UC-NRLF 
 


 
 
 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS 
 
 IN PROSE AND VERSE. 
 
 * 
 BY RICHARD SHARP. 
 
 FIRST AMERICAN EDITION. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA : 
 
 E. L. CAREY & A. HART. 
 1835. 
 

 PREFACE. 
 
 The author of the following pages hopes to be 
 excused for telling the reader that they were writ- 
 ten during a few short intervals of leisure, which 
 he has employed rather in deriving instruction 
 and amusement from the works of others, than in 
 attempting to afford either by his own. 
 
 Several of his Letters have been published 
 without his knowledge: he has thought it best 
 to print a few others, both in prose and verse. 
 
 Being, of course, in the possession of his friends, 
 they might (however insignificant) appear here- 
 after, when he could no longer correct them ; and 
 the dates of some will show that he has no time 
 to lose. 
 
 " Vesper * * admonuit." 
 
 

 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To the Rev. John Fell 13 
 
 On English Style 17 
 
 To Mr. Henderson 26 
 
 To the Rev. John Fell 28 
 
 To a Young Friend at College. ... 32 
 
 To the same 35 
 
 To the same 38 
 
 To the same. .....* 44 
 
 To a Law Student 48 
 
 To the same 52 
 
 To the same. ...... 55 
 
 To the same 58 
 
 To the same GO 
 
 To Sir Jumrs Mackintosh. ... 63 
 
 at Oxford. ... 68 
 
 On Poverty. 73 
 
 On War. " 78 
 
 On Intolerance and Bigotry. ... 81 
 
 On the Passions. 84 
 
 On Political Agitations 88 
 
 On Visiting-Acquaintance. ... 91 
 
 On a Voice. 94 
 
 Nature and Utility of Eloquence. . . 96 
 
 To Mr. Home Tooke 113 
 
 To the same 117 
 
 To Francis Homer, Esq 120 
 
 To the same 124 
 
 To Sir James Mackintosh. . . .127 
 
 To the same 132 
 

 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 EPISTLE 
 
 I. To an Eminent Poet. . . .139 
 
 II. To a Lady 145 
 
 III. To a Friend on Marriage. . . 151 
 
 IV. From the Alps 159 
 
 V. To a very young Lady. . . 168 
 
 VI. To a Friend 174 
 
 VII. To a Brother 180 
 
 VIII. To a Friend at his Villa. . . 186 
 
 IX. To Samuel Rogers, Esq. . . 190 
 
 X. To the Lord Holland. . I'M 
 
 Epitaph on Mr. Henderson. . . . 200 
 
 TJ- ttose. 201 
 
 True Philosophy - . 202 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN FELL. 
 
 London, Zd February, 1784. 
 
 You will receive, in this and another frank, my pre- 
 face to your Grammar, which I hope you will approve. 
 If you do so, pray be good enough to return it by the 
 coach ; for the book itself is already printed ; and, as 
 you well know, by sad experience, the devil is a most 
 importunate dun. 
 
 The sentiments I am sure you will not dislike ; but I 
 am far from satisfied with the expression, and I must beg 
 you to have no mercy. 
 
 Our common object is to do the best we can towards 
 preventing the style of the next race of authors from 
 being tainted by the pedantry of the present. Indeed, 
 Johnsonism is now become almost a general disease. 
 
 In the lighter kinds of writing this affectation is par- 
 ticularly disagreeable ; and I am convinced that in the 
 gravest, aye ! and in the sublimest passages, the simple 
 2 
 
1 4 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 terms and the idioms of our language often add a grace 
 beyond the reach of scholarship, increasing, rather than 
 diminishing, the elegance, as well as the spirit of the 
 diction. 
 
 " Utinam et verha in usu quotidiano posita minus 
 timeremus." 
 
 " He that would write well," says Roger Ascham, 
 " must follow the advice of Aristotle, to speak as the 
 common people speak, and to think as the wise think/' 
 
 In support of this opinion many of the examples 
 by you are amusing, as well as convincing. The follow, 
 ing from a great author may be added 
 
 " Is there a God to swear by, and is there none to be- 
 lieve in, none to trust to!" 
 
 What becomes of the force and simplicity of this short 
 sentence, when turned into the clumsy English which 
 schoolmasters indite and which little boys can con 
 44 Is there a God by whom to swear, and is there n 
 whom to believe, none to whom to pray 1" 
 
 The doctor is a great writer and is deservedly adn- 
 but he should not be imitated. His gigantic strength 
 may perhaps require a vocabulary that would encumber 
 i thoughts : but it is very comical to see Mr. B. and 
 Dr. P. strutting about in Johnson's bulky clothes ; as if a 
 couple of Lilliputians had bought their great coats at a 
 rag-fair in Brobdignag. 
 
 Cowley, Dryden, Congrcve, and Addison, are our best 
 examples ; for Middleton is not free from Gallicisms. 
 Mr. Burke's speeches and pamphlets (although the style 
 is too undisciplined for a model) abound with phrases in 
 which homeliness sets off elegance, and ease adds grace 
 to strength. 
 

 
 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 15 
 
 How your neighbour, the " dilectus lapis," will smile 
 to hear Milton's practice appealed to ! Yet what can he 
 ' say to the following specimens, taken at random while I 
 am now writing 1 
 
 " Am I not sung and proverb'd for a fool 
 In every street ? Do they not say how well 
 Are come upon him his deserts ?" 
 
 " Here rather let me drudge and earn my bread." 
 
 " Not for thy life, lest fierce remembrance wake 
 My sudden rage to tear thee joint by joint. 
 At distance I forgive thee go with that" 
 
 " Abortive as the first-born bloom of spring 
 Nipt with the lagging rear of winter's frost." 
 
 I was all ear, 
 
 And took in strains that might create a soul 
 Under the ribs of death." 
 
 " So ! farewell hope ; but with hope farewell fear, 
 Farewell remorse : all good to me is lost ; 
 Evil, be thou my good." 
 
 Shakespeaie I need not quote, for he never writes ill, 
 excepting when he means to be very fine, and very 
 learned. 
 
 Fortunately our admirable translation of the Scriptures 
 abounds with these native terms of expression, and it is 
 
16 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 admitted to be almost as pure an authority for English as 
 for doctrine. 
 
 I begin, already, to look forward to my annual week's 
 holiday at Thaxted, where I shall hear you expound 
 them for both purposes. 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 17 
 
 ON ENGLISH STYLE.* ^ 
 
 During the last thirty or forty years, English literature 
 has been enriched with many valuable compositions in 
 prose and in verse. Many wise and learned men have 
 made use of our language in communicating their senti- 
 ments concerning all the important branches of science 
 and art. All kinds of subjects have been skilfully treated 
 in it, and many works of taste and genius have been 
 written with great and well-deserved success : yet perhaps 
 it will appear, upon a careful view of these compositions, 
 that whatsoever credit their authors are entitled to, for 
 acuteness of understanding, strength of imagination, de- 
 licacy of taste, or energy of passion ; there are but few 
 of them that deserve the praise of having expressed them- 
 selves in a pure and genuine strain of English. In ge- 
 neral they have preferred such a 'choice, and such an 
 arrangement of words, as an early acquaintance with 
 some other language, and the neglected study of their 
 own, would naturally incline them to. Sometimes also 
 we find them expressing a mean opinion of their native 
 tongue. This, however, I am the less inclined to wonder 
 at, as I am convinced that those only can speak of our 
 language without respect, who are ignorant of its nature 
 and qualities. Perhaps it is as capable of receiving any 
 
 * Printed in 1784 as the preface to an " Essay on 
 English Grammar." 
 
 2* 
 
18 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 impressions that a man of taste and genius may choose to 
 stamp upon it, and is as easily moulded into all the 
 various forms of passion, elegance, and sublimity, as any 
 language, ancient or modern. 
 
 Some men of eminence in letters, having seen how 
 well the fashionable world has succeeded in imitating the 
 inaiiners of the French, have endeavoured to raise them- 
 selves into reputation by importing their forms of speech ; 
 and, not contented with the good old English idiom, have 
 dressed out their works in all the tawdriness of French 
 phraseology. 
 
 But this injudicious fashion of adulterating our lan- 
 guage with foreign mixtures, is more especially the case 
 with respect to the Latin ; to the laws of which, many of 
 our \vriters, and indeed some also of our grammarians, 
 have so strenuously endeavoured to subject our language, 
 that Brown's prophecy, in the preface to his "Vulgar 
 Errors," is at length come to pass, and " we are now 
 forced to study Latin, in order to understand English." 
 The complaint is not new, though the practice complain- 
 ed of is now become more frequent, and more extrn-i\ 
 than ever. Our elegant and idiomatic satirist ridit ul-> 
 that 
 
 easy Ciceronian style 
 
 i, yet so Enghsh all the while." 
 POPE'S EPILOGUE TO SATI 
 
 Not only Latin words, but Latin idioms, are now in- 
 vading us with so much success, that, do what we can, I 
 fear we must submit to the yoke, and as our country was 
 formerly compelled to become a province of the Roman 
 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 19 
 
 empire, so must our language sink at last into a dialect 
 of the Roman tongue. This event has been much hasten- 
 ed of late years. Some men, whose writings do honour 
 to their country and to mankind, have, it must be con- 
 fessed, written in a style that no Englishman will own : 
 a sort of anglicised Latin, and chiefly distinguished from 
 it by a trifling difference 1 of termination ; yet so excellent 
 are these works, in other respects, that a man might de- 
 serve well of the public who would take the trouble of trans- 
 lating them into English. As I do not notice these altera- 
 tions in our language in order to commend them, I shall 
 not produce any particular instances. I shall content my- 
 self with supporting t lie fact by the evidence ;>f a truly re- 
 spectable critic, now living. In the preface to his excel- 
 lent dictionary, he says, "so far have I been from any 
 > grace my page with modern decorations, that I 
 have studiously endeavoured to collect my examples and 
 authorities from the writers before the Restoration, whose 
 works I regard as the -wells of English undefiled ; as the 
 pure sources of genuine diction. Our language, for al- 
 most a century, has, by the concurrence of many causes, 
 been gradually departing from its ancient Teutonic cha- 
 racter, and deviating towards a Gallic structure and 
 phraseology ; from -which it ought to be our endeavnur 
 to recall it ; by making our ancient volumes the ground- 
 work of our style, admitting, among the additions of later 
 times, only such as may supply real deficiencies ; such as 
 are readily adopted by the genius of our tongue, and in- 
 corporate easily with our native idioms." 
 
