 
 Youth 
 
 Knows naught of changes : Age hath traced them oft, 
 Expects and can interpret them.* 
 
 The thought of them, when it comes across us in middle 
 life, brings with it only a transient sadness, like the shadow 
 of a passing cloud. We turn our eyes from them while 
 they are in prospect ; but when they are in retrospect 
 many a longing, lingering look is cast behind. So long as 
 Mr. Allison was in business, he looked to Thaxted Grange 
 as the place where he hoped one day to enjoy the blessings 
 of retirement, that otium cum dignitate, which in a certain 
 sense the prudent citizen is more likely to attain than the 
 successful statesman. It was the pleasure of recollection 
 that gave this hope its zest and its strength. But after the 
 object which during so many years he had held in view had 
 been obtained, his day-dreams, if he had allowed them to 
 take their course, would have recurred more frequently to 
 Bishopsgate Street than they had ever wandered from 
 thence to the scenes of his boyhood. They recurred 
 thither oftener than he wished, although few men have 
 been more masters of themselves ; and then the remem- 
 brance of his wife, whom he had lost by a lingering disease 
 in middle age ; and of the children, those who had died 
 during their childhood, and those who in reality were almost 
 as much lost to him in the ways of the world, made him 
 alway turn for comfort to the prospect of that better state 
 of existence in which they should once more all be gathered 
 
 * Isaac Comnenus.
 
 216 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 together, and where there would be neither change nor part- 
 ing. His thoughts often fell into this train, when on sum- 
 mer evenings he was taking a solitary pipe in his arbor, 
 with the church in sight, and the churchyard wherein, at no 
 distant time, he was to be laid in his last abode. Such 
 musings induced a sense of sober piety, of thankfulness 
 for former blessings, contentment with the present, and 
 humble yet sure and certain hope for futurity, which might 
 vainly have been sought at prayer-meetings or evening lec- 
 tures, where indeed little good can ever be obtained withr 
 out some deleterious admixture, or alloy of baser feelings. 
 
 The happiness which he had found in retirement was of 
 a different kind from what he had contemplated ; for the 
 shades of evening were gathering when he reached the 
 place of his long wished for rest, and the picture of it which 
 had imprinted itself on his imagination was a morning 
 view. But he had been prepared for this by that slow 
 change, of which we are not aware during its progress till 
 we see it reflected in others, and are thus made conscious 
 of it in ourselves ; and he found a satisfaction in the station 
 which he occupied there, too worthy in its nature to be 
 called pride, and which had not entered into his anticipa- 
 tions. It is said to have been a saying of George the 
 Third, that the happiest condition in which an English- 
 man could be placed, was just below that wherein it would 
 have been necessary for him to act as a Justice of the Peace, 
 and above that which would have rendered him liable to 
 parochial duties. This was just Mr. Allison's position ; 
 there was nothing which brought him into rivalry or com- 
 petition with the surrounding Squirarchy, and the yeomen 
 and peasantry respected him for his own character, as well 
 as for his name's sake. He gave employment to more per- 
 sons than when he was engaged in trade, and his indirect 
 influence over them was greater ; that of his sister was still 
 more. The elders of the village remembered her in her
 
 A LOVE STORY. 217 
 
 youth, and loved her for what she then had been, as well as 
 for what she now was ; the young looked up to her as the 
 Lady Bountiful, to whom no one that needed advice or 
 assistance ever applied in vain. She it was who provided 
 those much approved plum-cakes, not the less savory for 
 being both homely and wholesome, the thought of which 
 induced the children to look on to their Lent examination 
 with hope, and prepare for it with alacrity. Those offices in 
 a parish which are the province of the Clergyman's wife, 
 when he has made choice of one who knows her duty, and 
 has both will and ability to discharge it, Miss Allison per- 
 formed ; and she rendered Mr. Bacon the farther, and to him 
 individually the greater, service of imparting to his daughter 
 those instructions which she had no mother to impart. 
 Deborah could not have had a better teacher ; but as the 
 present chapter has extended to a sufficient length, 
 
 Diremo il resto in qud che vien dipoi, 
 Per non venire a noja a me e vol.* 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A FEW PARTICULARS CONCERNING NO. 113 BISHOPSGATE STREET 
 WITHIN J AND OF THE FAMILY AT THAXTED GRANGE. 
 
 Opinion is the rate of things, 
 
 From hence our peace doth flow; 
 I have a better fate than kings, 
 
 Because I think it so. 
 
 KATHARINE PHILIPS. 
 
 THE house wherein Mr. Allison realized by fair dealing 
 and frugality the modest fortune which enabled him to re- 
 purchase the homestead of his fathers, is still a Tobacco- 
 nist's, and has continued to be so from " the palmy days " 
 
 * Orlando Innamorato.
 
 218 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 of that trade, when King James vainly endeavored, by the 
 expression of his royal dislike, to discountenance the newly- 
 imported practice of smoking ; and Joshua Sylvester thun- 
 dered from Mount Helicon a Volley of Holy Shot, thinking 
 that thereby " Tobacco " should be " battered, and the Pipes 
 shattered, about their ears that idly idolize so base and bar- 
 barous a weed, or at least-wise overlove so loathsome van- 
 ity." * For he said, 
 
 If there be any Herb in any place 
 
 Most opposite to God's good Herb of Grace, 
 
 J T is doubtless this ; and this doth plainly prove it, 
 
 That for the most, most graceless men do love it. 
 
 Yet it was not long before the dead and unsavory odor of 
 that weed, to which a Parisian was made to say that " sea- 
 coal smoke seemed a very Portugal perfume," prevailed as 
 much in the raiment of the more coarsely clad part of the 
 community, as the scent of lavender among those who were 
 clothed in fine linen, and fared sumptuously every day : and 
 it had grown so much in fashion, that it was said children 
 " began to play with broken pipes, instead of corals, to make 
 way for their teeth." 
 
 Louis XIV. endeavored just as ineffectually to discourage 
 the use of snuff-taking. His valets de chambre were obliged 
 to renounce it when they were appointed to their office ; 
 and the Duke of Harcourt was supposed to have died of 
 apoplexy in consequence of having, to please his Majesty, 
 left off at once a habit which he had carried to excess. 
 
 I know not through what intermediate hands the business 
 at No. 113 has passed, since the name of Allison was with- 
 drawn from the firm ; nor whether Mr. Evans, by whom it 
 is now carried on there, is in any way related by descent 
 with that family. Matters of no greater importance to most 
 
 * Old Burton's was a modified opinion. See Anatomic of Melan- 
 choly, Part ii. 2, mem. 2, subs. 2.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 219 
 
 men have been made the subject of much antiquarian in- 
 vestigation ; and they who busy themselves in such inves- 
 tigations must not be said to be ill-employed, for they find 
 harmless amusement in the pursuit, and sometimes put up a 
 chance truth of which others, soon or late, discover the ap- 
 plication. The house has at this time a more antiquated 
 appearance than any other in that part of the street, though 
 it was modernized some forty or fifty years after Mr. Ba- 
 con's friend left it. The first floor then projected several 
 feet farther over the street than at present, and the second 
 several feet farther over the first ; and the windows, which 
 still extend the whole breadth of the front, were then com- 
 posed of small casement panes. But in the progress of 
 those improvements which are now carrying on in the city 
 with as much spirit as at the western end of the metropolis, 
 and which have almost reached Mr. Evans's door, it cannot 
 be long before the house will be either wholly removed, or 
 so altered as no longer to be recognized. 
 
 The present race of Londoners little know what the 
 appearance of the city was a century ago ; their own city, 
 I was about to have said ; but it was the city of their great- 
 grandfathers, not theirs, from which the elder Allisons re- 
 tired in the year 1746. At that time the kennels (as in 
 Paris) were in the middle of the street, and there were 
 no footpaths ; spouts projected the rain-water in streams, 
 against which umbrellas, if umbrellas had been then in use, 
 could have afforded no defence ; and large signs, such as are 
 now only to be seen at country inns, were suspended before 
 every shop,* from posts which impeded the way, or from 
 iron supports strongly fixed into the front of the house. 
 The swinging of one of these broad signs in a high wind, 
 and the weight of the iron on which it acted, sometimes 
 
 * The counting of these signs " from Temple Bar, the furthest 
 Conduit in Cheapside," &c., is quoted as a remarkable instance of 
 Fuller's Memory. Life, &c., p. 76, ed. 1662.
 
 220 EGBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 brought the wall down; and it is recorded that one front- 
 fall of this kind in Fleet Street maimed several persons, 
 and killed " two young ladies, a cobbler, and the King's 
 jeweller." 
 
 The sign at No. 113 was an Indian Chief smoking the 
 calumet. Mr. Allison had found it there; and when it 
 became necessary that a new one should be substituted, he 
 retained the same figure, though, if he had been to 
 choose, he would have greatly preferred the head of Sir 
 Walter Raleigh, by whom, according to the common belief, 
 he supposed tobacco had been introduced into this country. 
 The Water-Poet imputed it to the Devil himself, and pub- 
 lished 
 
 A Proclamation, 
 Or Approbation, 
 From the King of Execration 
 
 To every Nation, 
 For Tobacco's propagation. 
 
 Mr. Allison used to shake his head at such libellous asper- 
 sions. Raleigh was a great favorite with him, and held, 
 indeed, in especial respect, though not as the Patron of his 
 old trade, as St. Crispin is of the Gentle Craft, yet as the 
 founder of his fortune. He thought it proper, therefore, 
 that he should possess Sir Walter's History of the World, 
 though he had never found inclination, or summoned up 
 resolution, to undertake its perusal. 
 
 Common sense has been defined by Sir Egerton Brydges, 
 " to mean nothing more than an uneducated judgment, aris- 
 ing from a plain and coarse understanding exercised upon 
 common concerns, and rendered effective rather by experi- 
 ence, than by any regular process of the intellectual powers. 
 If this," he adds, " be the proper meaning of that quality, 
 we cannot wonder that books are little fitted for its culti- 
 vation." Except that there was no coarseness in his nature, 
 this would apply to Mr Allison. He had been bred up with
 
 A LOVE STORY. 221 
 
 the notion, that it behoved him to attend to his business, 
 and that reading foamed to part of it. Nevertheless he had 
 acquired some liking for books, by looking casually now and 
 then over the leaves of those unfortunate volumes with 
 which the shop was continually supplied for its daily con- 
 sumption. 
 
 Many a load of criticism, 
 Elaborate products of the midnight toil 
 Of Belgian brains,* 
 
 went there ; and many a tome of old law, old physic, and 
 old divinity ; old history as well ; books of which many 
 were at all times rubbish ; some which, though little better, 
 would now sell for more shillings by the page than they 
 then cost pence by the pound ; and others, the real value 
 of which is perhaps as little known now, as it was then. 
 Such of these as in latter years caught his attention, he now 
 and then rescued from the remorseless use to which they 
 had been condemned. They made a curious assortment 
 with his wife's books of devotion or amusement where- 
 with she had sometimes beguiled, and sometimes soothed, 
 the weary hours of long and frequent illness. Among 
 the former were Scott's " Christian Life," Bishop Bayly's 
 " Practice of Piety," Bishop Taylor's " Holy Living and 
 Dying," Drelincourt on Death, with De Foe's lying story 
 of Mrs. Veal's ghost as a puff preliminary, and the Night 
 Thoughts. Among the latter were Cassandra, the Guard- 
 ian and Spectator, Mrs. Rowe's Letters, Richardson's Nov- 
 els, and Pomfret's Poems. 
 
 Mrs. Allison had been able to do little for her daughter 
 of that little, which, if her state of health and spirits had 
 permitted, she might have done ; this, therefore, as well as 
 the more active duties of the household, devolved upon Eliz- 
 abeth, who was of a better constitution in mind as well 
 
 * Akenside.
 
 222 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 as body. Elizabeth, before she went to reside with her 
 brother, had acquired all the accomplishments which a 
 domestic education in the country could in those days 
 impart. Her book of receipts, culinary and medical, might 
 have vied with the " Queen's Cabinet Unlocked." The 
 spelling indeed was such as ladies used in the reign of 
 Queen Anne, and in the old time before her, when every 
 one spelt as she thought fit ; but it was written in a well- 
 proportioned Italian hand, with fine down-strokes and broad 
 up-ones, equally distinct and beautiful. Her speech was 
 good Yorkshire, that is to say, good provincial English, not 
 the worse for being provincial, and a little softened by five- 
 and-twenty years' residence in London. Some sisters, who 
 in those days kept a boarding-school of the first repute, in 
 one of the midland counties, used to say, when they spoke 
 of an old pupil, " her went to school to we." Miss Allison's 
 language was not of this kind, it savored of rusticity, not 
 of ignorance ; and where it was peculiar, as in the metrop- 
 olis, it gave raciness to the conversation of an agreeable 
 woman. 
 
 She had been well instructed in ornamental work as well 
 as ornamental penmanship. Unlike most fashions, this had 
 continued to be in fashion because it continued to be of use ; 
 though no doubt some of the varieties which Taylor, the 
 Water-Poet, enumerates in his praise of the Needle, might 
 have been then as little understood as now : 
 
 Tent-work, Raised-work, Laid-work, Prest-work, Net-work, 
 
 Most curious Pearl, or rare Italian Cut-work, 
 
 Fine Fern-stitch, Finny-stitch, New-stitch and Chain-stitch, 
 
 Brave Bred-stitch, Fisher-stitch, Irish-stitch and Queen-stitch, 
 
 The Spanish-stitch, Rosemary-stitch and Maw-stitch, 
 
 The smarting Whip-stitch, Back-stitch and the Cross-stitch. 
 
 All these are good, and these we must allow ; 
 
 And these are everywhere in practice now. 
 
 There was a book published in the Water-Poet's days,
 
 A LOVE STORY. 223 
 
 with the title of " School House for the Needle " ; it con- 
 sisted of two volumes in oblong quarto, that form being 
 suited to its plates " of sundry sorts of patterns and exam- 
 ples " ; and it contained a " Dialogue in Verse between 
 Diligence and Sloth." If Betsey Allison had studied in 
 this " School House," she could not have been a greater 
 proficient with the needle than she became under her 
 Aunt's teaching: nor would she have been more 
 
 versed in the arts 
 Of pies, puddings, and tarts,* 
 
 if she had gone through a course of practical lessons in one 
 of the Pastry Schools which are common in Scotland, but 
 were tried without success in London, about the middle of 
 the last century. Deborah partook of these instructions at 
 her father's desire. In all that related to the delicacies of 
 a country table, she was glad to be instructed, because it 
 enabled her to assist her friend ; but it appeared strange to 
 her that Mr. Bacon should wish her to learn ornamental 
 work, for which she neither had, nor could forsee any use. 
 But if the employment had been less agreeable than she 
 found it in such company, she would never have disputed, 
 nor questioned his will. 
 
 For so small a household, a more active or cheerful 
 one could nowhere have been found than at the Grange. 
 Ben Jonson reckoned among the happinesses of Sir Robert 
 Wroth that of being " with unbought provision blest." This 
 blessing Mr. Allison enjoyed in as great a degree as his 
 position in life permitted ; he neither killed his own meat 
 nor grew his own corn ; but he had his poultry-yard, his 
 garden and his orchard ; he baked his own bread, brewed 
 his own beer, and was supplied with milk, cream, and butter 
 from his own dairy. It is a fact not unworthy of notice, 
 that the most intelligent farmers in the neighborhood of 
 London are persons who have taken to farming as a busi- 
 
 * T. Warton.
 
 224 EGBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 ness, because of their strong inclination for rural employ- 
 ments ; one of the very best in Middlesex, when the Survey 
 of that County was published by the Board of Agriculture, 
 had been a tailor. Mr. Allison did not attempt to manage 
 the land which he kept in his own hands ; but he had a 
 trusty bailiff, and soon acquired knowledge enough for 
 superintending what was done. When he retired from 
 trade he gave over all desire for gain, which indeed he had 
 never desired for his own sake ; he sought now only whole- 
 some occupation, and those comforts which may be said to 
 have a moral zest. They might be called luxuries, if that 
 word could be used in a virtuous sense without something so 
 to qualify it. It is a curious instance of the modification 
 which words undergo in different countries, that luxury has 
 always a sinful acceptation in the southern languages of 
 Europe, and lust an innocent one in the northern ; the 
 harmless meaning of the latter word, we have retained in 
 the verb to list. 
 
 Every one who looks back upon the scenes of his youth, 
 has one spot upon which the last light of the evening sun- 
 shine rests. The Grange was that spot in Deborah's ret- 
 rospect. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A REMARKABLE EXAMPLE, SHOWING THAT A WISE MAN, WHEN HE 
 RISES IN THE MORNING, LITTLE KNOWS WHAT HE MAY DO BE- 
 FORE NIGHT. 
 
 Now I love, 
 
 And so as in so short a time I may, 
 Yet so as time shall never break that so, 
 And therefore so accept of Elinor. 
 
 ROBERT GREENE. 
 
 ONE summer evening the Doctor, on his way back from a 
 visit in that direction, stopped, as on such opportunities he 
 usually did, at Mr. Bacon's wicket, and looked in at the
 
 A LOVE STORY. 225 
 
 open casement to see if his friends were within. Mr. Bacon 
 was sitting there alone, with a book open on the table before 
 him ; and looking round when he heard the horse stop, 
 " Come in, Doctor," said he, " if you have a few minutes to 
 spare. You were never more welcome." 
 
 The Doctor replied, " I hope nothing ails either Deborah 
 or yourself? " 
 
 " No," said Mr. Bacon, " God be thanked ! but something 
 has occurred which concerns both." 
 
 When the Doctor entered the room, he perceived that the 
 wonted serenity of his friend's countenance was overcast by 
 a shade of melancholy thought. "Nothing," said he, "I 
 hope, has happened to distress you ? " 
 
 " Only to disturb us," was the reply. " Most people would 
 probably think that we ought to consider it a piece of good 
 fortune. One who would be thought a good match for her, 
 has proposed to marry Deborah." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said the Doctor ; " and who is he ? " feeling, 
 as he asked the question, an unusual warmth in his face. 
 
 "Joseph Hebblethwaite, of the Willows. He broke his 
 mind to me this morning, saying that he thought it best to 
 speak with me before he made any advances himself to the 
 young woman: indeed he had had no opportunity of so 
 doing, for he had seen little of her ; but he had heard enough 
 of her character to believe that she would make him a good 
 wife ; and this, he said, was all he looked for, for he was 
 well to do in the world." 
 
 "And what answer did you make to this matter-of-fact 
 way of proceeding ? " 
 
 " I told him that I commended the very proper course he 
 had taken, and that I was obliged to him for the good opinion 
 of my daughter which he was pleased to entertain : that 
 marriage was an affair in which I should never attempt to 
 direct her inclinations, being confident that she would never 
 give me cause to oppose them ; and that I would talk with 
 10* o
 
 226 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 her upon the proposal, and let him know the result. As 
 soon as I mentioned it to Deborah, she colored up to her 
 eyes ; and with an angry look, of which I did not think those 
 eyes had been capable, she desired me to tell him that he 
 had better lose no time in looking elsewhere, for his thinking 
 of her was of no use. ' Do you know any ill of him?' said 
 I. 'No,' she replied, 'but I never heard any good, and 
 that 's ill enough. And I do not like his looks.' " 
 
 O 
 
 . " Well said, Deborah ! " cried the Doctor : clapping his 
 hands so as to produce a sonorous token of satisfaction. 
 
 " ' Surely, my child,' said I, ' he is not an ill-looking per- 
 son ? ' ' Father,' she replied, ' you know he looks as if he 
 had not one idea in his head to keep company with an- 
 other.' " 
 
 " Well said, Deborah ! " repeated the Doctor. 
 
 " Why, Doctor, do you know any ill of him ? 
 
 " None. But, as Deborah says, I know no good ; and if 
 there had been any good to be known, it must have come 
 within my knowledge. I cannot help knowing who the per- 
 sons are to whom the peasantry in my rounds look with re- 
 spect and good-will, and whom they consider their friends 
 as well as their betters. And, in like manner, I know who 
 they are from whom they never expect either courtesy or 
 kindness." 
 
 " You are right, my friend ; and Deborah is right. Her 
 answer came from a wise heart; and I was not sorry that 
 her determination was so promptly made, and so resolutely 
 pronounced. But I wish, if it had pleased God, the offer 
 had been one which she could have accepted with her own 
 willing consent, and with my full approbation." 
 
 " Yet," said the Doctor, " I have often thought how sad 
 a thing it would be for you ever to part with her." 
 
 " Far more sad will it be for me to leave her unprotected, 
 as it is but too likely that, in the ordinary course of nature 
 I one day shall; and as any day in that same ordinary
 
 A LOVE STORY. 227 
 
 course, I so possibly may ! Our best intentions, even when 
 they have been most prudentially formed, fail often in their 
 issue. I meant to train up Deborah in the way she should 
 go, by fitting her for that state of life in which it had pleased 
 God to place her ; so that she might have made a good wife 
 for some honest man in the humbler walks of life, and have 
 been happy with him." 
 
 " And how was it possible," replied the Doctor, " that you 
 could have succeeded better ? Is she not qualified to be a 
 good man's wife in any rank ? Her manner would not do 
 discredit to a mansion ; her management would make a farm 
 prosperous, or a cottage comfortable ; and for her principles, 
 and temper and cheerfulness, they would render any home 
 a happy one." 
 
 " You have not spoken too highly in her praise, Doctor. 
 But as she has from her childhood been all in all to me, 
 there is a danger that I rifay have become too much so to 
 her ; and that, while her habits have properly been made 
 conformable to our poor means and her poor prospects, she 
 has been accustomed to a way of thinking, and a kind of 
 conversation, which have given her a distaste for those 
 whose talk is only of sheep and of oxen, and whose thoughts 
 never get beyond the range of their every day employments. 
 In her present circle, I do not think there is one man with 
 whom she might otherwise have had a chance of settling in 
 life, to whom she would not have the same intellectual ob- 
 jections as to Joseph Hebblethwaite : though I am glad that 
 the moral objection was that which first instinctively oc- 
 curred to her. 
 