 In his preface to the works of Shakspeare, we also 
 find the following very applicable sentiments : " I believe 
 there is in every nation, a style that never becomes ob- 
 
 
20 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 solete, a certain mode of phraseology so consonant and 
 congenial to the principles of its respective language, as 
 to remain settled and unaltered. 
 
 " The polite are always catching modish innovations, 
 and the learned depart from established forms of speech, 
 in hopes of finding or making better ; those who wish 
 lor distinction forsake the vulgar -when the vulgar is 
 right ; but there is a conversation above grossness and 
 below refinement, where propriety resides, and where 
 Hhakspeare seems to have gathered his comic dialogue. 
 He is therefore more agreeable to the ears of the present 
 age than any other author equally remote, and among 
 his other excellences, deserves to be studied as one of 
 the original masters of our language." These passages I 
 have inserted, because such a testimony from this great 
 man will at least be thought impartial by every person 
 acquainted with the characteristics of his style. 
 
 The alterations in our language here mentions 
 certainly not for the better : they give the phraseology a 
 disgusting air of study and formality; they have tluir 
 source in affectation, not in taste ; yet novelty has its at- 
 tractions, and what Quintilian says of Seneca's works, 
 may be fairly applied to our later English writers ; "In 
 eloquendo corrupta pleraque, et eo perniciosissima, quod 
 abundebant dulcibua vitiis" Though these exotic terms 
 and phrases are not really better than our home-bred 
 English, vet their newness gives them a spurious son of 
 beauty ; though they do not really enrich the dress of our 
 thoughts, yet they are a kind of tinsel ornaments admired 
 because they glitter and glare. The writers I allude to 
 may perhaps have succeeded in giving our language a 
 higher polish ; but have they not also curtailed and im- 
 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 21 
 
 poverished it ? Perhaps they may have cleared it of some 
 cant terms, low phrases, and awkward constructions ; but 
 what they may have gained in accuracy, have they not 
 lost in variety 1 Have they not reduced all kinds of com- 
 position to an insipid uniformity ? Is not the spirit of our 
 language lowered, its freedom cramped, and its range of 
 expression narrowed ? 
 
 I shall not be required to prove this opinion by such of 
 my readers as arc acquainted with the works of Hooker, 
 Taylor, Swift, Pope, Addison and Dry den ; with the 
 prose of Cowley, and with Shakspeare's " immortal wit." 
 However, the prevalence of fashion is so strong, that all 
 resistance to this adulteration of our language may be 
 ineffectual ; and it is well worthy of notice, that every 
 polite nation, hitherto distinguished in literature, has, 
 after a certain period, declined in taste and purity of com- 
 position. The later Greek writers are known by the di- 
 minutive term, " Gneculi," and the Augustan age denotes 
 an era before the Latin tongue was vitiated and spoiled 
 by vain refinements and affected innovations. To pre- 
 vent a similar decline of the French language, the French 
 Academy has endeavoured to render it at once more pure 
 and more durable : but the republic of letters is a true re- 
 public, in its disregard to the arbitrary decrees of usurped 
 authority. Perhaps such an institution would do still 
 less with us. Our critics are allowed to petition, but not 
 to command : and why should their power be enlarged 7 
 The laws of our speech, like the laws of our country, 
 should breathe a spirit of liberty : they should check 
 licentiousness, without restraining freedom. The most 
 effectual method of preserving our language from decay, 
 and preventing a total disregard to the Saxon part of it, 
 is to change our present mode of education. 
 
22 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 Children are generally taught the grammar of a foreign 
 tongue before they understand that of their own ; or if 
 they chance to be instructed in the principles of their 
 native tongue, they learn them from some system that 
 does little more than fetter it with the rules of construc- 
 tion drawn from another language. Dr. Lowth, in his 
 preface, has taken notice of this circumstance. 
 
 " A grammatical study of our own language makes no 
 part of the ordinary method of instruction which we pass 
 through in our childhood, and it is very seldom that we 
 apply ourselves to it afterwards. 
 
 " Yet the want of it will never be effectually supplied 
 by any other advantages whatsoever. Much practice in 
 the polite world, and a general acquaintance with the 
 best authors, are good helps ; but alone will hardly be 
 sufficient : we have writers who have enjoyed these ad- 
 vantages in their full extent, and yet cannot be recom- 
 mended as models of an accurate style. Much less, then, 
 will what is commonly called learning serve the pur- 
 pose ; that is, a critical knowledge of ancient languages, 
 and much reading of ancient authors. The greatest critic 
 and most able grammarian of the last age was frequently 
 at a loss in matters of ordinary use and common con- 
 struction in his own vernacular idiom." 
 
 The design of the following work is to teach the gram- 
 mar of the EngUth tongue ; not by arbitrary and capri- 
 cious rules, and much less by such as are taken from the 
 customs of other languages ; but by a methodical collec- 
 tion of observations, comprising all those current phrases 
 and forms of speech, which are to be found in our best 
 and most approved writers and speakers. It is certainly 
 the business of a grammarian to find out, and not to 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 23 
 
 make, the laws of a language. In this work the author 
 does not assume the character of a legislator, but appears 
 as a faithful compiler of the scattered laws. He does not 
 presume to regulate the customs and fashions of our 
 speech, but only notes and collects them. 
 
 It matters not what causes these customs and fashions 
 owe their birth to ; the moment they become general, 
 they are laws of the language ; and a grammarian can 
 only remonstrate, how much soever he disapprove. From 
 his opinions and precepts an appeal may always be made 
 to the tribunal of use, as to the supreme authority and 
 last resort : in language, as in law, " communis error 
 facit jus." By the general consent of a nation, certai/i 
 sounds and certain written signs, together with their in- 
 flections and combinations, come to be used as denoting 
 certain ideas and their relations ; and the man that chooses 
 to deviate from the custom of his country in expressing 
 his thoughts, is as ridiculous as though he were to walk 
 the streets in a Spanish cloak, or a Roman toga. Per- 
 haps he might say these garments are more elegant and 
 more commodious than a suit of English broad cloth ; 
 but I believe this excuse would hardly protect him from 
 derision and disgrace. 
 
 Besides the principal purpose for which this little book 
 was written (that of instructing youth), I hope the pe- 
 rusal of it may not be useless to those that are already 
 acquainted with polite literature. Much reading and 
 good company are supposed to be the best methods of 
 getting at the niceties and elegances of a language ; but 
 this road is long and irksome. It is certainly a safer and 
 a readier way to sail by compass than to rove at random ; 
 and any person who wished to become acquainted with 
 
 
24 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 the various productions of nature, would do better to 
 study the systems of our best naturalists, than to go wan- 
 dering about from land to land, lighting here upon one, 
 and there upon another, merely out of a desire to see 
 them all. I hope also this book may be useful to those 
 foreigners that wish to learn the English tongue : it 
 being intended to contain all our most usual Anglicisms ; 
 all those phrases and peculiarities. \vhich form the cha- 
 racteristics of our language. I will not take upon me 
 to say that we have no grammar capable of teaching a 
 foreigner to read our authors ; but this I am sir 
 that we have none by which he can be enabled to un<l r- 
 stand our conversation. 
 
 ADDITION, 1834. 
 
 i 
 
 EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM MR. BURKE TO 
 MR. MURPHY. 
 
 " There is a style which daily gains ground amongst 
 us, which I should be sorry to see farther advai 
 the authority of a writer of your ju>t reputation. The 
 trmlriicy of the mode to which I allude is, to establish 
 two very dill'. -n nt idioms amongst us, and to introduce a 
 marked distinction between the English that is writ ten. 
 and the English that is spoken. This practice, if grown 
 a little more general, would confirm this distemper (such 
 I must think it) in our language, and perhaps render it 
 incurable. 
 
 " From this feigned manner, or falsetto, as I think the 
 musicians call something of the same sort in singing, no 
 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 25 
 
 one modern historian, Robertson only excepted, is per- 
 fectly free. It is assumed, I know, to give dignity and 
 variety to the style ; but whatever success the attempt 
 may sometimes have, it is always obtained at the expense 
 of purity, and of the graces that are natural and appro- 
 priate to our language. It is true, that when the exi- 
 gence calls for auxiliaries of all sorts, and common lan- 
 guage becomes unequal to the demands of extraordinary 
 thoughts, something ought to be conceded to the neces- 
 sities which make < ambition virtue ;' but the allowances 
 to necessities ought not to grow into a practice. These 
 portents and prodigies ought not to grow too common." 
 
 
26 LETTERS AND ESSAYS 
 
 TO MR. HENDERSON. 
 
 London, 1786. 
 
 I went, as I promised, to see the new " HAMLET/' 
 whose provincial fame had excited your curiosity as well 
 as mine. 
 