 "I wish it were otherwise, both for her sake and my 
 own: for hers, because the present separation would have 
 more than enough to compensate it, and would in its con- 
 sequences mitigate the evil of the final one, whenever that 
 may be ; for my own, because I should then have no cause 
 whatever to render the prospect of dissolution otherwise
 
 228 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 than welcome, but be as willing to die as to sleep. It is 
 not owing to any distrust in Providence, that I am not thus 
 willing now, God forbid ! But if I gave heed to my own 
 feelings, I should think that I am not long for this world ; 
 and surely it were wise to remove, if possible, the only cause 
 that makes me fear to think so." 
 
 " Are you sensible of any symptons that can lead to such 
 an apprehension ? " said the Doctor. 
 
 " Of nothing that can be called a sympton. I am to all 
 appearance in good health, of sound body and mind ; and 
 you know how unlikely my habits are to occasion any dis- 
 turbance in either. But I have indefinable impressions, 
 sensations they might almost be called, which, as I can- 
 not but feel them, so I cannot but regard them." 
 
 " Can you not describe these sensations?" 
 
 " No better than by saying, that they hardly amount to 
 sensations, and are indescribable." 
 
 " Do not," said the Doctor, " I entreat you, give way to 
 any feelings of this kind. They may lead to consequences 
 which, without shortening or endangering life, would render 
 it anxious and burdensome, and destroy both your useful- 
 ness and your comfort." 
 
 " I have this feeling, Doctor ; and you shall prescribe for 
 it, if you think it requires either regimen or physic. But at 
 present yon will do me more good by assisting me to pro- 
 cure for Deborah such a situation as she must necessarily 
 look for on the event of my death. What I have laid by, 
 even if it should be most advantageously disposed of, would 
 afford her only a bare subsistence ; it is a resource in case 
 of sickness, but while in health, it would never be her wish 
 to eat the bread of idleness. You may have opportunities 
 of learning whether any lady within the circle of your prac- 
 tice wants a young person in whom she might confide, either 
 as an attendant upon herself, or to assist in the management 
 of her children, or her household. You may be sure this is
 
 A LOVE STORY. 229 
 
 not the first time that I have thought upon the subject ; but 
 the circumstance which has this day occurred, and the feel- 
 ing of which I have spoken, have pressed it upon my con- 
 sideration. And the inquiry may better be made, and the 
 step taken while it is a matter of foresight, than when it has 
 become one of necessity." 
 
 " Let me feel your pulse ! " 
 
 " You will detect no other disorder there," said Mr. Bacon, 
 holding out his arm as he spake, " than what has been caused 
 by this conversation, and the declaration of a purpose, which, 
 though for some time perpended, I had never till now fully 
 acknowledged to myself." 
 
 " You have never then mentioned it to Deborah ? " 
 
 " In no other way than by sometimes incidentally speak- 
 ing of the way of life which would be open to her, in case 
 of her being unmarried at my death." 
 
 " And you have made up your mind to part with 
 her?" 
 
 " Upon a clear conviction that I ought to do so ; that it is 
 best for herself and me." 
 
 " Well, then, you will allow me to converse with her 
 first upon a different subject. You will permit me to see 
 whether I can speak more successfully for myself, than you 
 have done for Joseph Hebblethwaite. Have I your con- 
 sent?" 
 
 Mr. Bacon rose in great emotion, and taking his friend's 
 hand, pressed it fervently and tremulously. Presently they 
 heard the wicket open, and Deborah came in. 
 
 " I dare say, Deborah," said her father, composing himself, 
 " you have been telling Betsey Allison of the advantageous 
 offer that you have this day refused." 
 
 " Yes," replied Deborah ; " and what do you think she 
 said? That little as she likes him, rather than that I 
 should be thrown away upon such a man, she could almost 
 make up her mind to marry him herself."
 
 230 EGBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 " And I," said the Doctor, " rather than such a man should 
 have you, would marry you myself." 
 
 " Was not I right in refusing him, Doctor ? " 
 
 " So right, that you never pleased me so well before ; and 
 never can please me better, unless you will accept of me 
 in his stead." 
 
 She gave a little start, and looked at him half incredu- 
 lously, and half angrily withal ; as if what he had said was 
 too light in its manner to be serious, and yet too serious in 
 its import to be spoken in jest. But when he took her by 
 the hand, and said, " Will you, dear Deborah ? " with a pres- 
 sure, and in a tone that left no doubt of his earnest meaning, 
 she cried, " Father, what am I to say ? speak for me ! " 
 " Take her, my friend ! " said Mr. Bacon. " My blessing be 
 upon you both. And, if it be not presumptuous to use the 
 words, let me say for myself, ' Lord, now lettest thou thy 
 servant depart in peace ! ' " 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE WEDDING PEAL AT ST. GEORGE'S, AND THE BEIDE'S 
 APPEABANCE AT CHUKCH. 
 
 IN the month of April, 1761, the Doctor brought home 
 his bride to Doncaster. Many eyes were turned upon her 
 when she made her appearance at St. George's Church. 
 The novelty of the place made her less regardful of this 
 than she might otherwise have been. Hollis Pigot, who 
 held the vicarage of .Doncaster thirty years, and was then 
 in the last year of his incumbency and his life, performed 
 the service that day. I know not among what description 
 of preachers he was to be classed ; whether with those who 
 obtain attention, and command respect, and win confidence, 
 and strengthen belief, and inspire hope, or with the far more 
 numerous race of Spintexts and of Martexts. But if he
 
 A LOVE STORY. 231 
 
 had preached that morning with the tongue of an angel, 
 the bride would have had no ears for him. Her thoughts 
 were neither upon those who on their way from church 
 would talk over her instead of the sermon, nor of the ser- 
 vice, nor of her husband, nor of herself in her new charac- 
 ter, but of her father, and with a feeling which might 
 almost be called funereal, that she had passed from under 
 his pastoral as well as his paternal care. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 SOMETHING SEBIOU8. 
 
 If thou hast read all this book, and art never the better, yet catch this 
 flower before thou go out of the garden, and peradventure the scent 
 thereof will bring thee back to smell the rest. 
 
 HENEY SMITH. 
 
 DEBORAH found no one in Doncaster to supply the place 
 of Betty Allison in the daily intercourse of familiar and 
 perfect friendship. That indeed was impossible; no after- 
 math has the fragrance and the sweetness of the first crop. 
 But why do I call her Deborah? She had never been 
 known by that name to her new neighbors ; and to her very 
 father she was now spoken of as Mrs. Dove. Even the 
 Allisons called her so in courteous and customary usage, but 
 not without a melancholy reflection, that when Deborah 
 Bacon became Mrs. Dove, she was in a great measure lost 
 to them. 
 
 Friendship, although it ceases not 
 In marriage, is yet at less command 
 Than when a single freedom can dispose it.* 
 
 Doncaster has less of the Rus in Urbe now than it had in 
 those days, and than Bath had when those words were 
 
 *Pord.
 
 232 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 placed over the door of a lodging-house, on the North 
 Parade. And the house to which the Doctor brought home 
 his bride, had less of it than when Peter Hopkins set up 
 the gilt pestle and mortar there as the cognizance of his 
 vocation. It had no longer that air of quiet respectability 
 which belongs to such a dwelling in the best street of a 
 small country town. The Mansion House, by which it was 
 dwarfed and inconvenienced in many ways, occasioned a 
 stir and bustle about it, unlike the cheerful business of a mar- 
 ket day. The back windows, however, still looked to the 
 fields, and there was still a garden. But neither fields nor 
 garden could prevail over the odor of the shop, in which, like 
 
 Hot, cold, moist and dry, four champions fierce, 
 
 in Milton's Chaos, rhubarb and peppermint, and valerian, and 
 assafoetida, " strove for mastery," and to battle brought their 
 atoms. Happy was the day when peppermint predomi- 
 nated ; though it always reminded Mrs. Dove of Thaxted 
 Grange, and the delight with which she used to assist Miss 
 Allison in her distillations. There is an Arabian proverb 
 which says, " The remembrance of youth is a sigh." 
 Southey has taken it for the text of one of those juvenile 
 poems in which he dwells with thoughtful forefeeling upon 
 the condition of declining life. 
 
 Miss Allison had been to her, not indeed as a mother, but 
 as what a stepmother is, who is led by natural benevolence, 
 and a religious sense of duty, to perform as far as possible 
 a mother's part to her husband's children. There are more 
 such stepmothers than the world is willing to believe, and 
 they have their reward here as well as hereafter. It was 
 impossible that any new friend could fill up her place in 
 Mrs. Dove's affections, impossible that she could ever feel 
 for another woman the respect, and reverence, and grati- 
 tude, which blended with her love for this excellent person. 
 Though she was born within four miles of Doncaster, and
 
 A LOVE STORY. 233 
 
 had lived till her marriage in the humble vicarage in which 
 she was born, she had never passed four-and-twenty hours 
 in that town before she went to reside there ; nor had she 
 the slightest acquaintance with any of its inhabitants, except 
 the few shopkeepers with whom her little dealings had lain, 
 and the occasional visitants whom she had met at the 
 Grange. 
 
 An Irish officer in the army, happening to be passenger 
 in an armed vessel during the last war, used frequently to 
 wish that they might fall in with an enemy's ship, because 
 he said, he had been in many land battles, and there was 
 nothing in the world which he desired more than to see 
 what sort of a thing a sea-fight was. He had his wish, 
 and when after a smart action, in which he bore his part 
 bravely, an enemy of superior force had been beaten off, 
 he declared with the customary emphasis of an Hibernian 
 adjuration, that a sea-fight was a mighty sairious sort of 
 thing. 
 
 The Doctor and Deborah, as soon as they were be- 
 trothed, had come to just the same conclusion upon a very 
 different subject. Till the day of their engagement, nay, 
 till the hour of proposal on his part, and the very instant 
 of acceptance on hers, each had looked upon marriage, 
 when the thought of it occurred, as a distant possibility, 
 more or less desirable, according to the circumstances which 
 introduced the thought, and the mood in which it was enter- 
 tained. And when it was spoken of sportively, as might 
 happen, in relation to either the one or the other, it was 
 lightly treated as a subject in which they had no concern. 
 But from the time of their engagement, it seemed to both 
 the most serious event of their lives. 
 
 In the Dutch village of Broek, concerning which, singu- 
 lar as the habits of the inhabitants are, travellers have re- 
 lated more peculiarities than ever prevailed there, one 
 remarkable custom shows with how serious a mind some of
 
 234 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 the Hollanders regard marriage. The great house-door is 
 never opened but when the master of the house brings 
 home his bride from the altar, and when husband and 
 wife are borne out to the grave. Dr. Dove had seen that 
 village of great baby-houses ; but though much attached 
 to Holland, and to the Dutch as a people, and disposed to 
 think that we might learn many useful lessons from our 
 prudent and thrifty neighbors, he thought this to be as pre- 
 posterous, if not as shocking a custom, as it would be to 
 have the bell toll at a marriage, and to wear a winding- 
 sheet for a wedding garment. 
 
 We look with wonder at the transformations that take 
 place in insects, and yet their physical metamorphoses are 
 not greater than the changes which we ourselves undergo 
 morally and intellectually, both in our relations to others 
 and in our individual nature. Chaque individu, considers 
 separement, differs encore de lui-meme par Feffet du terns; 
 il devient un autre, en quelque maniere, aux diverses epoques 
 de sa vie. L'enfant, Fhomme rait, le vieittard, sont comme 
 autant d'etrangers unis dans une seule personne par le lien 
 mysterieux du souvenir.* Of all changes in life, marriage is 
 certainly the greatest, and though less change in every re- 
 spect can very rarely be produced by it in any persons 
 than in the Doctor and his wife, it was very great to 
 both. On his part it was altogether an increase of hap- 
 piness ; or rather, from having been contented in his sta- 
 tion he became happy in it, so happy as to be exper- 
 imentally convinced that there can be no "single bless- 
 edness" for man. There were some drawbacks on her 
 part, in the removal from a quiet vicarage to a busy 
 street; in the obstacle which four miles opposed to that 
 daily and intimate intercourse with her friends at the 
 Grange, which had been the chief delight of her maiden 
 life ; and above all, in the separation from her father, for 
 
 * Nccker.
 
 A LOVE STORY. 235 
 
 even at a distance which may appear so inconsiderable, such 
 it was ; but there was the consolatory reflection, that those 
 dear friends and that dear father concurred in approving 
 her marriage, and in rejoicing in it for her sake ; and the 
 experience of every day and every year made her more and 
 more thankful for her lot. In the full liturgic sense of the 
 word, he worshipped her, that is, he loved and cherished and 
 respected and honored her ; and she would have obeyed 
 him cheerfully as well as dutifully, if obedience could have 
 been shown where there was ever but one will.
 
 THE MYSTIC SUMMER 
 
 BY BAYARD TAYLOR 
 
 Til IS not the dropping of the flower, 
 I The blush of fruit upon the tree, 
 
 Though Summer ripens, hour by hour, 
 The garden's sweet maternity : 
 
 'T is not that birds have ceased to build, 
 And wait their brood with tender care ; 
 
 That corn is golden in the field, 
 And clover balm is in the air ; 
 
 Not these the season's splendor bring, 
 And crowd with life the happy year, 
 
 Nor yet, where yonder fountains sing, 
 The blaze of sunshine, hot and clear. 
 
 In thy full womb, O Summer ! lies 
 
 A secret hope, a joy unsung, 
 Held in the hush of these calm skies, 
 
 And trembling on the forest's tongue. 
 
 The lands of harvest throb anew 
 
 In shining pulses, far away ; 
 The Night distils a dearer dew, 
 
 And sweeter eyelids has the Day.
 
 THE MYSTIC SUMMER. 237 
 
 And not in vain the peony burns 
 
 In bursting globes, her crimson fire, 
 Her incense-dropping ivory urns 
 
 The lily lifts in many a spire : 
 
 And not in vain the tulips clash 
 
 In revelry the cups they hold 
 Of fiery wine, until they dash 
 
 With ruby streaks the splendid gold ! 
 
 Send down your roots the mystic charm 
 That warms and flushes all your flowers, 
 
 And with the summer's touch disarm 
 The thraldom of the under powers, 
 
 Until, in caverns, buried deep, 
 
 Strange fragrance reach the diamond's home, 
 And murmurs of the garden sweep 
 
 The houses of the frighted gnome ! 
 
 For, piercing through their black repose, 
 
 And shooting up beyond the sun, 
 I see that Tree of Life, which rose 
 
 Before the eyes of Solomon : 
 
 Its boughs, that, in the light of God, 
 
 Their bright, innumerous leaves display, 
 
 Whose hum of life is borne abroad 
 By winds that shake the dead away. 
 
 And, trembling on a branch afar, 
 
 The topmost nursling of the skies, 
 I see my bud, the fairest star 
 
 That ever dawned for watching eyes.
 
 238 BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 Unnoticed on the boundless tree, 
 Its fragrant promise fills the air ; 
 
 Its little bell expands, for me, 
 A tent of silver, lily-fair. 
 
 All life to that one centre tends ; 
 
 All joy and beauty thence outflow ; 
 Her sweetest gifts the summer spends, 
 
 To teach that sweeter bud to blow. 
 
 So, compassed by the vision's gleam, 
 In trembling hope, from day to day, 
 
 As in some bright, bewildering dream, 
 The mystic summer wanes away.
 
 TWO OF THE OLD MASTERS. 
 
 BY MRS. JAMESON. 
 
 WITHIN a short period of about thirty years, that 
 is, between 1490 and 1520, the greatest painters 
 whom the world has yet seen were living and working 
 together. On looking back, we cannot but feel that the 
 excellence they attained was the result of the efforts and 
 aspirations of a preceding age ; and yet these men were so 
 great in their vocation, and so individual in their greatness, 
 that, losing sight of the linked chain of progress, they 
 seemed at first to have had no precursors, as they have 
 since had no peers. Though living at the same time, and 
 most of them in personal relation with each other, the direc- 
 tion of each mind was different was peculiar ; though 
 exercising in some sort a reciprocal influence, this influence 
 never interfered with the most decided originality. These 
 wonderful artists, who would have been remarkable men in 
 their time, though they had never touched a pencil, were 
 Lionardo da Vinci, Michael Angelo, Raphael, Correggio, 
 Giorgione, Titian, in Italy ; and in Germany, Albert Durer. 
 Of these men, we might say, as of Homer and Shakespeare, 
 that they belong to no particular age or country, but to all 
 time, and to the universe. That they flourished together 
 within one brief aud brilliant period, and that each carried 
 out to the highest degree of perfection his own peculiar 
 aims, was no casualty ; nor are we to seek for the causes of 
 this surpassing excellence merely in the history of the art as
 
 240 MRS. JAMESON. 
 
 such. The causes lay far deeper, and must be referred to the 
 history of human culture. The fermenting activity of the 
 fifteenth century found its results in the extraordinary devel- 
 opment of human intelligence in the commencement of the 
 sixteenth century. We often hear in these days of " the 
 spirit of the age " ; but in that wonderful age three mighty 
 spirits were stirring society to its depths : the spirit of 
 bold investigation into truths of all kinds, which led to the 
 Reformation ; the spirit of daring adventure, which led men 
 in search of new worlds beyond the eastern and the western 
 oceans ; arid the spirit of art, through which men soared even 
 to the " seventh heaven of invention." 
 
 LIONARDO DA VINCI. 
 
 LIONARDO DA VINCI seems to present in his own person a 
 resume of all the characteristics of the age in which he lived. 
 He was the miracle of that age of miracles. Ardent and 
 versatile as youth ; patient and persevering as age ; a most 
 profound and original thinker ; the greatest mathematician 
 and most ingenious mechanic of his time ; architect, chemist, 
 engineer, musician, poet, painter ! we are not only astound- 
 ed by the variety of his natural gifts and acquired knowl- 
 edge, but by the practical direction of his amazing powers. 
 The extracts which have been published from MSS. now 
 existing in his own handwriting show him to have antici- 
 pated, by the force of his own intellect, some of the greatest 
 discoveries made since his time. These fragments, says Mr. 
 Hallam, " are, according to our common estimate of the age 
 in which he lived, more like revelations of physical truths 
 vouchsafed to a single mind, than the superstructure of its 
 reasoning upon any established basis. The discoveries which 
 made Galileo, Kepler, Castelli, and other names illustrious 
 the system of Copernicus the very theories of recent 
 geologists, are anticipated by Da Vinci within the compass
 

 
 TWO OF THE OLD MASTERS. 241 
 
 of a few pages, not perhaps in the most precise language, 
 or on the most conclusive reasoning, but so as to strike us 
 with something like the awe of preternatural knowledge. 
 In an age of so much dogmatism, he first laid down the 
 grand principle of Bacon, that experiment and observation 
 must be the guides to just theory in the investigation of 
 nature. If any doubt could be harbored, not as to the right 
 of Lionardo da Vinci to stand as the first name of the fif- 
 teenth century, which is beyond all doubt, but as to his 
 originality in so many discoveries which probably no one 
 man, especially in such circumstances, has ever made, it 
 must be by an hypothesis not very untenable, that some parts 
 of physical science had already attained a height which 
 mere books do not record." 
 
 It seems at first sight almost incomprehensible that, thus 
 endowed as a philosopher, mechanic, inventor, discoverer, 
 the fame of Lionardo should now rest on the works he has 
 left as a painter. We cannot, within these limits, attempt 
 to explain why and how it is that as the man of science he 
 has been naturally and necessarily left behind by the onward 
 march of intellectual progress, while as the poet-painter he 
 still survives as a presence and a power. "We must proceed 
 at once to give some account of him in the character in 
 which he exists to us and for us, that of the great artist. 
 
 Lionardo was born at Vinci, near Florence, in the Lower 
 Val d' Arno, on the borders of the territory of Pistoia. 
 His father, Piero da Vinci, was an advocate of Florence, 
 not rich, but in independent circumstances, and possessed of 
 estates in land. The singular talents of his son induced 
 Piero to give him, from an early age, the advantage of the 
 best instructors. As a child, he distinguished himself by 
 his proficiency in arithmetic and mathematics. Music he 
 studied early, as a science as well as an art. He invented 
 a species of lyre for himself, and sung his own poetical com- 
 positions to his own music, both being frequently extempo- 
 11 f
 
 242 MRS. JAMESON. 
 
 raneous. But his favorite pursuit was the art of design in all 
 its branches ; he modelled in clay or wax, or attempted to 
 draw every object which struck his fancy. His father sent 
 him to study under Andrea Verrocchio, famous as a sculp- 
 tor, chaser in metal, and painter. Andrea, who was an ex- 
 cellent and correct designer, but a bad and hard colorist, 
 was soon after engaged to paint a picture of the Baptism of 
 our Saviour. He employed Lionardo, then a youth, to exe- 
 cute one of the angles. This he did with so much softness 
 and richness of color that it far surpassed the rest of the pic- 
 ture ; and Verrocchio from that time threw away his palette, 
 and confined himself wholly to his works in sculpture and 
 design ; " enraged," says Vasari, " that a child should thus 
 excel him." 
 
 The youth of Lionardo thus passed away in the pursuit of 
 science and of art. Sometimes he was deeply engaged in 
 astronomical calculations and investigations ; sometimes ar- 
 dent in the study of natural history, botany, and anatomy; 
 sometimes intent on new effects of color, light, shadow, or 
 expression, in representing objects animate or inanimate. 
 Versatile, yet persevering, he varied his pursuits, but he 
 never abandoned any. He was quite a young man when he 
 conceived and demonstrated the practicability of two magnifi- 
 cent projects. One was, to lift the whole of the Church of 
 San Lorenzo, by means of immense levers, some feet higher 
 than it now stands, and thus supply the deficient elevation ; 
 the other project was, to form the Arno into a navigable 
 canal, as far as Pisa, which would have added greatly to the 
 commercial advantages of Florence. 
 
 It happened about this time that a peasant on the estate 
 of Piero da Vinci brought him a circular piece of wood, cut 
 horizontally from the trunk of a very large old fig-tree, 
 which had been lately felled, and begged to have something 
 painted on it as an ornament for his cottage. The man 
 being an especial favorite, Piero desired his son Lionardo
 
 TWO OF THE OLD MASTERS. 243 
 
 to gratify his request ; and Lionardo, inspired by that wild- 
 ness of fancy which was one of his characteristics, took the 
 panel into his own room, and resolved to astonish his father 
 by a most unlooked-for proof of his art. He determined to 
 compose something which should have an effect similar to 
 that of the Medusa on the shield of Perseus, and almost 
 petrify beholders. Aided by his recent studies in natural 
 history, he collected together from the neighboring swamps 
 and the river-mud all kinds of hideous reptiles, as adders, 
 lizards, toads, serpents ; insects, as moths, locusts ; and other 
 crawling and flying, obscene and obnoxious things ; and out 
 of these he compounded a sort of monster, or chimera, which 
 he represented as about to issue from the shield, with eyes 
 flashing fire, and of an aspect so fearful and abominable that 
 it seemed to infect the very air around. When finished, he 
 led his father into the room in which it was placed, and the 
 terror and horror of Piero proved the success of his at- 
 tempt. This production, afterwards known as the Rotello 
 del Fico, from the material on which it was painted, was sold 
 by Piero secretly for one hundred ducats, to a merchant, 
 who carried it to Milan, and sold it to the duke for three 
 hundred. To the poor peasant thus cheated of his Rotello, 
 Piero gave a wooden shield, on which was painted a heart 
 transfixed by a dart ; a device better suited to his taste and 
 comprehension. In the subsequent troubles of Milan, Lion- 
 ardo's picture disappeared, and was probably destroyed, as an 
 object of horror, by those who did not understand its value 
 as a work of art. 
 
 The anomalous monster represented on the Rotello was 
 wholly different from the Medusa, afterwards painted by 
 Lionardo, and now existing in the Florence Gallery. It 
 represents the severed head of Medusa, seen foreshortened, 
 lying on a fragment of rock. The features are beautiful 
 and regular; the hair already metamorphosed into ser- 
 pents,
 
 244 MRS. JAMESON. 
 
 " which curl and flow, 
 And their long tangles in each other lock, 
 And with unending involutions show 
 Their mailed radiance." 
 
 Those who have once seen this terrible and fascinating pic- 
 ture can never forget it. The ghastly head seems to expire, 
 and the serpents to crawl into glittering life, as we look 
 upon it. 
 
 During this first period of his life, which was wholly 
 passed in Florence and its neighborhood, Lionardo painted 
 several other pictures, of a very different character, and de- 
 signed some beautiful cartoons of sacred and mythological 
 subjects* which showed that his sense of the beautiful, the 
 elevated, and the graceful, was not less a part of his mind, 
 than that eccentricity and almost perversion of fancy which 
 made him delight in sketching ugly, exaggerated caricatures, 
 and representing the deformed and the terrible. 
 
 Lionardo da Vinci was now about thirty years old, in the 
 prime of his life and talents. His taste for pleasure and 
 expense was, however, equal to his genius and indefatigable 
 industry ; and, anxious to secure a certain provision for the 
 future, as well as a wider field for the exercise of his various 
 talents, he accepted the invitation of Ludovico Sforza il 
 Moro, then regent, afterwards Duke of Milan, to reside in 
 his court, and to execute a colossal equestrian statue of his 
 ancestor Francesco Sforza. Here begins the second period 
 of his artistic career, which includes his sojourn at Milan, 
 that is, from 1483 to 1499. 
 
 Vasari says that Lionardo was invited to the court of 
 Milan for the Duke Ludovico's amusement, " as a musician 
 and performer on the lyre, and as the greatest singer and 
 improvisatore of his time " ; but this is improbable. Lio- 
 nardo, in his long letter to that prince, in which he recites 
 his own qualifications for employment, dwells chiefly on his 
 skill in engineering and fortification, and sums up his pre-
 
 TWO OF THE OLD MASTERS. 245 
 
 tensions as an artist in these few brief words : " I under- 
 stand the different modes of sculpture in marble, bronze, 
 and terra-cotta. In painting, also, I may esteem myself 
 equal to any one, let him be who he may." Of his musical 
 talents he makes no mention whatever, though undoubtedly 
 these, as well as his other social accomplishments, his hand- 
 some person, his winning address, his wit and eloquence, 
 recommended him to the notice of the prince, by whom he 
 was greatly beloved, and in whose service he remained for 
 about seventeen years. It is not necessary, nor would it be 
 possible here, to give a particular account of all the works 
 in which Lionardo was engaged for his patron, nor of the 
 great political events in which he was involved, more by his 
 position than by his inclination ; for instance, the invasion 
 of Italy by Charles VIII. of France, and the subsequent in- 
 vasion of Milan by Louis XII., which ended in the destruc- 
 tion of the Duke Ludovico. We shall only mention a few 
 of the pictures he executed. One of these, the portrait of 
 Lucrezia Crivelli, is now in the Louvre (No. 1091). An- 
 other was the Nativity of our Saviour, in the imperial 
 collection at Vienna ; but the greatest work of all, and by 
 far the grandest picture which, up to that time, had been 
 executed in Italy, was the Last Supper, painted on the wall 
 of the refectory, or dining-room, of the Dominican convent 
 of the Madonna delle Grazie. It occupied the painter about 
 two years. Of this magnificent creation of art only the 
 mouldering remains are now visible. It has been so often 
 repaired, that almost every vestige of the original painting 
 is annihilated; but, from the multiplicity of descriptions, 
 engravings, and copies that exist, no picture is more uni- 
 versally known and celebrated. 
 
 The moment selected by the painter is described in the 
 twenty-sixth chapter of St. Matthew, twenty-first and 
 twenty-second verses : " And as they did eat, he said, 
 Verily, I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me :
 
 246 MBS. JAMESON. 
 
 and they were exceedingly sorrowful, and began every one 
 of them to say unto him, Lord, is it I ? " The knowledge 
 of character displayed in the heads of the different apostles 
 is even more wonderful than the skilful arrangement of the 
 figures and the amazing beauty of the workmanship. The 
 space occupied by the picture is a wall twenty-eight feet in 
 length, and the figures are larger than life. The best judg- 
 ment we can now form of its merits is from the fine copy 
 executed by one of Lionardo's best pupils, Marco Uggione, 
 for the Certosa at Pavia, and now in London, in the col- 
 lection of the Royal Academy. Eleven other copies, by 
 various pupils of Lionardo, painted either during his life- 
 time or within a few years after his death, while the picture 
 was in perfect preservation, exist in different churches and 
 collections. 
 
 Of the grand equestrian statue of Francesco Sforza, Lio- 
 nardo never finished more than the model in clay, which 
 was considered a masterpiece. Some years afterwards, (in 
 1499,) when Milan was invaded by the French, it was used 
 as a target by the Gascon bowmen, and completely destroyed. 
 The profound anatomical studies which Lionardo made for 
 this work still exist. 
 
 In the year 1500, the French being in possession of 
 Milan, his patron Ludovico in captivity, and the affairs of 
 the state in utter confusion, Lionardo returned to his native 
 Florence, where he hoped to re-establish his broken for- 
 tunes, and to find employment. Here begins the third 
 period of his artistic life, from 1500 to 1513, that is, from 
 his forty-eighth to his sixtieth year. He found the Medici 
 family in exile, but was received by Pietro Soderini (who 
 governed the city as " Gonfaloniere perpetuo ") with great 
 distinction, and a pension was assigned to him as painter in 
 the service of the republic. 
 
 Then began the rivalry between Lionardo and Michael 
 Angelo, which lasted during the remainder of Liouardo's
 
 TWO OF THE OLD MASTERS. 247 
 
 life. The difference of age (for Michael Angelo was twenty- 
 two years younger) ought to have prevented all unseemly 
 jealousy. But Michael Angelo was haughty, and impatient 
 of all superiority, or even equality ; Lionardo, sensitive, 
 capricious, and naturally disinclined to admit the pretensions 
 of a rival, to whom he could say, and did say, " I was famous 
 before you were born ! " With all their admiration of each 
 other's genius, their mutual frailties prevented any real 
 good-will on either side. The two painters competed for 
 the honor of painting in fresco one side of the great Council- 
 h/ill in the Palazzo Vecchio at Florence. Each prepared 
 his cartoon ; each, emulous of the fame and conscious of the 
 abilities of his rival, threw all his best powers into his work. 
 Lionardo chose for his subject the Defeat of the Milanese 
 general, Niccol6 Piccinino, by the Florentine army in 1440. 
 One of the finest groups represented a combat of cavalry 
 disputing the possession of a standard. " It was so wonder- 
 fully executed, that the horses themselves seemed animated 
 by the same fury as their riders ; nor is it possible to de- 
 scribe the variety of attitudes, the splendor of the dresses 
 and armor of the warriors, nor the incredible skill displayed 
 in the forms and actions of the horses." 
 
 Michael Angelo chose for his subject the moment before 
 the same battle, when a party of Florentine soldiers bathing 
 in the Arno are surprised by the sound of the trumpet call- 
 ing them to arms. Of this cartoon we shall have more to 
 say in treating of his life. The preference was given to 
 Lionardo da Vinci. But, as Vasari relates, he spent so 
 much time in trying experiments, and in preparing the wall 
 to receive oil painting, which he preferred to fresco, that in 
 the interval some changes in the government intervened, 
 and the design was abandoned. The two cartoons remained 
 for several years open to the public, and artists flocked from 
 every part of Italy to study them. Subsequently they were 
 cut up into separate parts, dispersed, and lost. It is curious
 
 248 MRS. JAMESON. 
 
 that of Michael Angelo's composition only one small copy 
 exists ; of Leonardo's, not one. From a fragment which ex- 
 isted in his time, but which has since disappeared, Rubens 
 made a fine drawing, which was engraved by Edelinck, and 
 is known as the Battle of the Standard. 
 
 It was a reproach against Lionardo, in his own time, that 
 he began many things and finished few ; that his magnificent 
 designs and projects, whether it art or mechanics, were sel- 
 dom completed. This may be a subject of regret, but it is 
 unjust to make it a reproach. It was in the nature of the 
 man. The grasp of his mind was so nearly superhuman, 
 that he never, in anything he effected, satisfied himself or 
 realized his own vast conceptions. The most exquisitely 
 finished of his works, those that in the perfection of the exe- 
 cution have excited the wonder and despair of succeeding 
 artists, were put aside by him as unfinished sketches. Most 
 of the pictures now attributed to him were wholly or in 
 part painted by his scholars and imitators from his cartoons. 
 One of the most famous of these was designed for the altar- 
 piece of the church of the convent called the Nunziata. It 
 represented the Virgin Mary seated in the lap of her 
 mother, St. Anna, having in her arms the infant Christ, 
 while St. John is playing with a lamb at their feet; St. 
 Anna, looking on with a tender smile, rejoices in her divine 
 offspring. The figures were drawn with such skill, and the 
 various expressions proper to each conveyed with such inim- 
 itable truth and grace, that, when exhibited in a chamber of 
 the convent, the inhabitants of the city flocked to see it, and 
 for two days the streets were crowded with people, " as if it 
 had been some solemn festival " ; but the picture was never 
 painted, and the monks of the Nunziata, after waiting long 
 and in vain for their altar-piece, were obliged to employ 
 other artists. The cartoon, or a very fine repetition of it, 
 is now in the possession of the Royal Academy, and it must 
 not be confounded with the St. Anna in the Louvre, a more 
 fantastic and apparently an earlier composition.
 
 TWO OF THE OLD MASTERS. 249 
 
 Lionardo, during his stay at Florence, painted the por- 
 trait of Ginevra Benci, already mentioned, in the memoir of 
 Ghirlandajo, as the reigning beauty of her time ; and also 
 the portrait of Mona Lisa del Giocondo, sometimes called 
 La Joconde. On this last picture he worked at intervals 
 for four years, but was still unsatisfied. It was purchased 
 by Francis I. for four thousand golden crowns, and is now 
 in the Louvre. We find Lionardo also engaged by Caesar 
 Borgia to visit and report on the fortifications of his territo- 
 ries, and in this office he was employed for two years. In 
 1514 he was invited to Rome by Leo X., but more in his 
 character of philosopher, mechanic, and alchemist, than as a 
 painter. Here he found Raphael at the height of his fame, 
 and then engaged in his greatest works, the frescos of 
 the Vatican. Two pictures which Lionardo painted while 
 at Rome the Madonna of St. Onofrio, and the Holy Fam- 
 ily, painted for Filiberta of Savoy, the Pope's sister-in-law 
 (which is now at St. Petersburg) show that even this 
 veteran in art felt the irresistible influence of the genius of 
 his young rival. They were both RaffaeUesque in the sub- 
 ject and treatment. 
 
 It appears that Lionardo was ill-satisfied with his sojourn 
 at Rome. He had long been accustomed to hold the first 
 rank as an artist wherever he resided ; whereas at Rome he 
 found himself only one among many who, if they acknowl- 
 edged his greatness, affected to consider his day as past. 
 He was conscious that many of the improvements in the 
 arts which were now brought into use, and which enabled 
 the painters of the day to produce such extraordinary effects, 
 were invented or introduced by himself. If he could no 
 longer assert that measureless superiority over all others 
 which he had done in his younger days, it was because he 
 himself had opened to them new paths to excellence. The 
 arrival of his old competitor Michael Angelo, and some 
 slight on the part of Leo X., who was annoyed by his spec- 
 11*
 
 250 MBS. JAMESON. 
 
 ulative and dilatory habits in executing the works intrusted 
 to him, all added to his irritation and disgust. He left 
 Rome, and set out for Pavia, where the French king Fran- 
 cis I. then held his court. He was received by the young 
 monarch with every mark of respect, loaded with favors, 
 and a pension of seven hundred gold crowns settled on him 
 for life. At the famous conference between Francis I. and 
 Leo X. at Bologna, Lionardo attended his new patron, and 
 was of essential service to him on that occasion. In the fol- 
 lowing year, 1516, he returned with Francis I. to France, 
 and was attached to the French court as principal painter. 
 It appears, however, that during his residence in France he 
 did not paint a single picture. His health had begun to 
 decline from the time he left Italy ; and, feeling his end 
 approach, he prepared himself for it by religious meditation, 
 by acts of charity, and by a most conscientious distribution 
 by will of all his worldly possessions to his relatives and 
 friends. At length, after protracted suffering, this great 
 and most extraordinary man died at Cloux, near Amboise, 
 on the 2d of May, 1519, being then in his sixty-seventh 
 year. It is to be regretted that we cannot wholly credit 
 the beautiful story of his dying in the arms of Francis L, 
 who, as it is said, had come to visit him on his death-bed. It 
 would, indeed, have been, as Fuseli expressed it, "an honor 
 to the king, by which Destiny would have atoned to that 
 monarch for his future disaster at Pavia," had the incident 
 really happened, as it has been so often related by biogra- 
 phers, celebrated by poets, represented with a just pride by 
 painters, and willingly believed by all the world ; but the 
 well-authenticated fact that the court was on that day at St. 
 Germain-en-Laye, whence the royal ordinances are dated, 
 renders the story, unhappily, very doubtful.
 
 TWO OF THE OLD MASTERS. 251 
 
 TITIAN. 
 
 TIZIANO VECELLI was born at Cadore in the Friuli, a 
 district to the north of Venice, where the ancient family of 
 the Vecelli had been long settled. There is something very 
 amusing and characteristic in the first indication of his love 
 of art ; for while it is recorded of other young artists that 
 they took a piece of charcoal or a piece of slate to trace the 
 images in their fancy, we are told that the infant Titian, 
 with an instinctive feeling prophetic of his future excellence 
 as a colorist, used the expressed juice of certain flowers to 
 paint a figure of a Madonna. When he was a boy of nine 
 years old his father, Gregorio, carried him to Venice and 
 placed him under the tuition of Sebastian Zuccato, a 
 painter and worker in mosaic. He left this school for 
 that of the Bellini, where the friendship and fellowship of 
 Giorgione seems early to have awakened his mind to new 
 ideas of art and color. Albert Durer, who was at Venice 
 in 1494, and again in 1507, also influenced him. At this 
 time, when Titian and Giorgione were youths of eighteen 
 and nineteen, they lived and worked together. It has been 
 related that they were employed in painting the frescos of 
 the Fondaco dei Tedeschi. The preference being given to 
 Titian's performance, which represented the story of Judith, 
 caused such a jealousy between the two friends, that they 
 ceased to reside together ; but at this time, and for some 
 years afterwards, the influence of Giorgione on the mind 
 and the style of Titian was such that it became diflicult to 
 distinguish their works ; and on the death of Giorgione, 
 Titian was required to complete his unfinished pictures. 
 This great loss to Venice and the world left him in the 
 prime of youth without a rival. We find him for a few 
 years chiefly employed in decorating the palaces of the 
 Venetian nobles, both in the city and on the mainland.
 
 252 MRS. JAMESON. 
 
 The first of his historical compositions which is celebrated 
 by his biographers is the Presentation of the Virgin in 
 the Temple, a large picture, now in the Academy of 
 Arts at Venice ; and the first portrait recorded is that of 
 Catherine, Queen of Cyprus, of which numerous repeti- 
 tions and copies were scattered over all Italy. There is 
 a fine original in the Dresden Gallery. This unhappy 
 Catherine Cornaro, the "daughter of St. Mark," having 
 been forced to abdicate her crown in favor of the Venetian 
 state, was at this time living in a sort of honorable captivity 
 at Venice. She had been a widow for forty years, and he 
 has represented her in deep mourning, holding a rosary in 
 her hand, the face still bearing traces of that beauty for 
 which she was celebrated. 
 
 It appears that Titian was married about 1512, but of his 
 wife we do not hear anything more. It is said that her 
 name was Lucia, and we know that she bore him three chil- 
 dren, two sons, and a daughter called Lavinia. It seems 
 probable, on a comparison of dates, that she died about the 
 year 1530. 
 
 One of the earliest works on which Titian was engaged 
 was the decoration of the convent of St. Antony, at Padua, 
 in which he executed a series of frescos from the life of St. 
 Antony. He was next summoned to Ferrara by the Duke 
 Alphonso I., and was employed in his service for at least 
 two years. He painted for this prince the beautiful picture 
 of Bacchus and Ariadne, which is now in the National Gal- 
 lery, and which represents on a small scale an epitome of 
 all the beauties which characterize Titian, in the rich, pictur- 
 esque, animated composition, in the ardor of Bacchus, who 
 flings himself from his car to pursue Ariadne ; the dancing 
 bacchanals, the frantic grace of the bacchante, and the little 
 joyous satyr in front, trailing the head of the sacrifice. He 
 painted for the same prince two other festive subjects : one 
 in which a nymph and two men are dancing, while another
 
 TWO OF THE OLD MASTERS. 253 
 
 nymph lies asleep ; and a third, in which a number of chil- 
 dren and cupids are sporting round a statue of Venus. 
 There are here upwards of sixty figures in every variety 
 of altitude, some fluttering in the air, some climbing the 
 fruit-trees, some shooting arrows, or embracing each other. 
 This picture is known as the Sacrifice to the Goddess of 
 Fertility. While it remained in Italy, it was a study for 
 the first painters, for Poussin, the Carracci, Albano, and 
 Fiamingo the sculptor, so famous for his models of children. 
 At Ferrara, Titian also painted the portrait of the first wife 
 of Alphonso, the famous and infamous Lucrezia Borgia ; 
 and here also he formed a friendship with the poet Ariosto, 
 whose portrait he painted. 
 
 At this time he was invited to Rome by Leo X., for 
 whom Raphael, then in the zenith of his powers, was execut- 
 ing some of his finest works. It is curious to speculate 
 what influence these two distinguished men might have 
 exercised on each other had they met ; but it was not so 
 decreed. Titian was strongly attached to his home and his 
 friends at Venice ; and to his birthplace, the little town of 
 Cadore. he paid an annual summer visit. His long absence 
 at Ferrara had wearied him of courts and princes ; and, 
 instead of going to Rome to swell the luxurious state of Leo 
 X., he returned to Venice and remained there stationary for 
 the next few years, enriching its palaces and churches with 
 his magnificent works. These were so numerous that it 
 would be in vain to attempt to give an account even of those 
 considered as the finest among them. Two, however, must be 
 pointed out as pre-eminent in beauty and celebrity. First, 
 the Assumption of the Virgin, painted for the Church of 
 Santa Maria de' Frari, and now in the Academy of the 
 Fine Arts at Venice, and well known from the magnificent 
 engraving of Schiavone the Virgin is soaring to heaven 
 amid groups of angels, while the apostles gaze upwards ; 
 and, secondly, the Death of St. Peter Martyr when attacked
 
 254 MRS. JAMESON. 
 
 by assassins at the entrance of a wood ; the resignation of 
 the prostrate victim and the ferocity of the murderer, the 
 attendant flying " in the agonies of cowardice," with the trees 
 waving their distracted boughs amid the violence of the tem- 
 pest, have rendered this picture famous as a piece of scenic 
 poetry as well as of dramatic expression. 
 
 The next event of Titian's life was his journey to Bologna 
 in 1530. In that year the Emperor Charles V. and Pope 
 Clement VII. met at Bologna, each surrounded by a bril- 
 liant retinue of the most distinguished soldiers, statesmen, 
 and scholars, of Germany and Italy. Through the influence 
 of his friend Aretino, Titian was recommended to the Car- 
 dinal Ippolito de' Medici, the Pope's nephew, through whose 
 patronage he was introduced to the two potentates who sat 
 to him. One of the portraits of Clement VII., painted at 
 this time, is now in the Bridgewater Gallery. Charles V. 
 was so satisfied with his portrait, that he became the zealous 
 friend and patron of the painter. It is not precisely known 
 which of several portraits of the Emperor painted by Titian 
 was the one executed at Bologna on this memorable occa- 
 sion, but it is supposed to be that which represents him on 
 horseback charging with his lance, now in the Royal Gallery 
 at Madrid, and of which Mr. Rogers possesses the original 
 study. The two portraits of Ippolito de' Medici in the Pitti 
 Palace and the Louvre were also painted at this period. 
 