 There has not been such a first appoar:nir<> since 
 yours ; yet nature, though she has been bountiful to him 
 in figure and feature, has denied him voice of course he 
 could not exemplify his own direction for the players to 
 " speak the speech trippingly on the tongue" and now 
 and then he was as deliberate in his delivery as if he had 
 been reading prayers, and had waited for the response. 
 
 He is a very handsome man, almost tall and almost 
 large, with features of a sensible, but lixtd and tragic 
 cast his action is graceful, though somewhat formal ; 
 which you will find it hard to believe, yet it is true. 
 Very careful study appears in all he says and all he does ; 
 but there is more singularity and ingenuity, than sim- 
 plicity and fire. Upon the whole, he strikes me rather 
 as a finished French performer, than as a varied and 
 vigorous English actor ; and it is plain he will succeed 
 better in heroic, than in natural and passionate tragedy. 
 Excepting in serious parts, I suppose he will never put 
 on the sock. 
 
 You have been so long without a " brother near the 
 throne," that it will perhaps be serviceable to you to be 
 obliged to bestir yourself in Hamlet, Macbeth, Lord 
 
 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 27 
 
 Townley, and Maskwell ; but in Lear, Richard, Falstaff, 
 and Benedict, you have nothing to fear, notwithstanding 
 the known fickleness of the public and its love of 
 novelty. 
 
 I think I have heard you remark (what I have myself 
 observed in the History of the Stage,) that periodical 
 changes have taken place in the taste of the audience, or 
 at least in the manner of the great peeformers. Some- 
 times the natural and spirited mode has prevailed, and 
 then the dignified and declamatory. Betterton, eminent 
 both in comedy and tragedy, appears to have been an 
 instance of the first. Then came Booth and Quin, who 
 were admired for the last. Garrick followed, restoring 
 or re-inventing the best manner, which you have also 
 adopted so fortunately and successfully. Mr. Kemble 
 will be compelled, by the hoarse monotony of his voice, 
 to rely upon the conventional stateliness that distin- 
 guished Garrick's predecessors, which is now carried to 
 inimitable perfection by his accomplished sister. 
 
 You see that I have been much amused by this town- 
 made incident, a first-appearance ; but, believe me, I had 
 much rather have been angling with you at Marlow, 
 even though without a bite. I had rather laugh at your 
 quips and cranks," than hook the largest perch in the 
 Thames. 
 
28 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN FELL. 
 
 January 1, 1788. 
 
 My cold, my obstinate cold, has been so exasperated 
 by some Christmas indiscretions, as to be malicious 
 enough to confine me to the house ; and I foresee but 
 little chance of my sleeping under your roof for many 
 nights to come. I must therefore reply to your questions 
 by the penny post, although what I have to say is not 
 worth a farthing. 
 
 First, however, let me wish you many, many happy 
 new years in the discharge of your untried duties ; for I 
 reckon your experience at Thaxted as of little or no 
 service to you at Homerton. It is a far more difficult 
 task to teach those who are to be teachers themselves, 
 than to correct the exercises of a few little lay-boys. 
 Now your business is very serious. I know that it is 
 the high office of another to instruct the students in 
 theology ; but I am certain that their residence with a 
 man of your learning, energy, and reputation, will render 
 your influence, in forming their characters and their 
 creed, much more effectual than the most orthodo 
 tures on the thirty-nine articles. To speak out, too, he 
 appears to me to be but a dry sort of a wet-nurse ; and 
 besides, he may, perhaps, like some of his brother pro- 
 fessors, fall fast asleep in his chair, and do neither good 
 nor harm. To unlearn is harder than to learn, and the 
 Grecian flute-player was right in requiring double fees 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 29 
 
 from those pupils who had been taught by another mas- 
 ter. " I am rubbing their father out of my children as 
 fast I can," said a clever widow of rank and fashion. 
 
 It is fortunate for you, in some respects, that the 
 young people in your interesting family are not the spoilt 
 cliildrcn of rich or distinguished parents. If Fenelon 
 did succeed, as it is recorded he did, in educating the 
 dauphin, his success was little less than a miracle. How 
 can any man, though of advanced age and of high repu- 
 tation, perhaps also of a sacred profession and of elevated 
 station, be expected to preserve any useful authority over 
 a child, (probably a wayward little animal,) if he, the 
 tutor, must always address the pupil by his title, or at 
 least must never forget that he is heir to a throne 7 
 
 I do not deny that the habits of the young who have 
 been brought up in poverty may present obstacles of 
 another kind ; and I believe that some, who enter the 
 ministry, may be tempted by the desire of being reckoned 
 t^cntloinen. This jealous and irritable sort of vanity calls 
 both for tenderness and for correction. 
 
 Education cannot do all that Helvetius supposes, but 
 it can do much. " Elle fait danser 1'ours." It is said 
 that some insects take the colour of the leaf that they 
 feed upon. " I was common clay till roses were planted 
 in me," says some aromatic earth in an eastern fable. 
 
 What passed at our hospitable bookseller's table, last 
 week, naturally excited your attention ; and I will, as 
 you desire, try to borrow the Swiss gentleman's letter 
 respecting education from Dr. Knox. Emulation has 
 been at all times relied upon as a chief instrument in 
 education, and now comes a philosopher of great expe- 
 rience who discourages the use of it. Certainly, if the 
 3* 
 
30 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 mere passion for truth could do the business ; if young 
 men could be expected to fall desperately in love with 
 " the beauty of theorem," the results would be of exceed- 
 ing value, both in kind and in degree. Can tl: 
 trusted to 1 Alas, no! 
 
 One practice, however, can be reformed, that of giving 
 prizes and commendations only to those who get on the 
 fastest. Tis the endeavour, the struggle, the obedience, 
 that should be praised and rewarded. Then a child will 
 not be disheartened by difficulties, nor humiliated by 
 failure ; because, when he does his best, he will be sure 
 of approbation. Otherwise, as soon as he is pa* 
 the race by his competitors, he will be inclined to lie 
 down in the dust, with his little heart full of di 
 and perhaps full of envy too. 
 
 There was one observation which we agreed in 1 
 
 did expect much from merely didactic lectures. 
 
 Knowledge cannot bo truly ours till we have appropriated 
 
 it by some operation of our own minds. The best \\ 
 
 on property in land attribute that right to the fir>t jm- 
 
 r having blended his own labour with the soil. 
 
 Something like this is true of intellectual attainment*. 
 
 For example, surely the best mode of teaching moral 
 
 philosophy would be by giving each pupil a set of ques/- 
 
 tions : such as 
 
 " Why should truth be spoken ?" 
 " Why should a promise be kept, and a debt pai 
 " What is the meaning of the word ought ?" 
 The learners should, indeed, be told that many diiler- 
 ent answers have been given in all ages; and the most 
 celebrated as well as the most satisfactory authors should 
 t>e pointed out to them. But they should select their 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 31 
 
 own answers ; after being encouraged to reflect as well 
 as to read. 
 
 Behold what you have brought upon yourself by the 
 grave and urgent air of your enquiries, and by not wait- 
 ing till we could take a turn together in your garden of 
 gardens; where " cum una, mehercule, ambulatiuncula, 
 atque uno sermone nostro, omnes provincise fructus non 
 TO;" addicted as I ara to the distant mountains. 
 
32 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 TO A YOUNG FRIEND AT COLLEGE. 
 
 Fredley Farm, July 29, 1806. 
 
 Well ! you have left St. Paul's, and have settled your- 
 self at Cambridge, with your heart full of hopes and 
 brave resolutions. You well know that I not only wish, 
 but that I am anxious for, your success, in life ; and I 
 have confidence in your capacity. However, my favour- 
 able anticipations arise chiefly from your being aware 
 that your station in society must depend entirely on your 
 own exertions. Luckily you have not to overcome the 
 disadvantage of expecting to inherit, from your father, 
 an income equal to your reasonable desires ; for, though 
 it may have the air of a paradox, yet it is truly a serious 
 disadvantage when a young man, going to the bar, is 
 sufficiently provided for. "An inherited fortune, but 
 not an acquired one, makes life more happy," says Mar- 
 tial, but not wisely; and no young man should believe 
 him. 
 
 The Lord Chief Justice Kenyon once said to a rich 
 friend asking his opinion as to the probable success of a 
 son, " Sir, let your son forthwith spe/^l his fortune ; 
 marry, and spend his wife's ; and then he may be ex- 
 pected to apply with energy to his profession." 
 
 In your case I have no doubts, but such as arise from 
 my having observed that, perhaps, you sometimes may 
 have relied rather too much on the quickness of your 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 33 
 
 talents, and too little on diligent study. Pardon me for 
 owning this, and attribute my frankness to my regard. 
 
 It is unfortunate when a man's intellectual and his 
 moral character are not suited to each other. The horses 
 in a carriage should go the same pace and draw in the 
 same direction, or the motion will be neither pleasant 
 nor safe. 
 
 Bonaparte has remarked of one of his marshals, " that 
 he had a military genius, but had not intrepidity enough 
 in the field to execute his own plans ;" and of another he 
 He is as brave as his sword, but he wants judg- 
 ment and resources ; neither," he added, " is to be trusted 
 with a great command." 
 
 This want of harmony between the talents and the 
 temperament is often found in private life ; and, wherever 
 found, it is the fruitful source of faults and sufferings. 
 Perhaps there are few less happy than those who are 
 ambitious without industry ; who pant for the prize, but 
 will not run the race ; who thirst for truth, but are too 
 slothful to draw it up from the well. 
 
 Now this defect, whether arising from indolence or 
 from timidity, is far from being incurable. It may, at 
 least in part, be remedied by frequently reflecting on the 
 endless encouragements to exertion held out by our own 
 experience and by example. 
 
 " C'est des difficultts que naissent les miracles."* 
 
 It is not every calamity that is a curse, and early ad- 
 versity especially is often a blessing. Perhaps Madame 
 
 * Difficulties give rise to miracles. 
 
34 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 de Maintenon would never have mounted a throne had 
 not her cradle been rocked in a prison. Surmounted 
 obstacles not only teach, but hearten us in our future 
 struggles ; for virtue must be learnt, though unfortunately 
 some of the vices come, as it were, by inspiration. The 
 austerities of our northern climate are thought to be the 
 cause of our abundant comforts ; as our wintry nights 
 and our stormy seas have given us a race of seamen, 
 perhaps unequalled, and certainly not surpassed by any 
 in the world. 
 
 " Mother," said a Spartan lad going to battle, " my 
 sword is too short." " Add a step to it," she replied ; 
 but it must be owned that this advice was to be given 
 only to a Spartan boy. They should not be thrown into 
 the water who cannot swim I know your buoyancy, 
 and I have no fears of your being drowned. 
 
 
 
LETTERS AIS'D ESSAYS. 35 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Fredley Farm, August 3, 1806. 
 
 You should not listen to ****, but prefer, without 
 hesitation, a life of energy to a life of inaction. There 
 are always kind friends enough ready to preach up cau- 
 tion and delay, &c. &c. Yet it is impossible to lay 
 down any general rules of a prudential kind. Every 
 case must be judged of after a careful review of all its 
 circumstances ; for if one, only one, can be overlooked, 
 the decision may be injurious or fatal. Thus there ever 
 will be many conflicting reasons for and against a spirit 
 of enterprise and a habit of caution. 
 
 Those who advise others to withstand the temptations 
 of hope will always appear to be wiser than they really 
 are ; for how often can it be made certain that the rejected 
 and untried hazard would have been successful ? Be- 
 sides, those who dissuade us from action have corrupt 
 but powerful allies in our indolence, irresolution, and 
 cowardice. To despond is very easy, but it requires 
 works as well as faith to engage successfully in a difficult 
 undertaking. 
 
 There are, however, few difficulties that hold out 
 against real attacks ; they fly, like the visible horizon, 
 before those who advance. A passionate desire and an 
 unwearied will can perform impossibilities, or what seem 
 to be such to the cold and the feeble. If we do but go 
 on, some unseen path will open among the hills. 
 
36 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 We must not allow ourselves to be discouraged by the 
 apparent disproportion between the result -of single efforts 
 and the magnitude of the obstacles to be encountered. 
 Nothing good nor great is to be obtained without courage 
 and industry ; but courage and industry must have sunk 
 in despair, and the world must have remained unorna- 
 mentcd and unimproved, if men had nicely compared the 
 effect of a single stroke of the chisel with the pyramid to 
 be raised, or of a single impression of the spade with the 
 mountain to be leveled. 
 
 All exertion too is in itself delightful, and a 
 amusements seldom tire us. Helvctius owns that he 
 could hardly listen to a concert for two hours, though 
 he could play on an instrument all day long. The 
 chase, we know, haa always been the favourite amuse- 
 ment of kings and nobles. Not only fame and fortune, 
 but pleasure is to be earned. 
 
 Efforts, it must not be forgotten, are as indispensable 
 as desires. The globe is not to be circumnavigat* 
 one wind. We should never do nothing. " It is ! 
 to wear out than to rust out," says Bishop Cumberland. 
 " There will be time enough for repose in the ^ 
 said Nicole to Pascal. In truth, the proper rest for man 
 is change of occupation. 
 
 As a young man, you should be mindful of the un- 
 gpeakable importance of early industry, since in youth 
 habits are easily formed, and there is time to n 
 from defeats. An Italian sonnet justly, as well as ele- 
 gantly, compares procrastination to the folly of a travel- 
 ler who pursues a brook till it widens into a river and is 
 lost in the sea. The toils as well as risks of an active 
 life are commonly overrated, so much may be done by 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 37 
 
 the diligent use of ordinary opportunities ; but they must 
 not always be waited for. We must not only strike the 
 iron while it is hot, but strike it till " it is made hot." 
 Herschel, the great astronomer, declares that ninety or 
 one hundred hours, clear enough for observations, cannot 
 be called an unproductive year. 
 
 The lazy, the dissipated, and the fearful, should pa- 
 tiently see the active and the bold pass them in the 
 course. They must bring down their pretensions to the 
 level of their talents. Those who have not energy to 
 work must learu to be humble, and should not vainly 
 hope to unite the incompatible enjoyments of indolence 
 and enterprise, of ambition and self-indulgence. I trust 
 that my young friend will never attempt to reconcile 
 them. 
 
38 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 London, February 4, 1808. 
 
 I am glad to hear of your gaining the prize ; and, to 
 say the truth, I am better pleased that you owe it to 
 your proficiency in Latin prose than in Latin 
 Not that I think, as many do, that too much time is 
 spent at our great schools in the latter, but it ap}>' 
 me that too little time is given to the former. 
 
 Considering that the Roman language is not only th;it 
 of the classical writers, but, formerly, was that of law and 
 of philosophy, it is plain that the motives are many and 
 strong for attaining an habitual facility of understanding 
 the tongue wherein such inestimable works have been 
 written. Perhaps, too, the practice of writing is indis- 
 pensable as the preparation for reading without difficulty. 
 
 Yet I desire that you should not misunderstand me. 
 It is neither my intention nor my wish to undervalue 
 poetry, nor even the custom of making verses in a living 
 or a dead language. I do not know any means 
 coming so intimately acquainted with the powers of a 
 language as by composing verses. The restraints of 
 metre, and the necessity of selecting expressions that are 
 not only clear but elegant, compel an author to vary and 
 enrich his phraseology by every allowable idiom. No ! 
 not one even of the abstrusest sciences calls for more 
 severe attention, nor more subtle distinctions ; and surely 
 none requires the fancy and the feeling, without which 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 39 
 
 verse is of so little worth that it is not sterling, but 
 merely a kind of plated prose. Do not think, therefore, 
 that you are wasting your time in the exercises demanded 
 of you at college, although you are intended for a grave 
 and laborious profession, busied in the noisy highways 
 of real life, and leading far away from the quiet field- 
 paths of literature and philosophy. 
 
 To talk to you about the high rank or the principh -s 
 of poetry is quite needless. No subject has been treated 
 of by abler writers. Yet, as you wish to recall some 
 parts of our last long conversation, I will again mention 
 a short forgotten passage of an author, who was made 
 ridiculous by the humorous attacks of Swift and Pope. 
 Dennis says, somewhere, of poetry, " It should be sim- 
 ''nsufjus-, and passionate" 
 
 Perhaps the word " sensuous" is not sufficiently author- 
 i'Ut, no matter! you will not find elsewhere so 
 brief and so complete an enumeration of the chief quali- 
 ties in the noblest art.* 
 
 * Note, 1834. In Gray's Common-place-book is the fol- 
 lowing striking passage : " In former times, they loved, 
 I will not say tediousness, but length, and a train of cir- 
 cumstances, in a narration. The vulgar do so still : it 
 gives an air of reality to the facts, it fixes the attention, 
 raises and keeps in suspense their expectation, and sup- 
 plies the place of their little and lifeless imagination ; and 
 it keeps pace with the slow motion of their own thoughts. 
 Tell them a story as you would to a man of wit : it will 
 appear to them as an object seen in tho night by a flash 
 of lightning : but when you have placed it in various 
 lights, and various positions, they will corne at last to see 
 and feel it as well as others. But we need not confine 
 ourselves to the vulgar, and to understandings beneath our 
 awn. Circumstance ever was and ever will be the essence 
 both of poetry and oratory. It has in some sort the same 
 
40 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 There are also in Priestley's Lectures on Oratory some 
 excellent remarks, beginning thus : " In order thoroughly 
 to interest a reader, it is of singular advantage to be very 
 circumstantial, and to introduce as many sensible images 
 as possible." 
 
 Your own memory cannot fail to suggest many proofs 
 of this maxim ; but I must warn you not to fall into the 
 common error of supposing that sensible images mean 
 allusions to the object of sight only. Voltaire u 
 far as to say, "Every metaphor should be an imairr 
 which can be painted. This is a rule which admits of 
 no exception." Pope seems to have been mi>l 
 often in the choice of epithets by this mistake. One 
 instance you may remember my noticing, where he thus 
 renders a line in the first book of the Iliad 
 
 u Then in the sheath returned the A/n*n^blaiU'." 
 
 which Dryden had translated far more spiritedly and 
 more characteristically of the impetuous hero 
 
 And in the sheath reluctant plunged the blade :" 
 
 Do you not hear the hilt ring against the cover ' 
 
 L-t me mention, in an instance of a touching allusion 
 to another sense, a couplet of a celebrated living poet 
 describing some children at play among the tombs 
 
 effect upon every mind that it has upon that of the popu- 
 lace ; and I fear the quickness and delicate impatience of 
 these polished times are but the forerunners of the de- 
 cline of all those beautiful arts which depend upon the 
 imagination * * * * * Homer, the father of Circum- 
 stance, has occasion for the same apology." 
 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 41 
 
 M Alas ! unconscious of the kindred earth, 
 That faintly echoed to the voice of mirth/' 
 
 Take, too, a whole stanza from the "Annus Mirabilis," 
 chiefly for the sake of one little word 
 
 " As those who unripe veins in mines explore, 
 
 On the rich bed again the -warm turf lay, 
 (Till Time digests the yet imperfect ore,) 
 Knowing it will be gold another day." 
 