 After a sojourn of some months at Bologna, Titian re- 
 turned to Venice loaded with honors and rewards. There 
 was no potentate, prince, or poet, or reigning beauty, who 
 did not covet the honor of being immortalized by his pencil. 
 He had, up to this time, managed his worldly affairs with 
 great economy ; but now he purchased for himself a house 
 opposite to Murano, and lived splendidly, combining with 
 the most indefatigable industry the liveliest enjoyment of 
 existence ; his favorite companions were the architect San- 
 sovino and the witty profligate Pietro Aretino. Titian has
 
 TWO OF THE OLD MASTERS. 255 
 
 often been reproached with his friendship for Aretino, and 
 nothing can be said in his excuse, except that the proudest 
 princes in Europe condescended to natter and caress this 
 unprincipled literary ruffian, who was pleased to designate 
 himself as the u friend of Titian, and the scourge of princes." 
 One of the finest of Titian's portraits is that of Aretino, in 
 the Munich Gallery. 
 
 Thus in the practice of his art, in the society of his 
 friends, and in the enjoyment of the pleasures of life, did 
 Titian pass several years. The only painter of his time 
 who was deemed worthy of competing with him was Licinio 
 Regillo, better known as Pordenone. Between Titian and 
 Pordenone there existed not merely rivalry, but a personal 
 hatred, so bitter that Pordenone affected to think his life in 
 danger, and when at Venice painted with his shield and 
 poniard lying beside him. As long as Pordenone lived, 
 Titian had a spur to exertion, to emulation. All the other 
 good painters of the time, Palma, Bonifazio, Tintoretto, 
 were his pupils or his creatures ; Pordenone would never 
 owe anything to him; and the picture called the St. Jus- 
 tina, at Vienna, shows that he could equal Titian on his own 
 ground. 
 
 After the death of Pordenone at Ferrara, in 1539, Titian 
 was left without a rival. Everywhere in Italy art was on 
 the decline : Lionardo, Raphael, Correggio, had all passed 
 away. Titian himself, at the age of sixty, was no longer 
 young, but he still retained all the vigor and the freshness 
 of youth ; neither eye nor hand, nor creative energy of mind 
 had failed him yet. He was again invited to Ferrara, and 
 painted there the portrait of the old Pope Paul III. He 
 then visited Urbino, where he painted for the Duke the fa- 
 mous Venus which hangs in the Tribune of the Florence Gal- 
 lery, and many other pictures. He again, by order of Charles 
 V., repaired to Bologna, and painted the Emperor, standing, 
 and by his side a favorite Irish wolf-dog. This picture was
 
 256 MRS. JAMESON. 
 
 given by Philip IV. to Charles I. of England, but after his 
 death was sold into Spain, and is now at Madrid. 
 
 Pope Paul III. invited him to Rome, whither he repaired 
 in 1548. There he painted that wonderful picture of the 
 old Pope with his two nephews, the Duke Ottavio and Car- 
 dinal Farnese, which is now at Vienna. The head of the 
 Pope is a miracle of character and expression. A keen-vis- 
 aged, thin little man, with meagre fingers like birds' claws, 
 and an eager cunning look, riveting the gazer like the eye of 
 a snake, nature itself! and the Pope had either so little 
 or so much vanity as to be perfectly satisfied. He rewarded 
 the painter munificently ; he even offered to make his son 
 Pomponio Bishop of Ceneda, which Titian had the good 
 sense to refuse. While at Rome he painted several pic- 
 tures for the Farnese family, among them the Venus and 
 Adonis, of which a repetition is in the National Gallery, 
 and a Danae which excited the admiration of Michael An- 
 gelo. At this time Titian was seventy-two. 
 
 He next, by command of Charles V., repaired to Augs- 
 burg, where the Emperor held his court: eighteen years 
 had elapsed since he first sat to Titian, and he was now 
 broken by the cares of government, far older at fifty than 
 the painter at seventy-two. It was at Augsburg that the 
 incident occurred which has been so often related: Titian 
 dropped his pencil, and Charles, taking it up and presenting 
 it, replied to the artist's excuses that " Titian was worthy of 
 being served by Caesar." This pretty anecdote is not with- 
 out its parallel in modern times. When Sir Thomas Law- 
 rence was painting at Aix-la-Chapelle, as he stooped to place 
 a picture on his easel, the Emperor of Russia anticipated him, 
 and, taking it up, adjusted it himself; but we do not hear 
 that he made any speech on the occasion. When at Augs- 
 burg, Titian was ennobled and created a count of the em- 
 pire, with a pension of two hundred gold ducats, and his son 
 Pomponio was appointed canon of the cathedral of Milan.
 
 TWO OF THE OLD MASTERS. 257 
 
 After the abdication and death of Charles V., Titian contin- 
 ued in great favor with his successor Philip II., for whom 
 he painted several pictures. It is not true, however, that 
 Titian visited Spain. The assertion that he did so rests on 
 the sole authority of Palomino, a Spanish writer on art, and, 
 though wholly unsupported by evidence, has been copied 
 from one book into another. Later researches have proved 
 that Titian returned from Augsburg to Venice ; and an 
 uninterrupted series of letters and documents, with dates of 
 time and place, remain to show that, with the exception of 
 this visit to Augsburg and another to Vienna, he resided 
 constantly in Italy, and principally at Venice, from 1530 to 
 his death. Notwithstanding the compliments and patronage 
 and nominal rewards he received from the Spanish court, 
 Titian was worse off under Philip II. than he had been 
 under Charles V. : his pension was constantly in arrears ; 
 the payments for his pictures evaded by the officials ; and 
 we find the great painter constantly presenting petitions 
 and complaints in moving terms, which always obtained gra- 
 cious but illusive answers. Philip II., who commanded the 
 riches of the Indies, was for many years a debtor to Titian 
 for at least two thousand gold crowns ; and his accounts 
 were not settled at the time of his death. For Queen 
 Mary of England, who wished to patronize one favored by 
 her husband, Titian painted several pictures, some of which 
 were in the possession of Charles I. ; others had been car- 
 ried to Spain after the death of Mary, and are now in the 
 Royal Gallery at Madrid. 
 
 Besides the pictures painted by command for royal and 
 noble patrons, Titian, who was unceasingly occupied, had 
 always a great number of pictures in his house which he 
 presented to his friends, or to the officers and attendants of 
 the court, as a means of procuring their favor. There is 
 extant a letter of Aretino, in which he describes the scene 
 which took place when the Emperor summoned his favorite 
 
 Q
 
 258 MRS. JAMESON. 
 
 painter to attend the court at Augsburg. "It was," he 
 says, "the most flattering testimony to his excellence to 
 behold, as soon as it was known that the divine painter was 
 sent for, the crowds of people running to obtain, if possible, 
 the productions of his art ; and how they endeavored to 
 purchase the pictures, great and small, and everything that 
 was in the house, at any price ; for everybody seems assured 
 that his august majesty will so treat his Apelles that he 
 will no longer condescend to exercise his pencil except to 
 oblige him." 
 
 Years passed on, and seemed to have no power to quench 
 the ardor of this wonderful old man. He was eighty-one 
 when he painted the Martyrdom of St. Laurence, one of 
 his largest and grandest compositions. The Magdalen, the 
 half-length figure with uplifted streaming eyes, which he 
 sent to Philip II., was executed even later ; and it was not 
 till he was approaching his ninetieth year that he showed 
 in his works symptoms of enfeebled powers ; and then it 
 seemed as if sorrow rather than time had reached him and 
 conquered him at last. The death of many friends, the 
 companions of his convivial hours, left him " alone in his 
 glory." He found in his beloved art the only refuge from 
 grief. His son Pomponio was still the same worthless 
 profligate in age that he had been in youth. His son Orazio 
 attended upon him with truly filial duty and affection, and 
 under his father's tuition had become an accomplished artist ; 
 but as they always worked together, and on the same can- 
 vas, his works are not to be distinguished from his father's. 
 Titian was likewise surrounded by painters who, without 
 being precisely his scholars, had assembled from every part 
 of Europe to profit by his instructions. The early morning 
 and the evening hour found him at his easel ; or lingering 
 in his little garden (where he had feasted with Aretino and 
 Sansovino, and Bembo and Ariosto, and " the most gracious 
 Virginia," and " the most beautiful Violante "), and gazing
 
 TWO OF THE OLD MASTERS. 259 
 
 on the setting sun, with a thought perhaps of his own long 
 and bright career fast hastening to its close ; not that such 
 anticipations clouded his cheerful spirit, buoyant to the 
 last! In 1574, when he was in his ninety-seventh year, 
 Henry III. of France landed at Venice on his way from 
 Poland, and was magnificently entertained by the Republic. 
 On this occasion the King visited Titian at his own house, 
 attended by a numerous suite of princes and nobles. Titian 
 entertained them with splendid hospitality ; and when the 
 King asked the price of some pictures which pleased him, 
 he presented them as a gift to his Majesty, and every one 
 praised his easy and noble manners and his generous 
 bearing. 
 
 Two years more passed away, and the hand did not yet 
 tremble nor was the eye dim. When the plague broke 
 out in Venice, the nature of the distemper was at first mis- 
 taken, and the most common precautions neglected ; the 
 contagion spread, and Titian and his son were among those 
 who perished. Every one had fled, and before life was 
 extinct some ruffians entered his chamber and carried off, 
 before his eyes, his money, jewels, and some of his pictures. 
 His death took place on the 9th of September, 1575. A 
 law had been made during the plague that none should be 
 buried in the churches, but that all the dead bodies should 
 be carried beyond the precincts of the city ; an exception, 
 however, even in that hour of terror and anguish, was made 
 in favor of Titian. His remains were borne with honor to 
 the tomb, and deposited in the Church of Santa Maria do' 
 Frari, for which he had painted his famous Assumption. 
 There he lies beneath a plain black marble slab, on which 
 is simply inscribed, 
 
 "TIZIANO VECELLIO." 
 
 In the year 1794 the citizens of Venice resolved to erect 
 a noble and befitting monument to his memory. Canova
 
 260 MRS. JAMESON. 
 
 made the design ; but the troubles which intervened, and 
 the extinction of the Republic, prevented the execution of 
 this project. Canova's magnificent model was appropriated 
 to another purpose, and now forms the cenotaph of the 
 Archduchess Christina, in the Church of the Augustines 
 at Vienna. 
 
 This was the life and death of the famous Titian. He 
 was pre-eminently the painter of nature ; but to him nature 
 was clothed in a perpetual garb of beauty, or rather to him 
 nature and beauty were one. In historical compositions 
 and sacred subjects he has been rivalled and surpassed, 
 but as a portrait painter never ; and his portraits of cele- 
 brated persons have at once the truth and the dignity of 
 history.
 
 THE POET'S HEART 
 
 Br FREDERICK TEKNYSON. 
 
 WHEN the Poet's heart is dead, 
 That with fragrance, light, and sound, 
 Like a Summer-day was fed, 
 
 Where, 0, where shall it be found, 
 In Sea, or Air, or underground ? 
 
 II. 
 
 It shall be a sunny place ; 
 An urn of odors ; a still well, 
 
 Upon whose undisturbed face 
 
 The lights of Heaven shall love to dwell, 
 And its far depths make visible. 
 
 m. 
 
 It shall be a crimson flower 
 
 That in Fairyland hath thriven ; 
 
 For dew a gentle Sprite shall pour 
 Tears of Angels down from Heaven, 
 And hush the winds at morn and even.
 
 262 FREDERICK TENNYSON. 
 
 IV. 
 It shall be on some fair morn 
 
 A swift and many-voiced wind, 
 Singing down the skies of June, 
 And with its breath and gladsome tune 
 
 Send joy into the heart and mind. 
 
 v. 
 It shall be a fountain springing, 
 
 Far up into the happy light, 
 With a silver carol ringing, 
 With a magic motion flinging 
 
 Its jocund waters, starry-bright. 
 
 VI. 
 
 It shall be a tiny thing 
 
 Whose breath is in it for a day, 
 
 To fold at Eve its weary wing, 
 And at the dewfall die away 
 On some pure air, or golden ray, 
 
 VII. 
 
 Falling in a violet-bloom ; 
 
 Tombed in a sphere of pearly rain ; 
 
 Its blissful ghost a wild perfume 
 To come forth with the Morn again, 
 And wander through an infant's brain ; 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And the pictures it should set 
 In that temple of Delight 
 
 Would make the tearless cherub fret 
 With its first longing for a sight 
 Of things beyond the Day and Night.
 
 THE POET'S HEART. 263 
 
 IX. 
 
 But one moment of its span 
 
 Should thicker grow with blissful things 
 Than any days of mortal Man, 
 Or his years of Sorrow can, 
 
 Though beggars should be crowned kings. 
 
 x. 
 
 It shall be a tuneful voice 
 Falling on a Lover's ear, 
 
 Enough to make his heart rejoice 
 For evermore, or far, or near, 
 In dreams that swallow hope and fear. 
 
 XI. 
 
 It shall be a chord divine 
 
 By Mercy out of Heaven hung forth, 
 
 Along whose trembling, airy line 
 A dying Saint shall hear on earth 
 Triumphant songs, and harped mirth ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 It shall be a wave forlorn 
 
 That o 'er the vast and fearful Sea 
 
 In troubled pride and beauty borne 
 From winged storms shall vainly flee 
 And seek for rest where none shall be. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 It shall be a mountain Tree, 
 
 Thro' whose great arms the winds shall blow 
 Louder than the roaring Sea, 
 
 And toss its plumed head to and fro ; 
 
 But a thousand flowers shall live below.
 
 264 FREDERICK TENNYSON. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 It shall be a kingly Star 
 
 That o'er a thousand Suns shall burn 
 Where the high Sabaoth are, 
 And round its glory flung afar 
 
 A mighty host shall swiftly turn. 
 
 XV. 
 
 All things of beauty it shall be 
 
 All things of power of joy of fear ; 
 But out of bliss and agony 
 It shall come forth more pure and free, 
 And sing a song more sweet to hear. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 For methinks, when it hath passed 
 
 Thro' wondrous Nature's world-wide reign, 
 
 Perchance it may come home at last, 
 And the old Earth may hear again 
 Its lofty voice of Joy and Pain.
 
 
 
 Gloria in Ezcelsis
 
 CHARACTER OF FRA ANGELICO. 
 
 BY GIOKGIO VASARL 
 
 FRA ANGELICO was a man of the utmost simplicity 
 of intention, and was most holy in every act of his 
 life. It is related of him, and it is a good evidence of his 
 simple earnestness of purpose, that being one morning invited 
 to breakfeast by Pope Nicholas V., he had scruples of con- 
 science as to eating meat without the permission of his prior, 
 not considering that the authority of the pontiff was super- 
 seding that of the prior. He disregarded all earthly advan- 
 tages ; and, living in pure holiness, was as much the friend 
 of the poor in life as I believe his soul now is in heaven. 
 He labored continually at his paintings, but would do noth- 
 ing that was not connected with things holy. He might 
 have been rich, but for riches he took no care ; on the con- 
 trary he was accustomed to say, that the only true riches 
 was contentment with little. He might have commanded 
 many, but would not do so, declaring that there was less 
 fatigue and less danger of error in obeying others, than in 
 commanding others. It was at his option to hold places of 
 dignity in the brotherhood of his order, and also in the 
 world ; but he regarded them not, affirming that he sought 
 no dignity and took no care but that of escaping hell and 
 drawing near to Paradise. And of a truth what dignity 
 can be compared to that which should be most coveted by 
 all Churchmen, nay, by every man living, that, namely, 
 12
 
 266 GIORGIO VASARI. 
 
 which is found in God alone, and in a life of virtuous 
 labor ? 
 
 Fra Angelico was kindly to all, and moderate in all his 
 habits, living temperately, and holding himself entirely apart 
 from the snares of the world. He used frequently to say, 
 that he who practised the art of painting had need of quiet, 
 and should live without cares or anxious thoughts ; adding, 
 that he who would do the work of Christ should perpetually 
 remain with Christ. He was never seen to display anger 
 among the brethren of his order ; a thing which appears to 
 me most extraordinary, nay, almost incredible ; if he admon- 
 ished his friends, it was with gentleness and a quiet smile ; 
 and to those who sought his works, he would reply with the 
 utmost cordiality, that they had but to obtain the assent of 
 the prior, when he would assuredly not fail to do what they 
 desired. In fine, this never sufficiently to be lauded father 
 was most humble, modest, and excellent in all his words 
 and works ; in his painting he gave evidence of piety and 
 devotion, as well as of ability, and the saints that he painted 
 have more of the air and expression of sanctity than have 
 those of any other master. 
 
 It was the custom of Fra Angelico to abstain from re- 
 touching or improving any painting once finished. He 
 altered nothing, but left all as it was done the first time, 
 believing, as he said, that such was the will of God. It is 
 also affirmed that he would never take the pencil in hand 
 until he had first offered a prayer. He is said never to 
 have painted a Crucifix without tears streaming from his 
 eyes, and in the countenances and attitudes of his figures it 
 is easy to perceive proof of his sincerity, his goodness, and 
 the depth of his devotion to the religion of Christ. 
 
 He died in 1455, at the age of sixty-eight.
 
 SONGS. 
 
 BY WILLIAM BLAKE. 
 
 I GIVE you the end of a golden string 
 
 Only wind it into a ball, 
 It will lead you in at Heaven's gate, 
 
 Built in Jerusalem wall. 
 
 I. 
 MY SILKS AND FINE ARRAY: 
 
 MY silks and fine array, 
 My smiles and languished air, 
 By love are driven away. 
 
 And mournful, lean Despair 
 Brings me yew to deck my grave : 
 Such end true lovers have. 
 
 His face is fair as heaven 
 
 When springing buds unfold ; 
 
 0, why to him was 't given, 
 Whose heart is wintry cold ? 
 
 His breast is Love's all-worshipped tomb 
 
 Where all love's pilgrims come. 
 
 Bring me an axe and spade, 
 Bring me a winding-sheet ;
 
 268 WILLIAM BLAKE. 
 
 When I my grave have made, 
 
 Let winds and tempests beat : 
 Then down I '11 lie, as cold as clay. 
 True love doth pass away ! 
 
 n. 
 
 THE FIRST SONG OF INNOCENCE, 
 
 PIPING down the valleys wild, 
 Piping songs of pleasant glee, 
 
 On a cloud I saw a child, 
 
 And he, laughing, said to me : 
 
 " Pipe a song about a Lamb ! " 
 So I piped with merry cheer 
 
 " Piper, pipe that song again " ; 
 So I piped : he wept to hear 
 
 " Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe : 
 Sing thy songs of happy cheer ! " 
 
 So I sang the same again, 
 
 While he wept with joy to hear. 
 
 " Piper, sit thee down and write 
 In a book, that all may read." 
 
 So he vanished from my sight, 
 And I plucked a hollow reed, 
 
 And I made a rural pen, 
 And I stained the water clear, 
 
 And I wrote my happy songs 
 Every child may joy to hear.
 
 SONGS. 269 
 
 ni. 
 
 THE LITTLE BLACK BOY. 
 
 MY mother bore me in the southern wild, 
 And I am black, but O, my soul is white. 
 
 White as an angel is the English child, 
 But I am black, as if bereaved of light. 
 
 My mother taught me underneath a tree, 
 And, sitting down before the heat of day, 
 
 She took me on her lap and kissed me, 
 And, pointing to the East, began to say : 
 
 " Look on the rising sun : there God does live, 
 And gives this light, and gives His heat away ; 
 
 And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive 
 Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday. 
 
 " And we are put on earth a little space, 
 
 That we may learn to bear the beams of love ; 
 
 And these black bodies and this sunburnt face 
 Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 
 
 " For when our souls have learned the heat to bear, 
 The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice, 
 
 Saying, ' Come out from the grove, my love and care, 
 And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.' " 
 
 Thus did my mother say, and kissed me, 
 
 And thus I say to little English boy : 
 When I from black, and he from white cloud free, 
 
 And round the tent of God like lambs we joy ;
 
 270 WILLIAM BLAKE. 
 
 I '11 shade him from the heat till he can bear 
 To lean in joy upon our Father's knee ; 
 
 And then I '11 stand and stroke his silver hair, 
 And be like him, and he will then love me. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER. 
 
 WHEN my mother died I was very young, 
 And my father sold me while yet my tongue 
 Could scarcely cry, " Weep ! weep ! weep ! weep ! " 
 So your chimneys I sweep and in soot I sleep. 
 
 There } B little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head, 
 That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved ; so I said, 
 " Hush, Tom ! never mind it, for when your head 's bare, 
 You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair." 
 
 And so he was quiet, and that very night, 
 
 As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight ; 
 
 That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack, 
 
 Were all of them locked up in coffins of black. 
 
 And by came an angel, who had a bright key, 
 And he opened the coffins, and set them all free ; 
 Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing they run, 
 And wash in a river, and shine in the sun. 
 
 Then naked and white, all their bags left behind, 
 They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind ; 
 And the angel told Tom, if he 'd be a good boy, 
 He 'd have God for his father, and never want joy.
 
 SONGS. 271 
 
 And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark, 
 And got with our bags and our brushes to work : 
 Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm : 
 So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE DIVINE IMAGE. 
 
 To mercy, pity, peace, and love, 
 All pray in their distress, 
 
 And to these virtues of delight 
 Return their thankfulness. 
 
 For mercy, pity, peace, and love, 
 Is God our Father dear ; 
 
 And mercy, pity, peace, and love, 
 Is man, His child and care. 
 
 For Mercy has a human heart ; 
 
 Pity, a human face ; 
 And Love, the human form divine ; 
 
 And Peace, the human dress. 
 
 Then every man, of every clime, 
 That prays in his distress, 
 
 Prays to the human form divine : 
 Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace. 
 
 And all must love the human form, 
 In heathen, Turk, or Jew ; 
 
 Where mercy, love, and pity dwell, 
 There God is dwelling too.
 