 The word " passionate" needs no explanation ; but you 
 must not forget poetry should be " simple," and though 
 it must be allowed to magnify its objects and to brighten 
 their colours, it ought not to change their forms and pro. 
 portions. It may exaggerate, but must not distort. 
 
 This warning is much needed ; for, of the three quali- 
 ties, simplicity is most frequently forgotten by the writer, 
 though not by the reader. It is easier, you know, to 
 make a Venus fine than beautiful. 
 
 Ambitious but feeble writers in prose and in verse are 
 often hyperbolical, and for the sake of being thought 
 imaginative/' pour forth redundant and inconsistent 
 metaphors ; though such extravagance is scarcely less 
 opposed than weakness is to sublimity ; as exaggeration is 
 a more mischievous enemy to truth than contradiction. 
 
 Mixed metaphors are a sure proof of a feeble imagina- 
 tion, since a distinct and vivid conception of one image 
 cannot be confused with another ; a simile beginning 
 with a fire could not end in a flood. 
 
 There is another kind of offence against simplicity 
 which should be shunned: though it occurs often in 
 4* 
 
 
42 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 Johnson, and though the abstract terms, affected by him, 
 give a kind of false pomp to the style, assuming the air 
 of personification. He thus commences his imitation of 
 the Tenth Satire of Juvenal 
 
 " Let observation, with extensive view, 
 Survey mankind from China to Peru/ 
 
 Dryden and Pope would have been satisfied with tin 
 second line, and would have avoided both the tautology 
 and pomposity of the first. 
 
 Cowper has committed the same fault when he ex- 
 claims 
 
 < )h ! for a lodge in some vast wilderness ! 
 Some boundless contiguity of shade!" 
 
 He should have stopped at the end of the iir>t In 
 it he wished to dwell on the intensity of the retirement. 
 he should have rejected the swollen word " nuniLMiity." 
 Even " some boundless and impenetrable shade" would 
 have been better. 
 
 All affectation and appearance of effort are as disagree- 
 able in poetry as insipidity, though that is certainly the 
 sin (never to be forgiven) against its spirit Its cha- 
 racter, its very essence, being to give pleasure, all its 
 .-uhordinate qualities must be estimated in subservient 
 to this necessity. Thus it is requisite that the diction 
 should not only be perspicuous, and select, and animated. 
 but also melodious ; and, when we talk of poetical prose, 
 we mean that some of the other excellences of poetry 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 43 
 
 are there ; but it is implied that one great beauty is 
 absent, the music of the metre 
 
 " Et vera incessu patuit Dea. v * 
 
 Luckily for me, though verse is obliged to be enter- 
 taining, a letter is not ; for it may be both long and dull, 
 if sent in the hope of doing service, and when the writer 
 can truly subscribe himself, as I do now, 
 
 "Affectionately yours." 
 
 * And the true goddess was discovered by her gait. 
 
 
44 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 22d May, 1809. 
 
 " lo ti vedo" You are found out. It is easy to see, 
 through all your letters, that the hot verse-fit of tlu 
 intermittent is strong upon you ; else you would not be 
 so importunate for my counsel. Under the pretext of 
 seeking advice, you indulge your love by talking about 
 its object 
 
 Your self-distrust is a good symptom. Very few can 
 be eminent in the most delightful and difficult of all arts ; 
 and none, who are well satisfied with themselves, can In- 
 expected to satisfy others. 
 
 I should not be your friend if I did not dissuade 
 from making the inevitable sacrifice of all other pursuit - 
 to the " idle trade " 
 
 44 Where once such fairies dance no grass doth grow." 
 
 Yet I have encouraged your trying to bend the bow 
 of Ulysses, for better reasons than because I hoped yu 
 to perform a miracle impossible to any but the inspired. 
 
 Patient study is requisite; but, the more I think, tin- 
 more am I convinced that in poetry an irresistible and 
 peculiar genius is indispensable. In this art an indusm 
 that never sleeps can do much; but gifts, natural crin-. 
 can do much more. A little difference in native genius. 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 45 
 
 when augmented by practice, is like a small superiority 
 in the first number of a geometrical series. 
 
 I will not say the same of any other intellectual effort ; 
 but in writing verse the first thoughts should always be 
 ivsjurted, perhaps preferred. 
 
 You beg for more instances to explain a remark in my 
 last letter. They are found to be in every page of your 
 Homer. Perhaps circumstantiality is the chief distinction 
 between Greek and Latin poetry ; between first and 
 second-rate excellence. Dante and Shakspeare also 
 abound in particulars drawn from every sense. 
 
 I am inclined to think as you do of Dryden and Pope. 
 The former seldom seems to do his very best; the latter 
 always. Of course the reader ranks Dryden above his 
 works, but not so as to Pope. Yet, to be honest, let me 
 ask who does not read the latter verses most frequently . 
 and remember them better too 1 Indeed we have them 
 by heart. 
 
 As to the imitative words that you speak of, you need 
 not trouble yourself about them. " Suiting the sound 
 t< the sense" has another and a better meaning, but 
 it will seldom be graceful unless unsought. Milton is 
 very happy, or very skilful, in this flow of metre har- 
 monising with the sentiment and the description. Thus 
 Satan 
 
 Throws his steep flight in man? an aery whirl." 
 
 " Lights on his feet, as when a prowling wolf 
 Leaps o'er the fence with ease Into the fold." 
 
 " Sin towards the gate rolling her bestial train." 
 
 
46 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 " Celestial voices to the midnight air 
 Sole, or responsive to each other's notes." 
 
 For these, and indeed for all the beauties of poetry, 
 believe me, that it is safer to trust to one's unconscious 
 and unaffected habits of thinking and feeling, than to the 
 best rules gathered even froa the greatest examples. 
 Such habits are the last result of all our mental associa- 
 tions. No maxims can be subtle nor compnh< n>i\r 
 enough to guide invention. 
 
 In spite of the critics, the general favourites have e\vr 
 been those who excel rather in spirit and variety, than 
 in elaborate execution; though, in the rare in- 
 where both unite, the poet is worshipped, and the work 
 immortal. 
 
 ( Jray, it must be owned, is a consummate workman in 
 every respect, but in failing to preserve that bewitching 
 air of freedom and facility for whose absence then 
 full compensation. 
 
 There is something similar to this in our hand-writing. 
 A painted letter, as it is called, can never be taken for 
 one flowing from the first stroke of the pen. This 
 opinion, notwithstanding, should not hinder previous 
 study and much practice ; since it relates only to the 
 moment of actual composition. " You charge me fifty 
 sequins," said a Venitian nobleman to a sculptor, " for a 
 bust that cost you only ten (Jays' labour." " You forget," 
 replied the artist, * that I have been thirty years learning 
 to make that bust in ten days." 
 
 Of merely verbal figures little needs be said, though 
 the ablest writers (Cicero especially) use them freely. 
 
 You were struck, I remember, by old Lydgate's daring 
 repetition of one word, in speaking of a child 
 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 47 
 
 " Fair is not fair enough for one so fair." 
 
 Such forms of speech are displeasing when they are 
 evidently contrived, though they add both force and 
 elegance when they present themselves to the mind. It 
 sometimes happens that a perfect symmetry, a formality 
 in the phrase, a daring metaphor, an hyperbole, are the 
 most natural and proper expression of the thought or 
 sentiment. " The more vigorous, the more beautiful/' 
 These beauties should be neither sought nor shunned. 
 
 Indeed too much anxiety about expression defeats 
 itself. It may as well be expected that a dancer always 
 thinking of the five positions should move with ease and 
 grace, as that an author should write agreeably, who is 
 fettered by habitual self-criticism. It is no paradox to 
 say that the perfection of style is to have none, but to 
 let the words be suggested by the sentiments, unchecked 
 by the monotony of a manner and untainted by af- 
 fectation. 
 
 
48 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 TO A LAW STUDENT. 
 
 June, 1817. 
 
 So you have been several times in the gallery of the 
 house of commons, and were both delighted and disap- 
 pointed. This is just what I expected. Judging of the 
 speakers by a preconception of the possibilities of the art, 
 they are found wanting ; but comparing them will; 
 other, the differences in merit are extreme. 
 
 With your expectations raised by reading Demost i i 
 and Cicero, and by the warmth of party praise, what 
 wonder that, at first, even the very best were not equal to 
 your anticipation? 
 
 You need not to he told that the general principles of 
 any art must be modified so as to suit the maxim 
 the habits of the assembly, where they are to be put in 
 practice. 
 
 The house of commons is so different a body in its 
 construction and its purposes from any, either ancient or 
 modern, that its idioms, both of thought and of language, 
 must be caught before a man can talk in such a manner 
 as to be liked, or even understood. 
 
 It is a place of serious business; and all ostentation, 
 if perceptible, is ridiculous. Perhaps one or two indi- 
 viduals may be tolerated and allowed to amuse, merely 
 by ornament, or by wit and humour ; but an attempt to 
 succeed in this way is ruinous to a new member. It is 
 unfortunately necessary to have something to say, and 
 
 
LETTERS A^D ESSAYS. 49 
 
 facts or striking arguments the house will always listen 
 to, though delivered in any terms, however homely, or 
 with any accent, however provincial. Speeches also for 
 constituents are heard with indulgence, if not too fre- 
 quent, nor too long : hut debate, real debate, is the cha- 
 racteristical eloquence of the house; and be assured 
 that the India-House, a vestry, a committee, and other 
 meetings of business, are far better preparatory schools 
 for parliament than debating societies are. In these latter 
 self-possession and fluency may be learnt ; but vicious 
 habits of declamation, and of hunting for applnuse, are 
 too often formed. I remember boin? told, that in the 
 first meetings of a society at a public school, two or 
 three evenings were consumed in debating whether the 
 floor should be covered with a sail-cloth or a carpet ; and 
 I have no doubt that better practice was gained in these 
 important discussions, than in those that soon followed 
 on liberty, slavery, passive obedience, and tyrannicide. 
 It has been truly said, that nothing is so unlike a battle 
 as a review. 
 