 WILLIAM BLAKE. 
 
 VI. 
 
 ON ANOTHER'S SORROW. 
 
 CAN I see another's woe, 
 And not be in sorrow too ? 
 Can I see another's grief, 
 And not seek for kind relief? 
 
 Can I see a falling tear, 
 And not feel my sorrow's share ? 
 Can a father see his child 
 Weep, nor be with sorrow filled ? 
 
 Can a mother sit and hear 
 An infant groan, an infant fear ? 
 No ! no ! never can it be ! 
 Never, never can it be ! 
 
 And can He, who smiles on all, 
 Hear the wren, with sorrows small, 
 Hear the small bird's grief and care, 
 Hear the woes that infants bear ? 
 
 And not sit beside the nest, 
 Pouring Pity in their breast ? 
 And not sit the cradle near, 
 Weeping tear on infant's tear ? 
 
 And not sit both night and day, 
 Wiping all our tears away ? 
 O, no ! never can it be ! 
 Never, never can it be !
 
 SONGS. 273 
 
 He doth give his joy to all : 
 He becomes an infant small, 
 He becomes a man of woe, 
 He doth feel the sorrow too. 
 
 Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, 
 And thy Maker is not by : 
 Think not thou canst weep a tear, 
 And thy Maker is not near. 
 
 O, He gives to us his joy, 
 That our griefs He may destroy: 
 Till our grief is fled and gone, 
 He doth sit by us and moan. 
 
 vn. 
 
 THE TIGER. 
 
 TIGER, Tiger, burning bright 
 In the forests of the night, 
 What immortal hand or eye 
 Framed thy fearful symmetry ? 
 
 In what distant deeps or skies 
 Burned that fire within thine eyes ? 
 On what wings dared he aspire? 
 "What the hand dared seize the fire ? 
 
 And what shoulder, and what art, 
 Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 
 When thy heart began to beat, 
 What dread hand formed thy dread feet ? 
 12* ii
 
 274 WILLIAM BLAKE. 
 
 What the hammer, what the chain, 
 Knit thy strength and forged thy brain ? 
 What the anvil ? What dread grasp 
 Dared thy deadly terrors clasp ? 
 
 When the stars threw down their spears, 
 And watered heaven with their tears, 
 Did he smile his work to see ? 
 Did He who made the lamb make thee ? 
 
 VIII. 
 A LITTLE BOY LOST. 
 
 " NOUGHT loves another as itself, 
 
 Nor venerates another so, 
 Nor is it possible to thought 
 
 A greater than itself to know. 
 
 " And, Father, how can I love you 
 Or any of my brothers more ? 
 
 I love you like the little bird 
 
 That picks up crumbs around the door." 
 
 The Priest sat by and heard the child ; 
 
 In trembling zeal he seized his hair, 
 He led him by his little coat, 
 
 And all admired the priestly care. 
 
 And standing on the altar high, 
 
 " Lo ! what a fiend is here," said he, 
 
 u One who sets reason up for judge 
 Of our most holy Mystery."
 
 SONGS. 275 
 
 The weeping child could not be heard, 
 The weeping parents wept in vain, 
 
 They stripped him to his little shirt, 
 And bound him in an iron chain, 
 
 And burned him in a holy place 
 
 Where many had been burned before ; 
 
 The weeping parents wept in vain. 
 
 Are such things done on Albion's shore ? 
 
 IX 
 
 SMILE AND FROWN. 
 
 THERE is a smile of Love, 
 
 And there is a smile of Deceit, 
 
 And there is a smile of smiles 
 In which the two smiles meet. 
 
 And there is a frown of Hate, 
 And there is a frown of Disdain, 
 
 And there is a frown of frowns 
 
 Which you strive to forget in vain ; 
 
 For it sticks in the heart's deep core, 
 And it sticks in the deep backbone. 
 
 And no smile ever was smiled 
 But only one smile alone. 
 
 (And betwixt the cradle and grave 
 It only once smiled can be,) 
 
 That when it once is smiled 
 There 's an end to all misery.
 
 276 WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 X. 
 
 OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 HE who bends to himself a joy 
 Does the winged life destroy ; 
 But he who kisses the joy as it flies 
 Lives in eternity's sunrise.
 
 UPON GROWING OLD. 
 
 BY J. HAIN FRISWELL. 
 
 JOHN FOSTER, (he who sprung into celebrity from 
 one essay, Popular Ignorance,) had a diseased feeling 
 against growing old, which seems to us to be very prevalent. 
 He was sorry to lose every parting hour. " I have seen a 
 fearful sight to-day," he would say, "I have seen a butter- 
 cup." To others the sight would only give visions of the 
 coming spring and future summer; to him it told of the 
 past year, the last Christmas, the days which would never 
 come again, the so many days nearer the grave. Thack- 
 eray continually expressed the same feeling. He reverts 
 to the merry old time when George the Third was king. 
 He looks back with a regretful mind to his own youth. 
 The black Care constantly rides behind his chariot. " Ah, 
 my friends," he says, " how beautiful was youth ! We are 
 growing old. Spring-time and summer are past. We near 
 the winter of our days. We shall never feel as we have 
 felt. We approach the inevitable grave." Few men, in- 
 deed, know how to grow old gracefully as Madame de Stael 
 very truly observed. There is an unmanly sadness at leav- 
 ing off the old follies and the old games. We all hate fo- 
 geyism. Dr. Johnson, great and good as he was, had a touch 
 of this regret, and we may pardon him for the feeling. A 
 youth spent in poverty and neglect, a manhood consumed 
 in unceasing struggle, are not preparatives to growing old in
 
 278 J. HAIN FRISWELL. 
 
 peace. We fancy that, after a stormy morning and a lower- 
 ing day, the evening should have a sunset glow, and, when 
 the night sets in, look back with regret at the " gusty, bab- 
 bling, and remorseless day " ; but if we do so, we miss the 
 supporting faith of the Christian and the manly cheerful- 
 ness of the heathen. To grow old is quite natural ; being 
 natural, it is beautiful ; and if we grumble at it, we miss 
 the lesson, and lose all the beauty. 
 
 Half of our life is spent in vain regrets. When we are 
 boys we ardently wish to be men ; when men we wish as 
 ardently to be boys. We sing sad songs of the lapse of 
 time. We talk of " auld lang syne," of the days when we 
 were young, of gathering shells on the sea-shore and throw- 
 ing them carelessly away. We never cease to be senti- 
 mental upon past youth and lost manhood and beauty. Yet 
 there are no regrets so false, and few half so silly. Per- 
 haps the saddest sight in the world is to see an old lady, 
 wrinkled and withered, dressing, talking, and acting like a 
 very young one, and forgetting all the time, as she clings to 
 the feeble remnant of the past, that there is no sham so 
 transparent as her own, and that people, instead of feeling 
 with her, are laughing at her. Old boys disguise their foi- 
 bles a little better ; but they are equally ridiculous. The 
 feeble protests which they make against the flying chariot 
 of Time are equally futile. The great Mower enters the 
 field, and all must come down. To stay him would be im- 
 possible. We might as well try with a finger to stop 
 Ixion's wheel, or to dam up the current of the Thames with 
 a child's foot. 
 
 Since the matter is inevitable, we may as well sit down 
 and reason it out. Is it so dreadful to grow old ? Does old 
 age need its apologies and its defenders ? Is it a benefit or 
 a calamity ? Why should it be odious and ridiculous ? An 
 old tree is picturesque, an old castle venerable, an old cathe- 
 dral inspires awe, why should man be worse than his 
 works ?
 
 UPON GROWING OLD. 279 
 
 Let us, in the first place, see what youth is. Is it so 
 blessed and happy and flourishing as it seems to us ? 
 Schoolboys do not think so. They always wish to be 
 older. You cannot insult one of them more than by tell- 
 ing him that he is a year or two younger than he is. He 
 fires up at once : " Twelve, did you say, sir ? No, I 'm 
 fourteen." But men and women who have reached twenty- 
 eight do not thus add to their years. Amongst schoolboys, 
 notwithstanding the general tenor of those romancists who 
 see that everything young bears a rose-colored blush, mis- 
 ery is prevalent enough. Emerson, Coleridge, Wordsworth, 
 were each and all unhappy boys. They all had their re- 
 buffs, and bitter, bitter troubles ; all the more bitter because 
 their sensitiveness was so acute. Suicide is not unknown 
 amongst the young ; fears prey upon them and terrify them ; 
 ignorances and follies surround them. Arriving at manhood, 
 we are little better off. If we are poor, we mark tbe differ- 
 ence between the rich and us ; we see position gains all the 
 day. If we are as clever as Hamlet, we grow just as philo- 
 sophically disappointed. If we love, we can only be sure of 
 a brief pleasure, an April day. Love has its bitterness. 
 " It is," says Ovid, an adept in the matter, " full of anxious 
 fear." We fret and fume at the authority of the wise 
 heads ; we have an intense idea of our own talent. We 
 believe calves of our own age to be as big and as valuable 
 as full-grown bulls ; we envy whilst we jest at the old. 
 We cry, with the puffed-up hero of the Patricians Daugh- 
 ter 
 
 " It may be by the calendar of years 
 You are the elder man ; but 't is the sun 
 Of knowledge on the mind's dial shining bright, 
 And chronicling deeds and thoughts, that makes true time." 
 
 And yet life is withal very unhappy, whether we live 
 amongst the grumbling captains of the clubs, who are ever 
 seeking and not finding promotion; amongst ths strug-
 
 280 J. HAIN FRISWELL. 
 
 gling authors and rising artists who never rise ; or among 
 the young men who are full of riches, titles, places, and 
 honor, who have every wish fulfilled, and are miserable 
 because they have nothing to wish for. Thus the young 
 Romans killed themselves after the death of their emperor, 
 not for grief, not for affection, not even for the fashion of 
 suicide, which grew afterwards prevalent enough, but from 
 the simple weariness of doing everything over and over 
 again. Old age has passed such stages as these, landed on 
 a safer shore, and matriculated in a higher college, in a 
 purer air. We do not sigh for impossibilities ; we cry 
 not 
 
 " Bring these anew, and set me once again 
 
 In the delusion of life's infancy; 
 I was not happy, but I knew not then 
 
 That happy I was never doomed to be." 
 
 We know that we are not happy. We know that life 
 perhaps was not given us to be continuously comfortable 
 and happy. We have been behind the scenes, and know 
 all the illusions ; but when we are old we are far too wise to 
 throw life away for mere ennui. With Dandolo, refusing a 
 crown at ninety-six, winning battles at ninety-four; with 
 Wellington, planning and superintending fortifications at 
 eighty ; with Bacon and Humboldt, students to the last 
 gasp ; with wise old Montaigne, shrewd in his gray-beard 
 wisdom and loving life, even in the midst of his fits of gout 
 and colic, Age knows far too much to act like a sulky 
 child. It knows too well the results and the value of 
 things to care about them ; that the ache will subside, the 
 pain be lulled, the estate we coveted be worth little ; the 
 titles, ribbons, gewgaws, honors, be all more or less worth- 
 less. " Who has honor ? He that died o' Wednesday ! " 
 Such a one passed us in the race, and gained it but to fall. 
 We are still up and doing ; we may be frosty and shrewd, 
 but kindly. We can wish all men well ; like them, too, so
 
 UPON GROWING OLD. 281 
 
 far as they may be liked, and smile at the fuss, bother, hurry, 
 and turmoil, which they make about matters which to us are 
 worthless dross. The greatest prize in the whole market 
 in any and in every market success, is to the old man 
 nothing. He little cares who is up and who is down ; the 
 present he lives in and delights in. Thus, in one of those 
 admirable comedies in which Robson acted, we find the son 
 a wanderer, the mother's heart nearly broken, the father 
 torn and broken by a suspicion of his son's dishonesty, but 
 the grandfather all the while concerned only about his gruel 
 and his handkerchief. Even the pains and troubles incident 
 to his state visit the old man lightly. Because Southey sat 
 for months in his library, unable to read or touch the books 
 he loved, we are not to infer that he was unhappy. If the 
 stage darkens as the curtain falls, certain it also is that the 
 senses grow duller and more blunted. " Don't cry for me, 
 my dear," said an old lady undergoing an operation ; " I do 
 not feel it." 
 
 It seems to us, therefore, that a great deal of unnecessary 
 pity has been thrown away upon old age. We begin at 
 school reading Cicero's treatise, hearing him talk with Scipio 
 and Loclius ; we hear much about poor old men ; we are 
 taught to admire the vigor, quickness, and capacity of youth 
 and manhood. We lose sight of the wisdom which age 
 brings even to the most foolish. We think that a circum- 
 scribed sphere must necessarily be an unhappy one. It is 
 not always so. What one abandons in growing old is per- 
 haps after all not worth having. The chief part of youth is 
 but excitement ; often both unwise and unhealthy. The 
 same pen which has written, with a morbid feeling, that 
 " there is a class of beings who do grow old in their youth 
 and die ere middle age," tells us also that " the best of life is 
 but intoxication." That passes away. The man who has 
 grown old does not care about it. The author at that period 
 has no feverish excitement about seeing himself in print;
 
 282 J. HAIN FRISWELL. 
 
 he does not hunt newspapers for reviews and notices. He 
 is content to wait ; he knows what fame is worth. The 
 obscure man of science, who has been wishing to make the 
 world better and wiser ; the struggling curate, the poor and 
 hard-tried man of God ; the enthusiastic reformer, who has 
 watched the sadly slow dawning of progress and liberty; 
 the artist, whose dream of beauty slowly fades before his 
 dim eyes all lay down their feverish wishes as they 
 advance in life, forget the bright ideal which they cannot 
 reach, and embrace the more imperfect real. "We speak not 
 here of the assured Christian. He, from the noblest pinna- 
 cle of faith, beholds a promised land, and is eager to reach 
 it ; he prays " to be delivered from the body of this death " ; 
 but we write of those humbler, perhaps more human souls, 
 with whom increasing age each day treads down an illu- 
 sion. All feverish wishes, raw and inconclusive desires, 
 have died down, and a calm beauty and peace survive ; 
 passions are dead, temptations weakened or conquered ; 
 experience has been won ; selfish interests are widened 
 into universal ones ; vain, idle hopes, have merged into a 
 firmer faith or a complete knowledge ; and more light 
 has broken in upon the soul's dark cottage, battered and 
 decayed, " through chinks which Time has made." 
 
 Again, old men are valuable, not only as relics of the 
 past, but as guides and prophets for the future. They know 
 the pattern of every turn of life's kaleidoscope. The colors 
 merely fall into new shapes ; the groundwork is just the 
 same. The good which a calm, kind, and cheerful old man 
 can do is incalculable. And whilst he does good to others, 
 he enjoys himself. He looks not unnaturally to that which 
 should accompany old age honor, love, obedience, troops 
 of friends ; and he plays his part in the comedy or tragedy 
 of life with as much gusto as any one else. Old Montague 
 or Capulet, and old Polonius, that wise maxim-man, enjoy 
 themselves quite as well as the moody Hamlet, the perturbed
 
 UPON GROWING OLD. 283 
 
 Laertes, or even gallant Mercutio or love-sick Romeo. 
 Friar Lawrence, who is a good old man, is perhaps the 
 happiest of all in the dramatis persona, unless we take 
 the gossiping, garrulous old nurse, with her sunny recollec- 
 tions of maturity and youth. The great thing is to have 
 the mind well employed, to work whilst it is yet day. The 
 precise Duke of Wellington, answering every letter with 
 " F. M. presents his compliments "; the wondrous worker 
 Humboldt, with his orders of knighthood, stars, and ribbons, 
 lying dusty in his drawer, still contemplating Cosmos, and 
 answering his thirty letters a day, were both men in ex- 
 ceedingly enviable, happy positions ; they had reached the 
 top of the hill, and could look back quietly over the rough 
 road which they had travelled. We are not all Humboldts 
 or Wellingtons ; but we can all be busy and good. Experi- 
 ence must teach us all a great deal ; and if it only teaches 
 us not to fear the future, not to cast a maundering regret 
 over the past, we can be as happy in old age ay, and far 
 more so than we were in youth. We are no longer the 
 fools of time and error. We are leaving by slow degrees 
 the old world; we stand upon the threshold of the new; 
 not without hope, but without fear, in an exceedingly natu- 
 ral position, with nothing strange or dreadful about it ; with 
 our domain drawn within a narrow circle, but equal to our 
 power. Muscular strength, organic instincts, are all gone ; 
 but what then ? We do not want them ; we are getting 
 ready for the great change, one which is just as necessary 
 as it was to be born ; and to a little child perhaps one is not 
 a whit more painful, perhaps not so painful as the other. 
 The wheels of Time have brought us to the goal ; we are 
 about to rest while others labor, to stay at home while 
 others wander. We touch at last the mysterious door, 
 are we to be pitied or to be envied ?
 
 BY E. W. EMERSON. 
 
 YOU shall not be over-bold 
 When you deal with arctic cold, 
 As late I found my lukewarm blood 
 Chilled wading in the snow-choked wood. 
 How should I fight ? my foeman fine 
 Has million arms to one of mine. 
 East, west, for aid I looked in vain ; 
 East, west, north, south, are his domain. 
 Miles off, three dangerous miles, is home ; 
 Must borrow his winds who there would come. 
 Up and away for life ! be fleet ! 
 The frost-king ties my fumbling feet, 
 Sings in my ears, my hands are stones, 
 Curdles the blood to the marble bones, 
 Tugs at the heartstrings, numbs the sense, 
 Hems in the life with narrowing fence. 
 
 Well, in this broad bed lie and sleep, 
 
 The punctual stars will vigil keep, 
 
 Enbalmed by purifying cold, 
 
 The winds shall sing their dead-march old, 
 
 The snow is no ignoble shroud, 
 
 The moon thy mourner, and the cloud. 
 
 Softly, but this way fate was pointing, 
 'T was coming fast to such anointing,
 
 THE TITMOUSE. 285 
 
 When piped a tiny voice hard by, 
 Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, 
 " Chic-chic-a-dee-dee ! " saucy note, 
 Out of sound heart and merry throat, 
 As if it said, " Good day, good sir ! 
 Fine afternoon, old passenger ! 
 Happy to meet you in these places, 
 Where January brings few men's faces." 
 
 This poet, though he live apart, 
 
 Moved by a hospitable heart, 
 
 Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort, 
 
 To do the honors of his court, 
 
 As fits a feathered lord of land, 
 
 Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand, 
 
 Hopped on the bough, then, darting low, 
 
 Prints his small impress on the snow, 
 
 Shows feats of his gymnastic play, 
 
 Head downward, clinging to the spray. 
 
 Here was this atom in full breath 
 
 Hurling defiance at vast death, 
 
 This scrap of valor just for play 
 
 Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray, 
 
 As if to shame my weak behavior. 
 
 I greeted loud my little saviour : 
 
 " Thou pet ! what dost here ? and what for ? 
 
 In these woods, thy small Labrador 
 
 At this pinch, wee San Salvador ! 
 
 What fire burns in that little chesf, 
 
 So frolic, stout, and self-possest ? 
 
 Didst steal the glow that lights the West' 
 
 Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine : 
 
 Ashes and black all hues outshine. 
 
 Why are not diamonds black and gray, 
 
 To ape thy dare-devil array ?
 
 286 R. W. EMERSON. 
 
 And I affirm the spacious North 
 Exists to draw thy virtue forth. 
 I think no virtue goes with size : 
 The reason of all cowardice 
 Is, that men are overgrown, 
 And, to be valiant, must come down 
 To the titmouse dimension." 
 
 'T is good-will makes intelligence, 
 
 And I began to catch the sense 
 
 Of my bird's song : " Live out of doors, 
 
 In the great woods, and prairie floors. 
 
 I dine in the sun ; when he sinks in the seaj 
 
 I, too, have a hole in a hollow tree. 
 
 And I like less when summer beats 
 
 With stifling beams on these retreats 
 
 Than noontide twilight which snow makes 
 
 With tempest of the blinding flakes : 
 
 For well the soul, if stout within, 
 
 Can arm impregnably the skin ; 
 
 And polar frost my frame defied, 
 
 Made of the air that blows outside." 
 
 With glad remembrance of my debt, 
 I homeward turn. Farewell, my pet ! 
 When here again thy pilgrim comes, 
 He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs. 
 Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant 
 O'er all that mass and minster vaunt : 
 For men mishear thy call in spring, 
 As 't would accost some frivolous wing, 
 Crying out of the hazel copse, " Phe be ! " 
 And in winter " Chic-a-dee-dee ! " 
 I think old Caesar must have heard 
 In Northern Gaul my dauntless bird,
 
 THE TITMOUSE. 287 
 
 And, echoed in some frosty wold, 
 Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold. 
 And I shall write our annals new, 
 And thank thee for a better clew : 
 I, who dreamed not, when I came here, 
 To find the antidote of fear, 
 Now hear thee say in Roman key, 
 "Faun! Ve-ni, Vi-di, Vi-ci."
 