 As an illustration of this spirit of serious business, I 
 must mention a quality, which, presupposing great 
 talents and great knowledge, must always be uncommon ; 
 but which makes an irresistible impression on a public 
 assembly of educated men. I mean the merit of stating 
 the question in debate fairly ; and I mean it as an 
 oratorical, and not merely as a moral, superiority. Any 
 audience, but especially an educated and impatient 
 audience, listens with a totally different kind and degree 
 of attention to a speaker of this character, and to one, 
 who, tempted by the dangerous facility of a feebler 
 5 
 
 
50 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 practice, either alters, or weakens, or exaggerate.- 
 language and sentiments of his adversary. 
 
 Mr Fox was an illustrious example of this hon< 
 best, and bravest manner: nay, sometimes he stated the 
 arguments of his opponents so advantageously, that his 
 friends have been alarmed lest he should fail to answer 
 them. His great rival formerly, and another accorn- 
 [)lish(>d orator now living, have seldom ventim 
 this hazardous candour. In truth, the last mentioned 
 possesses too many talents; for betrayed !>y his singular 
 i of declamation and of sarcasm, he often produces 
 more admiration than conviction, and rarely dclh. 
 important speech without making an enemy for life. 
 Had he been a less man he would be a greater speaker. 
 and a better leader in a popular assembly. 
 
 This tiood f;,ith in controversy not only manifests, 
 but nourishes also another great oratorical excellence, 
 a hearty love of the subject and a deep sense of the public 
 weliare. prevailing over that self-regard and de-ire of 
 victory, inseparable, in some degree, from the infirmity 
 of human nature. 
 
 It 18 not without some mis^i\inu r that I perceive with 
 how much more interest you talk of parliament than of 
 chancery. It is very usual and very natural to prefer 
 the former. Let me entreat you to consider well. I ha\e 
 heard one of the ablest and most efficient men in this 
 country (actually at the time the chosen leader of the < )p- 
 position, enjoying the fame of such a station, and looking 
 forwards, doubtless, to high office) own, more than once, 
 with much emotion, that he had made a fatal mistake in 
 preferring parliament to the bar. At the bar he well 
 knew that he must have risen to opulence and to rank, 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 51 
 
 and he bitterly regretted having forsaken his lawful wife, 
 the profession, for that fascinating but impoverishing 
 harlot, politics. 
 
 If you should abandon your Penelope and your home 
 for Calypso, remember that I told you of the advice 
 given, in my hearing, at different times to a young 
 lawyer, by Mr. Windham, and by Mr Home Tooke not 
 to look for a seat till he had pretensions to be made 
 solicitor-general. 
 
 Yours is so laborious a calling, and your competitors 
 
 many and so keen, that not only ambition but 
 
 .-lent tempts many to quit the Inns of Court ; ami 
 
 known several very able young men drawn aside 
 
 by making a single continental tour, during the long 
 
 ;.n. A passion for traveling has overcome both 
 
 prudence and the love of distinction. 
 
 You will now understand why I was glad to hear 
 that you are going, with your sisters, no farther than 
 to Brighton. There Coke and Blackstone will help you 
 profitably (and why not pleasantly?) through the hot 
 hours in the middle of the day ; and if you should take 
 the siesta, you will dream of being Lord Chancellor or 
 Lord Chief Justice. 
 
 
52 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 2J December, 1817. 
 
 If your low spirits arise from bodily illness (as is often 
 the case), you must consult Dr. Baillie. I can do nothing 
 for you. Perhaps you should fast a little, and walk, and 
 ride. But if they are caused by disappointment, by 
 impatience, or by calamity, you can do much for your- 
 self. The well-known, worn out topics of consolation 
 and of encouragement are become trite, because they are 
 reasonable, and you will soon be cured, if you steadily 
 persevere in a course of moral alteratives. 
 
 You have no right to be dispirited, possessing as you 
 do all that one of the greatest, as well as oldest sages 
 has declared to be the only requisites for happiness a 
 pound mind, a sound body, and a competence. 
 
 An anxious, restless temper, that runs to meet care on 
 Its Way, that rejre** lot opportunities too much, and 
 that is over-pains-taking in contrivances for happine??,- ' 
 foolish, and should not be indulged. " One ought to be 
 happy without thinking too much about it." 
 
 If you cannot be happy in one way, be happy in ano- 
 ther ; and this facility of disposition wants but little aid 
 from philosophy, for health and good-humour are almost 
 the whole affair. Many run about after felicity, like an 
 absent man hunting for his hat, while it is on his head, 
 or in his hand. 
 
 Though sometimes small evils, like invisible insects. 
 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 53 
 
 inflict great pain, yet the chief secret of comfort lies in 
 not suffering trifles to vex one, and in prudently cultivat- 
 ing an under-growth of small pleasures, since very teu 
 great ones, alas ! are let on long leases. 
 
 I cannot help seeing that you are dissatisfied with 
 your occupation, and that you think yourself unlucky in 
 l>een destined to take it up, before you were old 
 enough to choose for yourself. Do not Ix; too sure that 
 you would have chosen well. I somewhere met with an 
 observation, which, being true, is important that in a 
 masquerade, where people assume what characters they 
 like, "how ill they often play them !" Many par 
 probably preferred for the sake of the dress ; and do not 
 many young men enter into the navy or army, that they 
 may wear a sword and a handsome uniform, and be ac- 
 ceptable partners at a ball ? Vanity is hard-hearted, and 
 
 upon wealth, rank, and admiration. EN 
 great a man as Prince Eugene owned (after gaining a 
 useless victory) that "on travaille trop pour la Gazette.' 7 
 Such objects or pursuits are losing their value every day, 
 and you must have observed that rank gives now but 
 little precedence, except in a procession. 
 
 But I am really ashamed even to hint at such endless 
 and obvious commonplaces, and I shall only repeat the 
 remark, which seems to have struck you that in all the 
 professions, high stations seem to have come down to us, 
 rather than that we have got up to them. 
 
 But you, forsooth, are too sensible to be ambitious ; 
 and you are, perhaps, only disheartened by some unfore- 
 seen obstacles to reasonable desires. Be it so ! but this 
 will not justify, nor even excuse, dejection. Untoward 
 accidents will sometimes happen ; but, after many, many 
 5* 
 
 
54 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 years of thoughtful experience, I can truly say, that 
 nearly all those, who began life with me, have succeed- 
 ed, or failed as they deserved. " Faber quisque fortunes 
 propriffi." [Each one the architect of his own fortune.] 
 
 Ill fortune at your age is often good for us, both in 
 teaching and in bracing the mind ; and even in our later 
 days it may often be turned to advantage, or overcome. 
 Besides, trifling precautions will often prevent great mis- 
 chiefs ; as a slight turn of the wrist parries a mortal 
 thrust. 
 
 Forgive me for talking in this lecturing manner. Am 
 I doing you wrong ? Am I, unawares, increasing the 
 uneasiness that I am most anxious to dispel? I am 
 not without some fear that I am galling the wound 
 which I wish to heal. Once more, forgive me ; and be 
 assured that I am, 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 55 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 January 7, 1818. 
 
 I certainly did not wish that you should starve your- 
 self, or run about, like a penny postman, either on foot, 
 or on horseback ; for moderation is not only the law of 
 enjoyment, but of wholesome labour too. 
 
 You have begun to adopt new habits with the zeal 
 of a repentant convert, and, as you have great speed, it 
 is of consequence that you should travel in the right 
 road. 
 
 I rejoice to hear that you have already subdued and 
 cast out the blue devils that beset you. Some men are 
 possessed by another, and a more dangerous kind, which 
 enter the voluptuous, the vain, the idle, and the unprin- 
 cipled ; but they must be exorcised by stronger forms of 
 incantation, and you are not likely to be assaulted by 
 such evil spirits. A German says, that " Luther knew 
 what he was about when he threw his ink-stand at Sa- 
 tan's head, for there is nothing the devil hates like ink." 
 
 You are luckily not framed for idleness, and you are 
 therefore in no danger of being led aside from the short- 
 est, the safest, and the pleasantest path to happiness, 
 which, you may be sure, is soonest found by those that 
 live a life of action and of duty. This is almost preach- 
 ing, I know, " mais c'est jour de sermon," for you have 
 teased me into mounting the pulpit ; sit down, therefore, 
 and hear me patiently. The discourse shall be very short, 
 
 
56 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 and you must not attribute my advice to self-sufficiency, 
 for it is often founded on my own past mistakes. 
 
 It would be needless to repeat what I wrote, long since, 
 to a friend of yours and mine, since you have read those 
 letters recommending industry and perseverance ; yet I 
 ought to confess that though you may look to your un- 
 derstanding for amusement, it is to the affections that we 
 must trust for happiness. These imply a spirit of self- 
 sacrifice; and often our virtues, like our children, are 
 endeared to us by what we suffer for them. Cons< 
 even when it fails to govern our conduct, can disturb our 
 peace of mind. Yes ! it is neither paradoxical, nor merely 
 poetical, to say 
 
 That seeking others' good, we find our own." 
 
 This solid, yet romantic maiim, is found in no lees a 
 writer than Plato ; who, sometimes, in his moral 1< 
 as well as in his theological, is almost, though not alto- 
 gether, a Christian. 
 