 LITTLE PANSIE. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 DOCTOR DOLLIVER, a worthy personage of ex- 
 treme antiquity, was aroused rather prematurely, one 
 summer morning, by the shouts of the child Pansie, in an 
 adjoining chamber, summoning Old Martha (who performed 
 the duties of nurse, housekeeper, and kitchen-maid, in the 
 Doctor's establishment) to take up her little ladyship and 
 dress her. The old gentleman woke with more than his cus- 
 tomary alacrity, and, after taking a moment to gather his 
 wits about him, pulled aside the faded moreen curtains of 
 his ancient bed, and thurst his head into a beam of sunshine 
 that caused him to wink and withdraw it again. This tran- 
 sitory glimpse of good Dr. Dolliver showed a flannel night- 
 cap, fringed round with stray locks of silvery white hair, 
 and surmounting a meagre and duskily yellow visage, which 
 was crossed and criss-crossed with a record of his long life 
 in wrinkles, faithfully written, no doubt, but with such 
 cramped chirography of Father Time that the purport was 
 illegible. It seemed hardly worth while for the patriarch 
 to get out of bed any more, and bring his forlorn shadow 
 into the summer day that was made for younger folks. The 
 Doctor, however, was by no means of that opinion, being con- 
 siderably encouraged towards the toil of living tweuty-four 
 hours longer by the comparative ease with which he found
 
 LITTLE PANSIE. 289 
 
 himself going through the usually painful process of bestirring 
 his rust}' joints, (stiffened by the very rest and sleep that 
 should have made them pliable,) and putting them in a 
 condition to bear his weight upon the floor. Nor was he 
 absolutely disheartened by the idea of those tonsorial, ablu- 
 tionary, and personally decorative labors which are apt to 
 become so intolerably irksome to an old gentleman, after 
 performing them daily and daily for fifty, sixty, or seventy 
 years, and finding them still as immitigably recurrent as at 
 first. Dr. Dolliver could nowise account for this happy 
 condition of his spirits and physical energies, until he 
 remembered taking an experimental sip of a certain cordial 
 which was long ago prepared by his grandson and carefully 
 sealed up in a bottle, and had been reposited in a dark closet 
 among a parcel of effete medicines ever since that gifted 
 young man's death. 
 
 " It may have wrought effect upon me," thought the Doc- 
 tor, shaking his head as he lifted it again from the pillow. 
 " It may be so ; for poor Cornelius oftentimes instilled a 
 strange efficacy into his perilous drugs. But I will rather 
 believe it to be the operation of God's mercy, which may 
 have temporarily invigorated my feeble age for little Pan- 
 sie's sake." 
 
 A twinge of his familiar rheumatism, as he put his foot 
 out of bed, taught him that he must not reckon too confi- 
 dently upon even a day's respite from the intrusive family 
 of aches and infirmities which, with their proverbial fidelity 
 to attachments once formed, had long been the closest ac- 
 quaintances that the poor old gentleman had in the world. 
 Nevertheless, he fancied the twinge a little less poignant 
 than those of yesterday ; and, moreover, after stinging him 
 pretty smartly, it passed gradually off with a thrill, which, 
 in its latter stages, grew to be almost agreeable. Pain is 
 but pleasure too strongly emphasized. With cautious move- 
 ments, and only a groan or two, the good Doctor transferred 
 13 a
 
 290 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 himself from the bed to the floor, where he stood awhile, 
 gazing from one piece of quaint furniture to another, (such 
 as stiff-backed Mayflower chairs, an oaken chest-of-drawers 
 carved cunningly with shapes of animals and wreaths of 
 foliage, a table with multitudinous legs, a family-record in 
 faded embroidery, a shelf of black-bound books, a dirty 
 heap of gallipots and phials in a dim corner,) gazing at 
 these things and steadying himself by the bedpost, while 
 his inert brain, still partially benumbed with sleep, came 
 slowly into accordance with the realities about him. The 
 object which most helped to bring Dr. Dolliver completely 
 to his waking perceptions was one that common observers 
 might suppose to have been snatched bodily out of his 
 dreams. The same sunbeam that had dazzled the Doctor 
 between the bed-curtains gleamed on the weather-beaten 
 gilding which had once adorned this mysterious symbol, and 
 showed it to be an enormous serpent, twining round a wood- 
 en post, and reaching quite from the floor of the chamber to 
 its ceiling. 
 
 It was evidently a thing that could boast of considerable 
 antiquity, the dry-rot having eaten out its eyes and gnawed 
 away the tip of its tail ; and it must have stood long ex- 
 posed to the atmosphere, for a kind of gray moss had par- 
 tially overspread its tarnished gilt surface, and a swallow, or 
 other familiar little bird, in some by-gone summer, seemed 
 to have built its nest in the yawning and exaggerated 
 mouth. It looked like a kind of Manichean idol, which 
 might have been elevated on a pedestal for a century or so, 
 enjoying the worship of its votaries in the open air, until 
 the impious sect perished from among men, all save old 
 Dr. Dolliver, who had set up the monster in his bedchamber, 
 for the convenience of private devotion. But we are un- 
 pardonable in suggesting such a fantasy to the prejudice of 
 our venerable friend, knowing him to have been as pious 
 and upright a Christian, and with as little of the serpent in
 
 LITTLE PANSIE. 291 
 
 his character, as ever came of Puritan lineage. Not to 
 make a further mystery about a very simple matter, this 
 bedimmed and rotten reptile was once the medical emblem 
 or apothecary's sign of the famous Dr. Swinnerton, who 
 practised physic in the earlier days of New England, when a 
 head of -<Esculapius or Hippocrates would have vexed the 
 souls of the righteous as savoring of heathendom. The 
 ancient dispenser of drugs had therefore set up an image of 
 the Brazen Serpent, and followed his business for many 
 years, with great credit under this Scriptural device ; and 
 Dr. Dolliver, being the apprentice, pupil, and humble friend 
 of the learned Swinnerton's old age, had inherited the sym- 
 bolic snake, and much other valuable property, by his be- 
 quest. 
 
 While the patriarch was putting on his small-clothes, he 
 took care to stand in the parallelogram of bright sunshine 
 that fell upon the uncarpeted floor. The summer warmth 
 was very genial to his system, and yet made him shiver ; 
 his wintry veins rejoiced at it, though the reviving blood 
 tingled through them with a half painful and only half 
 pleasurable titillation. For the first few moments after 
 creeping out of bed, he kept his back to the sunny window 
 and seemed mysteriously shy of glancing thitherward ; but 
 as the June fervor pervaded him more and more thoroughly, 
 he turned bravely about, and looked forth at a burial-ground 
 on the corner of which he dwelt There lay many an old 
 acquaintance, who had gone to sleep with the flavor of Dr. 
 Dolliver's tinctures and powders upon his tongue ; it was 
 the patient's final bitter taste of this world, and perhaps 
 doomed to be a recollected nauseousness in the next. Yes- 
 terday, in the chill of his forlorn old age, the Doctor expect- 
 ed soon to stretch out his weary bones among that quiet 
 community, and might scarcely have shrunk from the pros- 
 pect on his own account, except, indeed, that he dreamily 
 mixed up the infirmities of his present condition with the
 
 292 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 repose of the approaching one, being haunted by a notion 
 that the damp earth, under the grass and dandelions, must 
 needs be pernicious for his cough and his rheumatism. But, 
 this morning, the cheerful sunbeams, or the mere taste of 
 his grandson's cordial that he had taken at bedtime, or the 
 fitful vigor that often sports irreverently with aged people, 
 had caused an unfrozen drop of youthfulness, somewhere 
 within him, to expand. 
 
 " Hem ! ahem ! " quoth the Doctor, hoping with one effort 
 to clear his throat of the dregs of a ten years' cough. 
 "Matters are not so far gone with me as I thought. I 
 have known mighty sensible men, when only a little age- 
 stricken or otherwise out of sorts, to die of mere faintheart- 
 edness, a great deal sooner than they need." 
 
 He shook his silvery head at his own image in the look- 
 ing-glass, as if to impress the apophthegm on that shadowy 
 representative of himself; and for his part, he determined 
 to pluck up a spirit and live as long as he possibly could, if 
 it were only for the sake of little Pansie, who stood as close 
 to one extremity of human life as her great-grandfather to 
 the other. This child of three years old occupied all the 
 unfossilized portion of good Dr. Dolliver's heart. Every 
 other interest that he formerly had, and the entire confra- 
 ternity of persons whom he once loved, had long ago 
 departed, and the poor Doctor could not follow them, be- 
 cause the grasp of Pansie's baby-fingers held him back. 
 
 So he crammed a great silver watch into his fob, and 
 drew on a patchwork morning-gown of an ancient fashion. 
 Its original material was said to have been the embroidered 
 front of his own wedding-waistcoat and the silken skirt of 
 his wife's bridal attire, which his eldest granddaughter had 
 taken from the carved chest-of-drawers, after poor Bessie, 
 the beloved of his youth, had been half a century in the 
 grave. Throughout many of the intervening years, as the 
 garment got ragged, the spinsters of the old man's family
 
 LITTLE PANSIE. 293 
 
 had quilted their duty and affection into it in the shape of 
 patches upon patches, rose-color, crimson, blue, violet, and 
 green, and 'then (as their hopes faded, and their life kept 
 growing shadier, and their attire took a sombre hue) sober 
 gray and great fragments of funereal black, until the Doctor 
 could revive the memory of most things that had befallen 
 him by looking at his patchwork-gown, as it hung upon a 
 chair. And now it was ragged again, and all the fingers 
 that should have mended it were cold. It had an Eastern 
 fragrance, too, a smell of drugs, strong-scented herbs, and 
 spicy gums, gathered from the many potent infusions that 
 had from time to time been spilt over it ; so that, snuffing 
 him afar off, you might have taken Dr. Dolliver for a mum- 
 my, and could hardly have been undeceived by his shrunken 
 and torpid aspect, as he crept nearer. 
 
 Wrapt in his odorous and many-colored robe, he took 
 staff in hand and moved pretty vigorously to the head of 
 the staircase. As it was somewhat steep, and but dimly 
 lighted, he began cautiously to descend, putting his left hand 
 on the banister, and poking down his long stick to assist him 
 in making sure of the successive steps ; and thus he became 
 a living illustration of the accuracy of Scripture, where it 
 describes the aged as being " afraid of that which is high," 
 a truth that is often found to have a sadder purport than 
 its external one. Half-way to the bottom, however, the 
 Doctor heard the impatient and authoritative tones of little 
 Pansie, Queen Pansie, as she might fairly have been 
 styled, in reference to her position in the household, call- 
 ing amain for grandpapa and breakfast. He was startled 
 into such perilous activity by the summons, that his heels 
 slid on the stair.-!, the slippers were shuffled off his feet, and 
 he saved himself from a tumble only by quickening his 
 pace, and coming down at almost a run. 
 
 " Mercy on my poor old bones I " mentally exclaimed the 
 Doctor, fancying himself fractured in fifty places. " Some
 
 294 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 of them are broken, surely, and metliinks my heart has 
 leaped out of my mouth ! What ! all right ? Well, well ! 
 but Providence is kinder to me than I deserve, prancing 
 down this steep staircase like a kid of three months old ! " 
 
 He bent stiffly to gather up his slippers and fallen staff; 
 and meanwhile Pansie had heard the tumult of her great- 
 grandfather's descent, and was pounding against the door 
 of the breakfast-room in her haste to come at him. The 
 Doctor opened it, and there she stood, a rather pale and 
 large-eyed little thing, quaint in her aspect, as might well 
 be the case with a motherless child, dwelling in an uncheer- 
 ful house, with no other playmates than a decrepit old man 
 and a kitten, and no better atmosphere within-doors than 
 the odor of decayed apothecary's stuff, nor gayer neighbor- 
 hood than that of the adjacent burial-ground, where all her 
 relatives, from her great-grandmother downward, lay calling 
 to her, " Pansie, Pansie, it is bedtime ! " even in the prime of 
 the summer morning. For those dead women-folk, especi- 
 ally her mother and the whole row of maiden aunts and 
 grand-aunts, could not but be anxious about the child, know- 
 ing that little Pansie would be far safer under a tuft of 
 dandelions than if left alone, as she soon must be, in this 
 difficult and deceitful world. 
 
 Yet, in spite of the lack of damask roses in her cheeks, 
 she seemed a healthy child, and certainly showed great ca- 
 pacity of energetic movement in the impulsive capers with 
 which she welcomed her venerable progenitor. She shouted 
 out her satisfaction, moreover, (as her custom was, having 
 never had any over-sensitive auditors about her to tame 
 down her voice,) till even the Doctor's dull ears were full 
 of the clamor. 
 
 " Pansie, darling," said Dr. Dolliver cheerily, patting her 
 brown hair with his tremulous fingers, " thou hast put some 
 of thine own friskiness into poor old grandfather, this fine 
 morning ! Dost know, child, that he came near breaking his
 
 LITTLE PANSIE. 295 
 
 neck down-stairs at the sound of thy voice ? What wouldst 
 thou have done then, little Pansie ? " 
 
 " Kiss poor grandpapa and make him well ! " answered 
 the child, remembering the Doctor's own mode of cure in 
 similar mishaps to herself. " It shall do poor grandpapa 
 good ! " she added, putting up her mouth to apply the 
 remedy. 
 
 " Ah, little one, thou hast greater faith in thy medicines 
 than ever I had in my drugs," replied the patriarch with a 
 giggle, surprised and delighted at his own readiness of 
 response. " But the kiss is good for my feeble old heart, 
 Pansie, though it might do little to mend a broken neck ; so 
 give grandpapa another dose, and let us to breakfast." 
 
 In this merry humor they sat down to the table, great- 
 grandpapa and Pansie side by side, and the kitten, as soon 
 appeared, making a third in the party. First, she showed 
 her mottled head out of Pansie's lap, delicately sipping milk 
 from the child's basin without rebuke ; then she took post 
 on the old gentleman's shoulder, purring like a spinning- 
 wheel, trying her claws in the wadding of his dressing- 
 gown, and still more impressively reminding him of her 
 presence by putting out a paw to intercept a warmed-over 
 morsel of yesterday's chicken on its way to the Doctor's 
 mouth. After skilfully achieving this feat, she scrambled 
 down upon the breakfast-table and began to wash her face 
 and hands. Evidently, these companions were all three on 
 intimate terms, as was natural enough, since a great many 
 childish impulses were softly creeping back on the simple- 
 minded old man ; insomuch that, if no worldly necessities 
 nor painful infirmity had disturbed him, his remnant of life 
 might have been as cheaply and cheerily enjoyed as the 
 early playtime of the kitten and the child. Old Dr. Dol- 
 liver and his great-granddaughter (a ponderous title, which 
 seemed quite to overwhelm the tiny figure of Pansie) had 
 met one another at the two extremities of the life-circle :
 
 296 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 her sunrise served him for a sunset, illuminating his locks 
 of silver and hers of golden brown with a homogeneous 
 shimmer of twinkling light. 
 
 Little Pansie was the one earthly creature that inherited 
 a drop of the Dolliver blood. The Doctor's only child, poor 
 Bessie's offspring, had died the better part of a hundred 
 years before, and his grandchildren, a numerous and dimly 
 remembered brood, had vanished along his weary track in 
 their youth, maturity, or incipient age, till, hardly knowing 
 how it had all happened, he found himself tottering onward 
 with an infant's small fingers in his nerveless grasp. So 
 mistily did his dead progeny come and go in the patriarch's 
 decayed recollection, that this solitary child represented for 
 him the successive babyhoods of the many that had gone 
 before. The emotions of his early paternity came back to 
 him. She seemed the baby of a past age oftener than she 
 seemed Pansie. A whole family of grand-aunts, (one of 
 whom had perished in her cradle, never so mature as Pansie 
 now, another in her virgin bloom, another in autumnal maid- 
 enhood, yellow and shrivelled, with vinegar in her blood, 
 and still another, a forlorn widow, whose grief outlasted 
 even its vitality, and grew to be merely a torpid habit, and 
 was saddest then,) all their hitherto forgotten features 
 peeped through the face of the great-grandchild, and their 
 long inaudible voices sobbed, shouted, or laughed, in her 
 familiar tones. But it often happened to Dr. Dolliver, while 
 frolicking amid this throng of ghosts, where the one reality 
 looked no more vivid than its shadowy sisters, it often 
 happened that his eyes filled with tears at a sudden per- 
 ception of what a sad and poverty-stricken old man he was, 
 already remote from his own generation, and bound to 
 etray farther onward as the sole playmate and protector of a 
 child ! 
 
 As Dr. Dolliver, in spite of his advanced epoch of life, is 
 likely to remain a considerable time longer upon our hands,
 
 LITTLE PANSIE. 297 
 
 we deem it expedient to give a brief sketch of his position, 
 in order that the story may get onward with the greater 
 freedom when he rises from the breakfast-table. Deeming 
 it a matter of courtesy, we have allowed him the honorary 
 title of Doctor, as did all his townspeople and contempora- 
 ries, except, perhaps, one or two formal old physicians, 
 stingy of civil phrases and over-jealous of their own pro- 
 fessional dignity. Nevertheless, these crusty graduates were 
 technically right in excluding Dr. Dolliver from their fra- 
 ternity. He had never received the degree of any medical 
 school, nor (save it might be for the cure of a toothache, or 
 a child's rash, or a whitlow on a seamstress's finger, or some 
 such trifling malady) had he ever been even a practitioner 
 of the awful science with which his popular designation con- 
 nected him. Our old friend, in short, even at his highest 
 social elevation, claimed to be nothing more than an apothe- 
 cary, and, in these later and far less prosperous days, scarcely 
 so much. Since the death of his last surviving grandson, 
 (Pansie's father, whom he had instructed in all the mys- 
 teries of his science, and who, being distinguished by an ex- 
 perimental and inventive tendency, was generally believed to 
 have poisoned himself with an infallible panacea of his own 
 distillation,) since that final bereavement, Dr. Dolliver's 
 once pretty flourishing business had lamentably declined. 
 After a few months of unavailing struggle, he found it ex- 
 pedient to take down the Brazen Serpent from the position 
 to which Dr. Swinnerton had originally elevated it, in front 
 of his shop in the main street, and to retire to his private 
 dwelling, situated in a by-lane and on the edge of a burial- 
 ground. 
 
 This house, as well as the Brazen Serpent, some old med- 
 ical books, and a drawer full of manuscripts, had come to 
 him by the legacy of Dr. Swinnerton. The dreariness of the 
 locality had been of small importance to our friend in his 
 young manhood, when he first led his fair wife over the 
 13*
 
 298 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 threshold, and so long as neither of them had any kinship 
 with the human dust that rose into little hillocks, and still 
 kept accumulating beneath their window. But, too soon 
 afterwards, when poor Bessie herself had gone early to rest 
 there, it is probable that an influence from her grave may 
 have prematurely calmed and depressed her widowed hus- 
 band, taking away much of the energy from what should 
 have been the most active portion of his life. Thus he 
 never grew rich. His thrifty townsmen used to tell him, 
 that, in any other man's hands, Dr. Swinnerton's Brazen 
 Serpent (meaning, I presume, the inherited credit and good- 
 will of that old worthy's trade) would need but ten years' 
 time to transmute its brass into gold. In Dr. Dolliver's 
 keeping, as we have seen, the inauspicious symbol lost the 
 greater part of what superficial gilding it originally had. 
 Matters had not mended with him in more advanced life, 
 after he had deposited a further and further portion of his 
 heart and its affections in each successive one of a long row 
 of kindred graves ; and as he stood over the last of them, 
 holding Pansie by the hand and looking down upon the 
 coffin of his grandson, it is no wonder that the old man 
 wept, partly for those gone before, but not so bitterly as for 
 the little one that stayed behind. Why had not God taken 
 her with the rest? And then, so hopeless as he was, so 
 destitute of possibilities of good, his weary frame, his de- 
 crepit bones, his dried-up heart, might have crumbled into 
 dust at once, and have been scattered by the next wind over 
 all the heaps of earth that were akin to him. 
 
 This intensity of desolation, however, was of too positive 
 a character to be long sustained by a person of Dr. Dolli- 
 ver's original gentleness and simplicity, and now so com- 
 pletely tamed by age and misfortune. Even before he 
 turned away from the grave, he grew conscious of a slightly 
 cheering and invigorating effect from the tight grasp of the 
 child's warm little hand. Feeble as he was, she seemed to
 
 LITTLE PANSIE. 299 
 
 adopt him willingly for her protector. And the Doctor 
 never afterwards shrank from his duty nor quailed beneath 
 it, but bore himself like a man, striving, amid the sloth of 
 age and the breaking-up of intellect, to earn the competency 
 which he had failed to accumulate even in his most vigorous 
 days. 
 
 To the extent of securing a present subsistence for Pansie 
 and himself, he was successful. After his son's death, when 
 the Brazen Serpent fell into popular disrepute, a small share 
 of tenacious patronage followed the old man into his retire- 
 ment. In his prime, he had been allowed to possess more 
 skill than usually fell to the share of a Colonial apothecary, 
 having been regularly apprenticed to Dr. Swinnerton, who, 
 throughout his long practice, was accustomed personally to 
 concoct the medicines which he prescribed and dispensed. 
 It was believed, indeed, that the ancient physician had 
 learned the art at the world-famous drug-manufactory of 
 Apothecary's Hall, in London, and, as some people half- 
 malignly whispered, had perfected himself under masters 
 more subtle than were to be found even there. Unques- 
 tionably, in many critical cases he was known to have em- 
 ployed remedies of mysterious composition and dangerous 
 potency, which in less skilful hands would have been more 
 likely to kill than cure. He would willingly, it is said, have 
 taught his apprentice the secrets of these prescriptions, but 
 the latter, being of a timid character and delicate conscience, 
 had shrunk from acquaintance with them. It was probably 
 as the result of the same scrupulosity that Dr. Dolliver had 
 always declined to enter the medical profession, in which 
 his old instructor had set him such heroic examples of 
 adventurous dealing with matters of life and death. Never- 
 theless, the aromatic fragrance, so to speak, of the learned 
 Swinnerton's reputation had clung to our friend through 
 life ; and there were elaborate preparations in the pharma- 
 copoeia of that day, requiring such minute skill and consci-
 
 300 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 entious fidelity in the concocter that the physicians were still 
 glad to confide them to one in whom these qualities were so 
 evident. 
 
 Moreover, the grandmothers of the community were kind 
 to him, and mindful of his perfumes, his rose-water, his 
 cosmetics, tooth-powders, pomanders, and pomades, the scent- 
 ed memory of Avhich lingered about their toilet-tables, or 
 came faintly back from the daj T s when they were beautiful. 
 Among this class of customers there was still a demand for 
 certain comfortable little nostrums, (delicately sweet and 
 pungent to the taste, cheering to the spirits, and fragrant in 
 the breath.) the proper distillation of which was the airiest 
 secret that the mystic Swinnerton had left behind him. 
 And, besides, these old ladies had always liked the manners 
 of Dr. Dolliver, and used to speak of his gentle courtesy be- 
 hind the counter as having positively been something to ad- 
 mire ; though, of later years, an unrefined, an almost rustic 
 simplicity, such as belonged to his humble ancestors, appear- 
 ed to have taken possession of him, as it often does of prettily 
 mannered men in their late decay. 
 