 But this truth does not stand in need of support tV..m 
 authority. The days and nights of every tender i 
 abound with instances of this encouraging fact, she 
 will not only endure any toil, but brave any danger, for 
 the sake of her helpless child 
 
 " Oh ! femmes c'est a tort qu'on vous nomme timides, 
 A la voix de vos coeurs vous eles intrepides."* 
 
 No ! human nature is not so wholly selfish as it is repre- 
 sented by Rochefoucault and by Swift. 
 
 * Oh I woman, it is wrong to call you timid : at the 
 voice of your hearts, you are intrepid. 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 57 
 
 Satirical writers and talkers are not half so clever as 
 they think themselves, nor as they are thought to be. 
 They do winnow the corn, 'tis true, but 'tis to feed upon 
 the chalf. 
 
 I am sorry to add that they who are always speaking 
 ill of others, are also very apt to be doing ill to them. 
 
 It requires some talent and some generosity to find out 
 talent and generosity in others, though nothing but self- 
 conceit and malice are needed to discover, or to imagine 
 faults. It is much easier for an ill-natured than for a 
 good-natured man to be smart and witty 
 
 ' Did he not speak ill of others, 
 None would ever speak of him." 
 
 The most gifted men that I have known have been 
 the least addicted to depreciate either friends or foes. 
 Dr. Johnson, Mr. Burke, and Mr. Fox, were always 
 more inclined to overrate them. Your shrewd, sly, evil- 
 speaking fellow is generally a shallow personage, and, 
 frequently, he is as venomous and as false when he flat- 
 ters, as when he reviles, he seldom praises John but to 
 vex Thomas. 
 
 Do not, pray do not ! " sit in the seat of the scorneT," 
 whose nature it is to sneer at every thing but impudent 
 vice, and successful crime. By these he is generally 
 awed and silenced. 
 
 Are these poor heartless creatures to be envied 1 Can 
 you think that the Due de Richelieu was a happier man 
 than Fenelon 1 or Dean Swift than Bishop Berkeley ? 
 You know better. You are not accustomed to turn the 
 tapestry that you may look at the wrong side. 
 
58 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 January, 22, 1818. 
 
 You are audience enough for me. I would rather he 
 of some service to you than harangut ly at a 
 
 public meeting, as multitudinous as that which 
 tended the other day at Freemasons' Hall. 
 
 You travel very fast in imagination : you have a long 
 sight, and see the road a long way before you. That 
 exquisite dialogue, " De Senectute," seems to have made 
 you wish to be, at once, as old as Cato, that you may 
 enjoy his pleasures and exhibit his skill in the best of all 
 arts, the art of living. 
 
 Do not wait, however; but, as you run along, snatch 
 at every fruit and every flower growing within your 
 reach ; for, after all that can be said, youth, the age of 
 hope and admiration, and manhood, the age of business 
 and of influence, are to be preferred to the period of ex- 
 tinguished passions and languid curiosity. At that sea- 
 son our hopes and wishes must have been too long drop- 
 ping, leaf by leaf, away. The last scenes of the fifth act 
 are seldom the most interesting either in a tragedy or a 
 comedy. Yet many compensations arise as our 
 hility decays. 
 
 " Time steals away the rose 'tis true, 
 But then the thorn is blunted too." 
 
 Though I like much better than these humili 
 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 59 
 
 thoughts the spirit of Montaigne's sturdy determination, 
 " Les ans peuvent m'entrainer, mais & rculons !" 
 
 On this subject I have read a letter written by a dis- 
 tinguished clergyman, from which I send you an extract 
 
 " Certainly, if a man loses his leg, he need not fear 
 corns. As to the abstract question of boyish or manly 
 happiness, I own I think differently of it according to 
 the temper I am in, or (after the French philosophers) 
 according to the state of my digestion. 
 
 " I have no recollection in my boyish days of quiet 
 happiness, but of many fears, perturbations, &c., and a 
 continual longing for the dignity and the independence 
 of the manly state. Now that I am a man, and vergim; 
 towards an old one, I find my vessel suffers but little 
 from the short gusts and ripplings of the passions ; but 
 is borne along under a tattered sail by the steady trade- 
 wind of solicitude. When I was a boy, my pleasures 
 ami cares \ven- .-elfish ; now I care and think more for 
 others than for myself. Here I exult in some little ad- 
 r/e from the comparison; and yet, after all, the pro- 
 spect is the chief subject of comparison. That of a boy 
 is full of change and novelty. That of an elderly man 
 admits of little variety and no novelty, but the great one 
 of all a new existence ! The conclusion of this long 
 sermon is, that a thoughtful boy may be happy without 
 religion, but a thoughtful man cannot." 
 
 I can add nothing to this worth your reading, so fare- 
 well ! and may you live long enough to feel that the 
 writer has not overrated the delights of an old man in 
 looking forward to a better world ! 
 
 
60 
 
 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 November 8, 1819. 
 
 You are desirous, I see, that I should not fancy my 
 letters are tiresome ; and I, therefore, once more assure 
 you that our correspondence cannot be irksome to me so 
 loner M I ran hope that it may be serviceable to you. 
 
 Of one thing pray be certain, that every person should 
 
 retain the indisputable right of following or disregarding 
 
 advice ; inasmuch as a man himself must be far better 
 
 acquainted than another can be, with his own inmost 
 
 and rr;il capabilities. 
 
 It is at once an odious and a ridiculous kind of tyranny 
 to take it ill of a friend that he judges for himself in the 
 last resort. " Ah ! if he bad hut followed my advice." 
 14 1 told him what must happen," and all such betrayings 
 of wounded vanity, are proofs that good sense and good 
 will have both been wanting. 
 
 Indeed, if a selfish and conceited man's object is to 
 gain a character for sagacity, he should be glad wh< -n his 
 counsel ha* been disregarded. Human life is so liable 
 to unforeseen troubles, that, whatsoevr iay be 
 
 pursued, we shall often regret the lot that we have 
 chosen. As a bachelor I can be no judge of a known 
 saying, " If you marry, or if you do not marry, you will 
 repent" But this will serve as a specimen of the gene- 
 ral language. Herein, however, we must avoid the op- 
 posite and prevailing evil practice of asking advice for 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS, 6 1 
 
 the sake only of stealing a sanction, or a help to our own 
 predeterminations. I was sincerely pleased by the frank- 
 ness of a young lady, who, being urged to consult me re- 
 specting an ofter of marriage, replied, " Why should I 
 wait 1 My mind is made up, and I will not use an old 
 friend so ill as to trouble him for advice which I shall 
 not be guided by." 
 
 It would not be easy to mention any habit more per- 
 nicious than that of listening or reading with a secret 
 resolve to reject, or to elude every opinion that does not 
 suit our own inclinations. Immediate obedience should 
 follow the decisions of the understanding and the stimu- 
 lus of benevolent emotions. One of the most serious ob- 
 jections to pathetic works of iiction is that they tend to 
 create a habit of feeling pity or indignation without actu- 
 ally relieving distress or resisting oppression. 
 
 Oh ! it is very easy to cherish, like Sterne, the sensi- 
 bilities that lead to no sacrifices and to no inconvenience* 
 Most of those that are so vain of their fine feelings are 
 persons loving themselves very dearly, and having a vio- 
 lent regard for their fellow creatures in general, though 
 caring little or nothing for the individuals about them. 
 Of sighs and tears they are profuse, but niggardly of their 
 money and their time. Montaigne speaks of a man as 
 extraordinary, " who has super-celestial opinions, without 
 having subterranean habits." In Butler's profound dis- 
 courses, and in a sermon of Priestly " on the duty of not 
 living to ourselves," these counterfeits of sterling benevo- 
 lence are well detected and exposed. 
 
 Nearly akin to this habit of taking advice without fol- 
 lowing it, and of dissevering action from sympathy, is 
 the practice of the irresolute in deliberating without de- 
 6 
 
 
62 LETTERS AND ESSAYS- 
 
 ciding, " What I cannot resolve upon in half an hour," 
 said the Due de Guise, " I cannot resolve upon at all." 
 In the Memoirs of the Cardinal du Retz, you will find 
 many amusing and instructive instances of the conspira- 
 tors shrinking from the painful necessity of decision. 
 
 It is unwholesome as well as unpleasant to stand 
 shivering on the brink of a cold bath I am glad that 
 you have plunged. Don't you feel a glow of self-satis- 
 faction when you put on your gown and wig ] Some- 
 body says, Sweet is the sleep that follows suspense." 
 Now that you have actually been called, I need not say 
 Good night" 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 TO SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH. 
 
 Fredley, 10th September, 1812. 
 
 I do not wonder that you should be embarrassed and 
 delayed by the extreme difficulty of giving a narrative 
 form to the materials collected, and to the reflections that 
 must have occurred to a man of your philosophical turn. 
 
 As we walked up Kirkston some weeks ago, you will 
 perhaps recollect that I quoted imperfectly (what I shall 
 now copy) a passage from Hobbes's remarkable preface 
 to his translation of Thucydides. 
 