 But it resulted from all these favorable circumstances that 
 the Doctor's marble mortar, though worn with long service 
 and considerably damaged by a crack that pervaded it, con- 
 tinued to keep up an occasional intimacy with the pestle ; 
 and he still weighed drachms and scruples in his delicate 
 scales, though it seemed impossible, dealing with such mi- 
 nute quantities, that his tremulous fingers should not put in 
 too little or too much, leaving out life with the deficiency or 
 spilling in death with the surplus. To say the truth, his 
 stanchest friends were beginning to think that Dr. Dolliver's 
 fits of absence (when his mind appeared absolutely to depart 
 from him, while his frail old body worked on mechanically) 
 rendered him not quite trustworthy without a close super- 
 vision of his proceedings. It was impossible, however, to 
 convince the aged apothecary of the necessity for such vigi-
 
 LITTLE PANSIE. 801 
 
 lance ; and if anything could stir up his gentle temper to 
 wrath, or, as oftener happened, to tears, it was the attempt 
 (which he was marvellously quick to detect) thus to inter- 
 fere with his long-familiar business. 
 
 The public, meanwhile, ceasing to regard Dr. Dolliver hi 
 his professional aspect, had begun to take an interest in him 
 as perhaps their oldest fellow-citizen. It was he that re- 
 membered the Great Fire and the Great Snow, and that had 
 been a grown-up stripling at the terrible epoch of Witch- 
 Times, and a child just breeched at the breaking-out of King 
 Philip's Indian War. He, too, in his school-boy days, had 
 received a benediction from the patriarchal Governor Brad- 
 street, and thus could boast (somewhat as Bishops do of 
 their unbroken succession from the Apostles) of a transmit- 
 ted blessing from the whole company of sainted Pilgrims, 
 among whom the venerable magistrate had been an honored 
 companion. Viewing their townsman in this aspect, the 
 people revoked the courteous Doctorate with which they 
 had heretofore decorated him, and now knew him most 
 familiarly as Grandsir Dolliver. His white head, his Puri- 
 tan band, his threadbare garb, (the fashion of which he had 
 ceased to change, half a century ago,) his gold-headed staff, 
 that had been Dr. Swinnerton's, his shrunken, frosty figure, 
 and its feeble movement, all these characteristics had a 
 wholeness and permanence in the public recognition, like 
 the meeting-house steeple or the town-pump. All the 
 younger portion of the inhabitants unconsciously ascribed 
 a sort of aged immortality to Grandsir Dolliver's infirm and 
 reverend presence. They fancied that he had been born 
 old, (at least, I remember entertaining some such notions 
 about age-stricken people, when I myself was young.) and 
 that he could the better tolerate his aches and incommodities, 
 his dull ears and dim eyes, his remoteness from human inter- 
 course within the crust of indurated years, the cold tempera- 
 ture that kept him always shivering and sad, the heavy
 
 302 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 burden that invisibly bent down his shoulders, that all 
 these intolerable things might bring a kind of enjoyment to 
 Grandsir Dolliver, as the life-long conditions of his peculiar 
 existence. 
 
 But, alas ! it was a terrible mistake. This weight of 
 years had a perennial novelty for the poor sufferer. He 
 never grew accustomed to it, but, long as he had now borne 
 the fretful torpor of his waning life, and patient as he 
 seemed, he still retained an inward consciousness that these 
 stiffened shoulders, these quailing knee* 5 *, this cloudiness of 
 sight and brain, this confused forgetfulness of men and 
 affairs, were troublesome accidents that did not really belong 
 to him. He possibly cherished a half-recognized idea that 
 they might pass away. Youth, however eclipsed for a 
 season, is undoubtedly the proper, permanent, and genuine 
 condition of man; and if we look closely into this dreary 
 delusion of growing old, we shall find that it never abso- 
 lutely succeeds in laying hold of our innermost convictions. 
 A sombre garment, woven of life's unrealities, has muffled 
 us from our true self, but within it smiles the young man 
 whom we knew ; the ashes of many perishable things have 
 fallen upon our youthful fire, but beneath them lurk the 
 seeds of inextinguishable flame. So powerful is this in- 
 stinctive faith that men of simple modes of character are 
 prone to antedate its consummation. And thus it happened 
 with poor Grandsir Dolliver, who often awoke from an old 
 man's fitful sleep with a sense that his senile predicament 
 was but a dream of the past night ; and hobbling hastily 
 across the cold floor to the looking-glass, he would be griev- 
 ously disappointed at beholding the white hair, the wrinkles 
 and furrows, the ashen visage and bent form, the melancholy 
 mask of Age, in which, as he now remembered, some strange 
 and sad enchantment had involved him for years gone by ! 
 
 To other eyes than his own, however, the shrivelled old 
 gentleman looked as if there were little hope of his throw-
 
 LITTLE PANSIE. 303 
 
 ing off this too artfully wrought disguise, until, at no distent 
 day, his stooping figure should be straightened out, his hoary 
 locks be smoothed over his brows, and his much enduring 
 bones be laid safely away, with a green coverlet spread over 
 them, beside his Bessie, who doubtless would recognize her 
 youthful companion in spite of his ugly garniture of decay. 
 He longed to be gazed at by the loving eyes now closed ; 
 he shrank from the hard stare of them that loved him not. 
 Walking the streets seldom and reluctantly, he felt a dreary 
 impulse to elude the people's observation, asjf with a sense 
 that he had gone irrevocably out of fashion, and broken his 
 connecting links with the network of human life ; or else it 
 was that nightmare-feeling which we sometimes have in 
 dreams, when we seem to find ourselves wandering through 
 a crowded avenue, with the noonday sun upon us, in some 
 wild extravagance of dress or nudity. He was conscious of 
 estrangement from his towns-people, but did not always 
 know how nor wherefore, nor why he should be thus grop- 
 ing through the twilight mist in solitude. If they spoke 
 loudly to him, with cheery voices, the greeting translated 
 itself faintly and mournfully to his ears ; if they shook him 
 by the hand, it was as if a thick, insensible glove absorbed 
 the kindly pressure and the warmth. When little Pansie 
 was the companion of his walk, her childish gayety and 
 freedom did not avail to bring him into closer relationship 
 with men, but seemed to follow him into that region of in- 
 definable remoteness, that dismal Fairy-Land of aged fancy, 
 into which old Grandsir Dolliver had so strangely crept 
 away. 
 
 Yet there were moments, as many persons had noticed, 
 when the great-grandpapa would suddenly take stronger 
 hues of life. It was as if his faded figure had been col- 
 ored over anew, or at least, as he and Pansie moved along 
 the street, as if a sunbeam had fallen across him, instead 
 of the gray gloom of an instant before. His chilled sensi-
 
 304 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 bilities had probably been touched and quickened by the 
 warm contiguity of his little companion through the medium 
 of her hand, as it stirred within his own, or some inflection 
 of her voice that set his memory ringing and chiming with 
 forgotten sounds. While that music lasted, the old man 
 was alive and happy. And there were seasons, it might be, 
 happier than even these, when Pansie had been kissed and put 
 to bed, and Grandsir Dolliver sat by his fireside gazing in 
 among the massive coals, and absorbing their glow into those 
 cavernous abysses with which all men communicate. Hence 
 come angels or fiends into our twilight musings, according 
 as we may have peopled them in by-gone years. Over 
 our friend's face, in the rosy flicker of the fire-gleam, stole 
 an expression of repose and perfect trust that made him as 
 beautiful to look at, in his high-backed chair, as the child 
 Pansie on her pillow ; and sometimes the spirits that were 
 watching him beheld a calni surprise draw slowly over his 
 features and brighten into joy, yet not so vividly as to break 
 his evening quietude. The gate of heaven had been kindly 
 left ajar, that this forlorn old creature might catch a glimpse 
 within. All the night afterwards, he would be semi-con- 
 scious of an intangible bliss diffused through the fitful lapses 
 of an old man's slumber, and would awake, at early dawn, 
 with a faint thrilling of the heartstrings, as if there had 
 been music just now wandering over them.
 
 PALINGENESIS. 
 
 Br H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 I LAY upon the headland-height, and listened 
 To the incessant sobbing of the sea 
 In caverns under me, 
 
 And watched the waves, that tossed and fled and glistened, 
 Until the rolling meadows of amethyst 
 Melted away in mist. 
 
 Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I started ; 
 For round about me all the sunny capes 
 
 Seemed peopled with the shapes 
 Of those whom I had known in days departed, 
 Apparelled in the loveliness which gleams 
 
 On faces seen in dreams. 
 
 A moment only, and the light -and glory 
 Faded away, and the disconsolate shore 
 
 Stood lonely as before ; 
 And the wild roses of the promontory 
 Around me shuddered in the wind, and shed 
 
 Their petals of pale red. 
 
 There was an old belief that in the embers 
 Of all things their primordial form exists, 
 And cunning alchemists 
 
 T
 
 306 H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Could recreate the rose with all its members 
 From its own ashes, but without the bloom, 
 Without the lost perfume. 
 
 Ah, me ! what wonder-working, occult science 
 Can from the ashes in our hearts once more 
 
 The rose of youth restore ? 
 What craft of alchemy can bid defiance 
 To time and change, and for a single hour 
 
 Renew this phantom-flower ? 
 
 " Oh, give me back," I cried, " the vanished splendors, 
 The breath of morn, and the exultant strife, 
 
 When the swift stream of life 
 Bounds o'er its rocky channel, and surrenders 
 The pond, with all its lilies, for the leap 
 
 Into the unknown deep ! " 
 
 And the sea answered, with a lamentation, 
 Like some old prophet wailing, and it said, 
 
 " Alas ! thy youth is dead ! 
 It breathes no more, its heart has no pulsation, 
 In the dark places with the dead of old 
 
 It lies forever cold ! " 
 
 Then said I, " From its consecrated cerements 
 I will not drag this sacred dust again, 
 
 Only to give me pain ; 
 
 But, still remembering all the lost endearments, 
 Go on thy way, like one who looks before, 
 
 And turns to weep no more." 
 
 Into what land of harvests, what plantations 
 Bright with autumnal foliage and the glow 
 Of sunsets burning low ;
 
 PALINGENESIS. 307 
 
 Beneath what midnight skies, whose constellations 
 Light up the spacious avenues between 
 This world and the unseen ! 
 
 Amid what friendly greetings and caresses, 
 What households, though not alien, yet not mine, 
 
 What bowers of rest divine ; 
 To what temptations in lone wildernesses, 
 What famine of the heart, what pain and loss, 
 
 The bearing of what cross ! 
 
 I do not know ; nor will I vainly question 
 Those pages of the mystic book which hold 
 
 The story still untold, 
 But without rash conjecture or suggestion 
 Turn its last leaves in reverence and good heed, 
 
 Until "The End "I read.
 
 MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 IT was at Sandy-Knowe, in the residence of my pater- 
 nal grandfather, that I had the first consciousness of ex- 
 istence ; and I recollect distinctly that my situation and 
 appearance were a little whimsical. Among the odd reme- 
 dies recurred to to aid my lameness, some one had recom- 
 mended that so often as a sheep was killed for the use of the 
 family, I should be stripped, and swathed up in the skin, 
 warm as it was flayed from the carcass of the animal. In 
 this Tartar-like habiliment I well remember lying upon the 
 floor of the little parlor in the farm-house, while my grand- 
 father, a venerable old man with white hair, used every 
 excitement to make me try to crawl. I also distinctly re- 
 member the late Sir George MacDougal of Makerstoun, 
 father of the present Sir Henry Hay MacDougal, joining in 
 this kindly attempt. He was, God knows how, a relation of 
 ours, and I still recollect him in his old-fashioned military 
 habit (he had been colonel of the Greys), with a small 
 cocked hat, deeply laced, an embroidered scarlet waistcoat, 
 and a light-colored coat, with milk-white locks tied in a mili- 
 tary fashion, kneeling on the ground before me, and dragging 
 his watch along the carpet to induce me to follow it. The 
 benevolent old soldier and the infant wrapped in his sheep- 
 skin would have afforded an odd group to uninterested spec- 
 tators. This must have happened about my third year, for

 
 MY CHILDHOOD. 309 
 
 Sir George MacDougal and my grandfather both died 
 shortly after that period. 
 
 My grandmother continued for some years to take charge 
 of the farm, assisted by my father's second brother, Mr. 
 Thomas Scott, who resided at Crailing, as factor or land- 
 steward for Mr. Scott of Danesfield, then proprietor of that 
 estate. This was during the heat of the American war, and 
 I remember being as anxious on my uncle's weekly visits 
 (for we heard news at no other time) to hear of the defeat 
 of Washington, as if I had had some deep and personal cause 
 of antipathy to him. I know not how this was combined 
 with a very strong prejudice in favor of the Stuart family, 
 which I had originally imbibed from the songs and tales of 
 the Jacobites. This latter political propensity was deeply 
 confirmed by the stories told in my hearing of the cruelties 
 exercised in the executions at Carlisle, and in the Highlands, 
 after the battle of Culloden. One or two of our own distant 
 relations had fallen on that occasion, and I remember of de- 
 testing the name of Cumberland with more than infant ha- 
 tred. Mr. Curie, farmer at Yetbyre, husband of one of my 
 aunts, had been present at their execution ; and it was prob- 
 ably from him that I first heard these tragic tales which 
 made so great an impression on me. The local information, 
 which I conceive had some share in forming my future taste 
 and pursuits, I derived from the old songs and tales which 
 then formed the amusement of a retired country family. 
 My grandmother, in whose youth the old Border depreda- 
 tions were matter of recent tradition, used to tell me many 
 a tale of Watt of Harden, Wight Willie of Aikwood, Jamie 
 Telfer of the fair Dodhead, and other heroes, merrymen 
 all of the persuasion and calling of Robin Hood and Little 
 John. A more recent hero, but not of less note, was the 
 celebrated Diel of Littledean, whom she well remembered, 
 as he had married her mother's sister. Of this extraordi- 
 nary person I learned many a story, grave and gay, comic
 
 310 SIB WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 and warlike. Two or three old books which lay in the 
 window-seat were explored for my amusement in the tedious 
 winter-days. Automathes, and Ramsay's Tea-table Miscel- 
 lany, were my favorites, although at a later period an odd 
 volume of Joseplms's Wars of the Jews divided my partiality. 
 My kind and affectionate aunt, Miss Janet Scott, whose 
 memory will ever be dear to me, used to read these works 
 to me with admirable patience, until I could repeat long pas- 
 sages by heart. The ballad of Hardyknute I was early 
 master of, to the great annoyance of almost our only visiter, 
 the worthy clergyman of the parish, Dr. Duncan, who had 
 not patience to have a sober chat interrupted by my shout- 
 ing forth this ditty. Methinks I now see his tall thin 
 emaciated figure, his legs cased in clasped gambadoes, and 
 his face of a length that would have rivalled the Knight of 
 La Mancha's, and hear him exclaiming, " One may as well 
 speak in the mouth of a cannon as where that child is." 
 With this little acidity, which was natural to him, he was a 
 most excellent and benevolent man, a gentleman in every 
 feeling, and altogether different from those of his order who 
 cringe at the tables of the gentry, or domineer and riot at 
 those of the yeomanry. In his youth he had been chaplain 
 in the family of Lord Marchmont had seen Pope and 
 could talk familiarly of many characters who had survived 
 the Augustan age of Queen Anne. Though valetudinary, 
 he lived to be nearly ninety, and to welcome to Scotland his 
 son, Colonel William Duncan, who, with the highest charac- 
 ter for military and civil merit, had made a considerable for- 
 tune in India. In [1795], a few days before his death, I 
 paid him a visit, to inquire after his health. I found him 
 emaciated to the last degree, wrapped in a tartan night-gown, 
 and employed with all the activity of health and youth in 
 correcting a history of the Revolution, which he intended 
 should be given to the public when he was no more. He 
 read me several passages with a voice naturally strong, and
 
 MY CHILDHOOD. 311 
 
 which the feelings of an author then raised above the de- 
 pression of age and declining health. I begged him to spare 
 this fatigue, which could not but injure his health. His an- 
 swer was remarkable. " I know," he said, " that I cannot 
 survive a fortnight and what signifies an exertion that can 
 at worst only accelerate my death a few days?" I mar- 
 velled at the composure of this reply, for his appearance 
 sufficiently vouched the truth of his prophecy, and rode 
 home to my uncle's (then my abode), musing what there 
 could be in the spirit of authorship that could inspire its 
 votaries with the courage of martyrs. He died within less 
 than the period he assigned, with which event I close my 
 digression. 
 
 I was in my fourth year when my father was advised that 
 the Bath waters might be of some advantage to my lame- 
 ness. My affectionate aunt, although such a journey prom- 
 ised to a person of her retired habits anything but pleasure 
 or amusement, undertook as readily to accompany me to the 
 wells of Bladud, as if she had expected all the delight that 
 ever the prospect of a watering-place held out to its most 
 impatient visitants. My health was by this time a good 
 deal confirmed by the country air, and the influence of that 
 imperceptible and unfatiguing exercise to which the good 
 sense of my grandfather had subjected me ; for when the 
 day was fine, I was usually carried out and laid down beside 
 the old shepherd, among the crags or rocks round which he 
 fed his sheep. The impatience of a child soon inclined me 
 to struggle with my infirmity, and I began by degrees to 
 stand, to walk, and to run. Although the limb affected was 
 much shrunk and contracted, my general health, which was 
 of more importance, was much strengthened by being fre- 
 quently in the open air, and, in a word, I who in a city had 
 probably been condemned to hopeless and helpless decrepi- 
 tude, was now a healthy, high-spirited, and, my lameness 
 apart, a sturdy child, non sine diis animosus infans.
 
 312 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 We went to London by sea, and it may gratify the cu- 
 riosity of minute biographers to learn, that our voyage was 
 performed in the Duchess of Buccleuch, Captain Beatson, 
 master. At London we made a short stay, and saw some 
 of the common shows exhibited to strangers. When, twen- 
 ty-five years afterwards, I visited the Tower of London and 
 Westminster Abbey, I was astonished to find how accurate 
 my recollections of these celebrated places of visitation 
 proved to be, and I have ever since trusted more implicitly 
 to my juvenile reminiscences. At Bath, where I lived about 
 a year, I went through all the usual discipline of the pump- 
 room and baths, but I believe without the least advantage 
 to my lameness. During my residence at Bath, I acquired 
 the rudiments of reading at a day-school, kept by an old 
 dame near our lodgings, and I had never a more regular 
 teacher, although I think I did not attend her a quarter of a 
 year. An occasional lesson from my aunt supplied the rest. 
 Afterwards, when grown a big boy, I had a few lessons from 
 Mr. Stalker of Edinburgh, and finally from the Rev. Mr. 
 Cleeve. But I never acquired a just pronunciation, nor 
 could I read with much propriety. 
 
 In other respects my residence at Bath is marked by 
 very pleasing recollections. The venerable John Home, 
 author of Douglas, was then at the watering-place, and paid 
 much attention to my aunt and to me. His wife, who has 
 survived him, was then an invalid, and used to take the air 
 in her carriage on the Downs, when I was often invited to 
 accompany her. But the most delightful recollections of 
 Bath are dated after the arrival of my uncle, Captain Robert 
 Scott, who introduced me to all the little amusements which 
 suited my age, and above all, to the theatre. The play was 
 As You Like It; and the witchery of the whole scene is 
 alive in my mind at this moment I made, I believe, noise 
 more than enough, and remember being so much scandalized 
 at the quarrel between Orlando and his brother in the first
 
 MY CHILDHOOD. 313 
 
 scene, that I screamed out, " Ain't they brothers ? " A few 
 weeks' residence at home convinced me, who had till then 
 been an only child in the house of my grandfather, that a 
 quarrel between brothers was a very natural event. 
 
 The other circumstances I recollect of my residence in 
 Bath are but trifling, yet I never recall them without a feel- 
 ing of pleasure. The beauties of the parade (which of them 
 I know not), with the river Avon winding around it, and the 
 lowing of the cattle from the opposite hills, are warm in my 
 recollection, and are only rivalled by the splendors of a toy- 
 shop somewhere near the Orange Grove. I had acquired, I 
 know not by what means, a kind of superstitious terror for 
 statuary of all kinds. No ancient Iconoclast or modern Cal- 
 vinist could have looked on the outside of the Abbey church 
 (if I mistake not, the principal church at Bath is so called) 
 with more horror than the image of Jacob's Ladder, with all 
 its angels, presented to my infant eye. My uncle effectually 
 combated my terrors, and formally introduced me to a statue 
 of Neptune, which perhaps still keeps guard at the side of 
 the Avon, where a pleasure-boat crosses to Spring Gardens. 
 
 After being a year at Bath, I returned first to Edinburgh, 
 and afterwards for a season to Sandy- Knowe ; and thus 
 the time whiled away till about my eighth year, when it was 
 thought sea-bathing might be of service to my lameness. 
 
 For this purpose, still under my aunt's protection, I re- 
 mained some weeks at Prestonpans, a circumstance not 
 worth mentioning, excepting to record my juvenile intimacy 
 with an old military veteran, Dalgetty by name, who had 
 pitched his tent in that little village, after all his campaigns, 
 subsisting upon an ensign's half-pay, though called by cour- 
 tesy a Captain. As this old gentleman, who had been in all 
 the German wars, found very few to listen to his tales of 
 military feats, he formed a sort of alliance with me, and I 
 used invariably to attend him for the pleasure of hearing 
 those communications. Sometimes our conversation turned 
 14
 
 814 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 on the American war, which was then raging. It was about 
 the time of Burgoyne's unfortunate expedition, to which my 
 Captain and I augured different conclusions. Somebody had 
 showed me a map of North America, and, struck with the 
 rugged appearance of the country, and the quantity of lakes, 
 I expressed some doubts on the subject of the General's ar- 
 riving safely at the end of his journey, which were very 
 indignantly refuted by the Captain. The news of the Sar- 
 atoga disaster, while it gave me a little triumph, rather shook 
 my intimacy with the veteran. 
 
 From Prestonpans, I was transported back to my father's 
 house in George's Square, which continued to be my most 
 established place of residence, until my marriage in 1797. 
 I felt the change from being a single indulged brat, to be- 
 coming a member of a large family, very severely ; for under 
 the gentle government of my kind grandmother, who was 
 meekness itself, and of my aunt, who, though of a higher 
 temper, was exceedingly attached to me, I had acquired a 
 degree of license which could not be permitted in a large 
 family. I had sense enough, however, to bend my temper 
 to my new circumstances ; but such was the agony which I 
 internally experienced, that I have guarded against nothing 
 more in the education of my own family, than against their 
 acquiring habits of self-willed caprice and domination. I 
 found much consolation during this period of mortification, 
 in the partiality of my mother. She joined to a light and 
 happy temper of mind, a strong turn to study poetry and 
 works of imagination. She was sincerely devout, but her 
 religion was, as became her sex, of a cast less austere than 
 my father's. Still, the discipline of the Presbyterian Sab- 
 bath was severely strict, and I think injudiciously so. Al- 
 though Bunyan's Pilgrim, Gesuer's Death of Abel, Rowe's 
 Letters, and one or two other books, which, for that reason, 
 I still have a favor for, were admitted to relieve the gloom 
 of one dull sermon succeeding to another, there was far
 
 MY CHILDHOOD. 315 
 
 too much tedium annexed to the duties of the day ; and in 
 the end it did none of us any good. 
 
 My week-day tasks were more agreeable. My lameness 
 and my solitary habits had made me a tolerable reader, and 
 my hours of leisure were usually spent in reading aloud to 
 my mother Pope's translation of Homer, which, excepting a 
 few traditionary ballads, and the songs in Allan Ramsay's 
 Evergreen, was the first poetry which I perused. My 
 mother had good natural taste and great feeling ; she used 
 to make me pause upon those passages which expressed gen- 
 erous and worthy sentiments, and if she could not divert me 
 from those which were descriptive of battle and tumult, she 
 contrived at least to divide my attention between them. 
 My own enthusiasm, however, was chiefly awakened by the 
 wonderful and the terrible, the common taste of children, 
 but in which I have remained a child even unto this day. 
 I got by heart, not as a task, but almost without intending 
 it, the passages with which I was most pleased, and used to 
 recite them aloud, both when alone and to others, more 
 willingly, however, in my hours of solitude, for I had ob- 
 served some auditors smile, and I dreaded ridicule at that 
 time of life more than I have ever done since. 
 
 In [1778] I was sent to the second class of the Grammar 
 School, or High School of Edinburgh, then taught by Mr. 
 Luke Fraser, a good Latin scholar and a very worthy man. 
 Though I had received, with my brothers, in private, lessons 
 of Latin from Mr. James French, now a minister of the 
 Kirk of Scotland, I was nevertheless rather behind the class 
 in which I was placed both in years and in progress. This 
 was a real disadvantage, and one to which a boy of lively 
 temper and talents ought to be as little exposed as one who 
 might be less expected to make up his lee-way, as it is called. 
 The situation has the unfortunate effect of reconciling a boy 
 of the former character (which in a posthumous work I may 
 claim for my own) to holding a subordinate station among
 
 316 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 his class-fellows, to which he would otherwise affix dis- 
 grace. There is also, from the constitution of the High 
 School, a certain danger not sufficiently attended to. The 
 boys take precedence in their places, as they are called, ac- 
 cording to their merit, and it requires a long while, in gen- 
 eral, before even a clever boy, if he falls behind the class, or 
 is put into one for which he is not quite ready, can force his 
 way to the situation which his abilities really entitle him to 
 hold. But, in the meanwhile, he is necessarily led to be 
 the associate and companion of those inferior spirits with 
 whom he is placed ; for the system of precedence, though it 
 does not limit the general intercourse among the boys, has 
 nevertheless the effect of throwing them into clubs and 
 coteries, according to the vicinity of the seats they hold. A 
 boy of good talents, therefore, placed even for a time among 
 his inferiors, especially if they be also his elders, learns to 
 participate in their pursuits and objects of ambition, which 
 are usually very distinct from the acquisition of learning; 
 and it will be well if he does not also imitate them in that 
 indifference which is contented with bustling over a lesson 
 so as to avoid punishment, without affecting superiority or 
 aiming at reward. It was probably owing to this circum- 
 stance, that, although at a more advanced period of life I 
 have enjoyed considerable facility in acquiring languages, I 
 did not make any great figure at the High School, or, at 
 least, any exertions which I made were desultory and little 
 to be depended on. 
 
 Our class contained some very excellent scholars. The 
 first Dux was James Buchan, who retained his honored 
 place, almost without a day's interval, all the while we 
 were at the High School. He was afterwards at the head 
 of the medical staff in Egypt, and in exposing himself to 
 the plague infection, by attending the hospitals there, dis- 
 played the same well-regulated and gentle, yet determined 
 perseverance, which placed him most worthily at the head
 
 MY CHILDHOOD. 317 
 
 of his school-fellows, while many lads of livelier parts and 
 dispositions held an inferior station. The next best scholars 
 (sed longo intervcdlo) were my friend David Douglas, the 
 heir and eleve of the celebrated Adam Smith, and James 
 Hope, now a Writer to the Signet, both since well known 
 and distinguished in their departments of the law. As for 
 myself, I glanced like a meteor from one end of the class 
 to the othef, and commonly disgusted my kind master as 
 much by negligence and frivolity, as I occasionally pleased 
 him by flashes of intellect and talent. Among my com- 
 panions, my good-nature and a flow of ready imagination 
 rendered me very popular. Boys are uncommonly just in 
 their feelings, and at least equally generous. My lameness, 
 and the efforts which I made to supply that disadvantage, 
 by making up in address what I wanted in activity, engaged 
 the latter principle in my favor; and in the winter play 
 hours, when hard exercise was impossible, my tales used to 
 assemble an admiring audience round Lucky Brown's fire- 
 side, and happy was he that could sit next to the inexhaust- 
 ible narrator. I was also, though often negligent of my 
 own task, always ready to assist my friends, and hence I 
 had a little party of stanch partisans and adherents, stout 
 of hand and heart, though somewhat dull of head, the 
 very tools for raising a hero to eminence. So, on the whole, 
 I made a brighter figure in the yards than in the class. 
 
 My father did not trust our education solely to our High 
 School lessons. We had a tutor at home, a young man of 
 an excellent disposition, and a laborious student. He was 
 bred to the Kirk, but unfortunately took such a very strong 
 turn to fanaticism that he afterwards resigned an excellent 
 living in a seaport town, merely because he could not per- 
 suade the mariners of the guilt of setting sail of a Sabbath, 
 in which, by the by, he was less likely to be successful, 
 as, ceeteris paribus, sailors, from an opinion that it is a for- 
 tunate omen, always choose to weigh anchor on that day.
 
 318 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 The calibre of this young man's understanding may be 
 judged of by this anecdote ; but in other respects, he was a 
 faithful and active instructor ; and from him chiefly I learned 
 writing and arithmetic. I repeated to him my French les- 
 sons, and studied with him my themes in the classics, but not 
 classically. I also acquired, by disputing with him, (for this 
 he readily permitted,) some knowledge of school-divinity 
 and church-history, and a great acquaintance in particular 
 with the old books describing the early history of the Church 
 of Scotland, the wars and sufferings of the Covenanters, 
 and so forth. I, with a head on fire for chivalry, was a Cav- 
 alier ; my friend was a Roundhead : I was a Tory, and he 
 was a Whig. I hated Presbyterians, and admired Montrose 
 with his victorious Highlanders ; he liked the Presbyterian 
 Ulysses, the dark and politic Argyle : so that we never 
 wanted subjects of dispute ; but our disputes were always 
 amicable. In all these tenets there was no real conviction 
 on my part, arising out of acquaintance with the views or 
 principles of either party ; nor had my antagonist address 
 enough to turn the debate on such topics. I took up my 
 politics at that period, as King Charles II. did his religion, 
 from an idea that the Cavalier creed was the more gentle- 
 manlike persuasion of the two. 
 
 After having been three years under Mr. Fraser, our 
 class was, in the usual routine of the school, turned over to 
 Dr. Adam, the Rector. It was from this respectable man 
 that I first learned the value of the knowledge I had hitherto 
 considered only as a burdensome task. It was the fashion 
 to remain two years at his class, where we read Caesar, and 
 Livy, and Sallust, in prose ; Virgil, Horace, and Terence, 
 in verse. I had by this time mastered, in some degree, the 
 difficulties of the language, and began to be sensible of its 
 beauties. This was really gathering grapes 'from thistles; 
 nor shall I soon forget the swelling of my little pride when 
 the Rector pronounced, that though many of my school-
 
 MY CHILDHOOD. 319 
 
 fellows understood the Latin better, Guallerus Scott was 
 behind few in following and enjoying the author's meaning. 
 Thus encouraged, I distinguished myself by some attempts 
 at poetical versions from Horace and Virgil. Dr. Adam 
 used to invite his scholars to such essays, but never made 
 them tasks. I gained some distinction upon these occasions, 
 and the Rector in future took much notice of me ; and his 
 judicious mixture of censure and praise went far to counter- 
 balance my habits of indolence and inattention. J saw I 
 was expected to do well, and I was piqued in honor to vin- 
 dicate my master's favorable opinion. I climbed, therefore, 
 to the first form; and, though I never made a first-rate 
 Latinist, my school-fellows, and what was of more conse- 
 quence, I myself, considered that I had a character for learn- 
 ing to maintain. Dr. Adam, to whom I owed so much, 
 never failed to remind me of my obligations when I had 
 made some figure in the literary world. He was, indeed, 
 deeply imbued with that fortunate vanity which alone could 
 induce a man who has arms to pare and burn a muir, to sub- 
 mit to the yet more toilsome task of cultivating youth. As 
 Catholics confide in the imputed righteousness of their saints, 
 so did the good old Doctor plume himself upon the success 
 of his scholars in life, all of which he never failed (and 
 often justly) to claim as the creation, or at least the fruits, 
 of his early instructions. He remembered the fate of every 
 boy at his school during the fifty years he had superintended 
 it, and always traced their success or misfortunes entirely 
 to their attention or negligence when under his care. His 
 " noisy mansion," which to others would have been a mel- 
 ancholy bedlam, was the pride of his heart ; and the only 
 fatigues he felt, amidst din and tumult, and the necessity of 
 reading themes, hearing lessons, and maintaining some de- 
 gree of order at the same time, were relieved by compar- 
 ing himself to Caesar, who could dictate to three secretaries 
 at once ; so ready ia vanity to lighten the labors of duty.
 
 320 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 It is a pity that a man so learned, so admirably adapted 
 for his station, so useful, so simple, so easily contented, 
 should have had other subjects of mortification. But the 
 magistrates of Edinburgh, not knowing the treasure they 
 possessed in Dr. Adam, encouraged a savage fellow, called 
 Nicol, one of the undermasters, in insulting his person and 
 authority. This man was an excellent classical scholar, and 
 an admirable convivial humorist (which latter quality rec- 
 ommended him to the friendship of Burns) ; but worthless, 
 drunken, and inhumanly cruel to the boys under his charge, 
 lie carried his feud against the Rector within an inch of 
 assassination, for he waylaid and knocked him down in the 
 dark. The favor which this worthless rival obtained in the 
 town-council led to other consequences, which for some 
 time clouded poor Adam's happiness and fair fame. When 
 the French Revolution broke out, and parties ran high in 
 approving or condemning it, the Doctor incautiously joined 
 the former. This was very natural, for as all his ideas of 
 existing governments were derived from his experience of 
 the town-council of Edinburgh, it must be admitted they 
 scarce brooked comparison with the free states of Rome 
 and Greece, from which he borrowed his opinions concern- 
 ing republics. His want of caution in speaking on the 
 political topics of the day lost him the respect of the boys, 
 most of whom were accustomed to hear very different opin- 
 ions on those matters in the bosom of their families. This, 
 however (which was long after my time), passed away with 
 other heats of the period, and the Doctor continued his 
 labors till about a year since, when he was struck with 
 palsy while teaching his class. He survived a few days, 
 but becoming delirious before his dissolution, conceived he 
 was still in school, and after some expressions of applause 
 or censure, he said, " But it grows dark, the boys may 
 dismiss," and instantly expired. 
 
 From Dr. Adam's class I should, according to the usual
 
 MY CHILDHOOD. 321 
 
 routine, have proceeded immediately to college. But, for- 
 tunately, I was not yet to lose, by a total dismission from 
 constraint, the acquaintance with the Latin which I had 
 acquired. My health had become rather delicate from rapid 
 growth, and my father was easily persuaded to allow me to 
 spend half a year at Kelso with my kind aunt, Miss Janet 
 Scott, whose inmate I again became. It was hardly worth 
 mentioning that I had frequently visited her during our 
 short vacations. 
 
 At this time she resided in a small house, situated very 
 pleasantly in a large garden, to the eastward of the church- 
 yard of Kelso, which extended down to the Tweed. It was 
 then my father's property, from whom it was afterwards 
 purchased by my uncle. My grandmother was now dead, 
 and my aunt's only companion, besides an old maid-servant, 
 was my cousin, Miss Barbara Scott, now Mrs. Meik. My 
 time was here left entirely to my own disposal, excepting 
 for about four hours in the day, when I was expected to at- 
 tend the Grammar School of the village. The teacher, at 
 that time, was Mr. Lancelot Whale, an excellent classical 
 scholar, a humorist, and a worthy man. He had a supreme 
 antipathy to the puns which his very uncommon name fre- 
 quently gave rise to ; insomuch, that he made his son spell 
 the word Wale, which only occasioned the young man being 
 nicknamed the Prince of Wales by the military mess to which 
 he belonged. As for Whale, senior, the least allusion to 
 Jonah, or the terming him an odd fish, or any similar quib- 
 ble, was sure to put him beside himself. In point of knowl- 
 edge and taste, he was far too good for the situation he held, 
 which only required that he should give his scholars a rough 
 foundation in the Latin language. My time with him, 
 though short, was spent greatly to my advantage and his 
 gratification. He was glad to escape to Persius and Taci- 
 tus from the eternal Rudiments and Cornelius Nepos ; and 
 as perusing these authors with one who began to understand 
 14* w
 
 322 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 them was to him a labor of love, I made considerable pro- 
 gress under his instructions. I suspect, indeed, that some of 
 the time dedicated to me was withdrawn from the instruc- 
 tion of his more regular scholars ; but I was as grateful as I 
 could. I acted as usher, and heard the inferior classes, and 
 I spouted the speech of Galgacus at the public examination, 
 which did not make the less impression on the audience that 
 few of them probably understood one word of it. 
 
 In the mean while my acquaintance with English litera- 
 ture was gradually extending itself. In the intervals of my 
 school hours I had always perused with avidity such books 
 of history or poetry or voyages and travels as chance pre- 
 sented to me not forgetting the usual, or rather ten times 
 the usual, quantity of fairy tales, eastern stories, roman- 
 ces, &c. These studies were totally unregulated and undi- 
 rected. My tutor thought it almost a sin to open a profane 
 play or poem ; and my mother, besides that she might be in 
 some degree trammelled by the religious scruples which he 
 suggested, had no longer the opportunity to hear me read 
 poetry as formerly. I found, however, in her dressing-room 
 (where I slept at one time) some odd volumes of Shake- 
 speare, nor can I easily forget the rapture with which I sat 
 up in my shirt reading them by the light of a fire in her 
 apartment, until the bustle of the family rising from supper 
 warned me it was time to creep back to my bed, where I 
 was supposed to have been safely deposited since nine 
 o'clock. Chance, however, threw in my way a poetical pre- 
 ceptor. This was no other than the excellent and benevo- 
 lent Dr. Blacklock, well known at that time as a literary 
 character. I know not how I attracted his attention, and 
 that of some of the young men who boarded in his family ; 
 but so it was that I became a frequent and favored guest. 
 The kind old man opened to me the stores of his library, 
 and through his recommendation I became intimate with 
 Ossian and Spenser. I was delighted with both, yet I think
 
 MY CHILDHOOD. 323 
 
 chiefly with the latter poet. The tawdry repetitions of the 
 Ossianic phraseology disgusted me rather sooner than might 
 have been expected from my age. But Spenser I could 
 have read forever. Too young to trouble myself about the 
 allegory, I considered all the knights and ladies and dragons 
 and giants in their outward and exoteric sense, and God 
 only knows how delighted I was to find myself in such soci- 
 ety. As I had always a wonderful facility in retaining in 
 my memory whatever verses pleased me, the quantity of 
 Spenser's stanzas which I could repeat was really marvel- 
 lous. But this memory of mine was a very fickle ally, and 
 has through my whole life acted merely upon its own capri- 
 cious motion, and might have enabled me to adopt old Beat- 
 tie of Meikledale's answer, when complimented by a certain 
 reverend divine on the strength of the same faculty : 
 " No, sir," answered the old Borderer, " I have no command 
 of my memory. It only retains what hits my fancy ; and 
 probably, sir, if you were to preach to me for two hours, I 
 would not be able when you finished to remember a word 
 you had been saying." My memory was precisely of the 
 same kind : it seldom failed to preserve most tenaciously a 
 favorite passage of poetry, a play-house ditty, or, above all, 
 a Border-raid ballad ; but names, dates, and the other tech- 
 nicalities of history, escaped me hi a most melancholy degree. 
 The philosophy of history, a much more important subject, 
 was also a sealed book at this period of my life ; but I grad- 
 ually assembled much of what was striking and picturesque 
 in historical narrative ; and when, in riper years, I attended 
 more to the deduction of general principles, I was furnished 
 with a powerful host of examples in illustration of them. I 
 was, in short, like an ignorant gamester, who kept up a good 
 hand until he knew how to play it. 
 
 1 left the High School, therefore, with a great quantity 
 of general information, ill arranged, indeed, and collected 
 without system, yet deeply impressed upon my mind ; read-
 
 324 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 ily assorted by my power of connection and memory, and 
 gilded, if I may be permitted to say so, by a vivid and 
 active imagination. If my studies were not under any direc- 
 tion at Edinburgh, in the country, it may be well imagined, 
 they were less so. A respectable subscription library, a cir- 
 culating library of ancient standing, and some private book- 
 shelves, were open to my random perusal, and I waded into 
 the stream like a blind man into a ford, without the power 
 of searching my way, unless by groping for it. My appe- 
 tite for books was as ample and indiscriminating as it was 
 indefatigable, and I since have had too frequently reason to 
 repent that few ever read so much, and to so little purpose. 
 
 Among the valuable acquisitions I made about this time, 
 was an acquaintance with Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered, 
 through the flat medium of Mr. Hoole's translation. But 
 above all, I then first became acquainted with Bishop 
 Percy's Reliques of Ancient Poetry. As I had been 
 from infancy devoted to legendary lore of this nature, and 
 only reluctantly withdrew my attention, from the scarcity 
 of materials and the rudeness of those which I possessed, 
 it may be imagined, but cannot be described, with what 
 delight I saw pieces of the same kind which had amused my 
 childhood, and still continued in secret the Delilahs of my 
 imagination, considered as the subject of sober research, 
 grave commentary, and apt illustration, by an editor who 
 showed his poetical genius was capable of emulating the best 
 qualities of what his pious labor preserved. I remember 
 well the spot where I read these volumes for the first time. 
 It was beneath a huge platanus-tree, in the ruins of what 
 had been intended for an old-fashioned arbor in the garden 
 I have mentioned. The summer-day sped onward so fast, 
 that notwithstanding the sharp appetite of thirteen, I forgot 
 the hour of dinner, was sought for with anxiety, and was 
 still found entranced in my intellectual banquet. To read 
 and to remember was in this instance the same thing, and
 
 MY CHILDHOOD. 325 
 
 henceforth I overwhelmed ray school-fellows, and all who 
 would hearken to me, with tragical recitations from the bal- 
 lads of Bishop Percy. The first time, too, I could scrape a 
 few shillings together, which were not common occurrences 
 with me, I bought unto myself a copy of these beloved vol- 
 umes ; nor do I believe I ever read a book half so fre- 
 quently, or with half the enthusiasm. About this period 
 also I became acquainted with the works of Richardson, and 
 those of Mackenzie (whom in later years I became enti- 
 tled to call my friend), with Fielding, Smollett, and some 
 others of our best novelists. 
 
 To this period also I can trace distinctly the awaking 
 of that delightful feeling for the beauties of natural objects 
 which has never since deserted me. The neighborhood of 
 Kelso, the most beautiful, if not the most romantic village 
 in Scotland, is eminently calculated to awaken these ideas. 
 It presents objects, not only grand in themselves, but vener- 
 able from their association. The meeting of two superb 
 rivers, the Tweed and the Teviot, both renowned in song, 
 the ruins of an ancient Abbey, the more distant vestiges 
 of Roxburgh Castle, the modern mansion of Fleurs, which 
 is so situated as to combine the ideas of ancient baronial 
 grandeur with those of modern taste, are in themselves 
 objects of the first class ; yet are so mixed, united, and 
 melted among a thousand other beauties of a less prominent 
 description, that they harmonize into one general picture, 
 and please rather by unison than by concord. I believe I 
 have written unintelligibly upon this subject, but it is fitter 
 for the pencil than the pen. The romantic feelings which 
 I have described as predominating in my mind naturally 
 rested upon and associated themselves with these grand fea- 
 tures of the landscape around me ; and the historical inci- 
 dents, or traditional legends connected with many of them, 
 gave to my admiration a sort of intense impression of 
 reverence, which at times made my heart feel too big for its
 
 326 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 bosom. From this time the love of natural beauty, more 
 especially when combined with ancient ruins or remains of 
 our fathers' piety or splendor, became with me an insatiable 
 passion, which, if circumstances had permitted, I would will- 
 ingly have gratified by travelling over half the globe. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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