 " The principal and proper work of history being to 
 instruct, and enable men by the knowledge of actions 
 past to bear themselves prudently in the present, and pro- 
 vidently towards the future, there is not extant any oiher 
 (merely human) that doth more fully and naturally per- 
 form it than this of my author. It is true, that there be 
 in.i ny excellent and profitable histories written since ; 
 and in some of them, there be inserted very wise dis- 
 courses both of manners and policy ; but being discourses 
 inserted, and not of the contexture of the narration, they 
 indeed commend the knowledge of the writer, but not 
 the history itself; the nature whereof is merely narrative. 
 In others, there be subtile conjectures at the secret aims 
 and inward cogitations of such as fall under their pen ; 
 which is also none of the least virtues in a history, where 
 the conjecture is thoroughly grounded, not forced to serve 
 the purpose of the writer in adorning his style: or mani- 
 
64 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 festing his subtilty in conjecturing. But these conjec- 
 tures cannot often be certain, unless withal so evident 
 that the narration itself may be sufficient to suggest the 
 same also to the reader. But THUCYDIDES is one, who 
 though he never digress to read a lecture, moral or poli- 
 tical, upon his own text, nor enter into men's 1 
 further than the actions themselves evidently guide him, 
 is yet accounted the most politic historiographer that eyer 
 writ. The reason whereof I take to be this: he filleth 
 his narrations with that choice of matter, and ordereth 
 them with that judgment, and with such perspicuity 
 and efficacy expresseth himself, that (as Plutarch saith) 
 he inakcth his auditor a spectator. For he srtteth his 
 reader in the assemblies of the people, and in the senates. 
 at their debating ; in the streets, at their seditions ; and 
 in the field, at their battles ! So that look how much a 
 man of understanding might have added to his experi- 
 cnce, if lie had then lived a beholder of their proceedings, 
 and familiar with the men and business of the tin 
 much almost may he profit now, by attentive reading of 
 the same here written. He may from the nan- 
 draw out lessons to himself, and of himself he able to 
 trace the drifts and counsels of the actors to their 
 
 You observed, and I admitted, that the truth is here 
 somewhat exaggerated. It would require infinite dex- 
 terit\ . ai well as a continual sacrifice of vanity, to write 
 in this manner; but. so far as it is attainable, how in- 
 struct i\e and delightful! 
 
 Even Hume, who tells his story so well, is often < 
 tutiou> of his opinions, and becomes rather a philosophical 
 commentator than a skilful historian. So does a _ 
 writer still, Burke, both in his " Account of the Eur 
 
LETTERS .AND ESSAYS. 66 
 
 Settlements," and in his masterly " Fragment of English 
 History ;" but he never is deficient in vivacity and variety. 
 One source of both these excellences may be found in 
 the judicious practice of borrowing freely from the origi- 
 nal writers and from the documents of the times, altering 
 the expression only by discarding obscure, uncouth, and 
 redundant words. 
 
 How expressive is this short passage, in a speech of 
 Edward the Fourth to his parliament ! " The injuries 
 that I have received are known everywhere, and the eyes 
 of the world are fixed upon me to see with what counte- 
 nance I sufler." 
 
 If actual events could often be related in this way, 
 there would be more books in circulating libraries than 
 romances and travels. 
 
 This lively and graphic style is plainly the best, though 
 now and then the historian's criticism is wanted to sup- 
 port a startling fact, or to explain a confused transaction. 
 Thus the learned Rudbeck, in his " Atlantic*," ascribing 
 an ancient temple in Sweden to one of Noah's sons, 
 warily adds "'twas probably the youngest." You will, 
 of course, hasten to study his book it is only in four 
 volumes folio. 
 
 I cannot help adding, that if you will read, with a 
 pencil in your hand, more than one celebrated historian, 
 you will be surprised to find yourself making so many 
 grave observations, worthy of the cautious Swede. 
 
 There is one grand incident in our own annals, pre- 
 senting the means of producing a work at least as inter- 
 esting and instructive as any public story, ancient or 
 modern. You know that I mean the establishment of 
 6* 
 
66 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 American Independence. Do I say too much in speak- 
 ing of this as the principal event in all civil history ] 
 
 Only think of the magnitude and the nature of the 
 question at issue ; of its consequence as an example ; of 
 the successful termination of the struggle ; of the ( ! 
 and accomplished actors both in the United Stat< 
 in England. The battle was as much fought at home 
 as abroad ; and some of the combatants were the King, 
 Lord Chatham, Lord North, Mr. Burke, Mr. Fox, 
 General Washington, Dr. Franklin, and Mr. Jefferson. 
 Think, too, of the manifestoes, the proclamations, the 
 Declaration of Independence ; and " last not least," of 
 the speeches, which would furnish abler and more 
 authentic examples of eloquence than are found in 
 Thucydides, Livy, or Tacitus. These dramatic docu- 
 ments have always been the allowed and admired orna- 
 ments of history. 
 
 One surprising instance, equally honourable to the 
 speaker and to the assembly that bore it, is the famous 
 exclamation of Lord Chatham, " My Lords ! I rejoice 
 that America has resisted." Do not forget that thi> man 
 had In (ii mini>UT, and meant to be minister again. 
 
 Oh! how I shall regret if these random thoughts 
 should add to your perplexities, instead of exciting you 
 to burst through them ! Not one syllable of our moun- 
 tain-talk would I have recalled to your recollection, it' you 
 had not owned that you had yet to begin. 
 
 For my own gratification, I would much rather have 
 your Lectures" than the History," but not so fed the 
 public ; to whom you have made a promise, or are thought 
 to have made one. A seat in the house of commons, 
 while it must improve your manner, by substituting 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 67 
 
 the tone of business for that of dissertation, will, alas ! 
 encroach upon your leisure, and perhaps endanger your 
 health, 
 
 When you come hither to restore the latter, pray 
 bring all the papers that you can want, for the barn will 
 hold what the cottage cannot. 
 
68 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 TO A YOUNG MAN AT OXFORD. 
 
 London, May llth, 1825. 
 
 Your mother tells me, that she approves of your going 
 this summer to Ambleside, accompanied by some other 
 students, to read with a tutor. 
 
 I have seen with much pleasure that it has of late 
 become usual with the young mathematicians, hoping for 
 honours," to spend the vacation in this manner. Such 
 a place of residence is even more suitable to those delight- 
 ing in classical literature ; for what can agree bettor than 
 poetry with the woods and mountains ? The bards are 
 ever avowing their passion for the country, and you must 
 remarked the same in the finest pruse-\vriters. 
 Pliny owns, in a letter to Tacitus, that at Rome, 
 "pocmata quiescunt; qu tu inter nemora et lucos 
 coinmodissime perfici putas."* The following passages 
 in the 9th and 10th sections of the celebrated dialogue 
 " de causis corrupts eloquentiae," leave little doubt as to 
 its author, notwithstanding the long and learned disputes 
 on the subject. " Adjice quod poetis, si modo dignum 
 uliquid elaborare et efficere velint, relinquenda conversatio 
 amicorum et jucunditas urbis, in nemora et lucos rece- 
 dendum est" * * * * " JWroora vero et luci, tantam 
 mihi aflerunt voluptatem, ut inter pracipuos carminum 
 fructus numerem, quod nee in strepitu, nee sedente ante 
 
 * " Poetry languishes ; which you suppose most easily 
 attains perfection amongst woods and groves." 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 69 
 
 ostium litigatore, nee inter sordes ac lacrymas reorum 
 componuntur : sed secedit animus in loca pura atque 
 innocentia, fruiturque sedibus sacris."* 
 
 I hope you mean to be an indefatigable student, 
 though you talk of visiting all the lakes. Yet beware ! 
 it is plvasanter to sail about than to read at home. 
 However, it will give me pleasure to learn that the hints 
 which you request have saved your time, and prevented 
 iiLM'dlf-s fatigue. 
 
 The guides are not always to be trusted, for they 
 naturally wish to keep you as long as they can ; and, 
 too often, they arrange the journey with a view to dine 
 at tlu 1 most comfortable or the most grateful inn. 
 
 You will pass so near to the beautiful scenery of 
 Bolton Abbey, that I advise you to employ one day, at 
 i visiting the walks and drives made by the clergy- 
 man of tin 1 plare. Sit down on every seat in the valley 
 of the Wharfe and in Posforth glen, whose brook tails 
 into the river. The water-fall has much beauty. The 
 \ivllent, but small ; and you should write to be- 
 speak beds, (using my name if you please,) to Mr. 
 Wilson, Devonshire Arms, Bolton Bridge, near Adding- 
 hain, Yorkshire. 
 
 * Add to this, that poets, if they wish to attain a high 
 degree of excellence in any composition, must leave tho 
 society of friends and the delights of the city, and retire 
 to the woods and consecrated groves. * * * * Indeed 
 the woods and sacred groves afford me so much pleasure, 
 that I number amongst the chief advantages of song, 
 that it is not composed amidst clamour and litigation, 
 surrounded by woful faces of prisoners at the bar ; but 
 the soul retires into places of purity and innocence, and 
 enjoys a sacred dwelling-place." 
 
70 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 Get out of your carriage on the bridge at Kirby Lons- 
 dale, to look up and down the stream, and to walk by the 
 foot-path to the Church-yard. 
 
 Sleep at Bowness, which is the port-town of Winder- 
 mere. 
 
 The views from Rayrig-bank (about three quarters of 
 a mile distant) are superlative. 
 
 Row to the Ferry-house, going as close as you can to 
 Storrs, that you may see both its fronts. 
 
 At the Ferry, ascend to the Station-house. 
 
 Stop a day at Lowwood Inn, that you may walk on the 
 bowling-green, and up the Trout-beck Lane till you see 
 the lower end of the lake. The best view, however, is 
 only one hundred yards up the lane. 
 
 At Ambleside, you will have time enough to visit every 
 interesting spot over and over again. 
 
 You should go daily to the water-fall behind the 
 Salutation Inn, and almost as frequently cross the 
 meadows leading to a wooden bridge over the Kotha, in 
 order to walk up the stream to Rydale. It runs about 
 coquetting with you all the way, " now advancing, now 
 retreating." 
 
 At Rydale, see the water-falls in the Park ; and as \ <u 
 are fortunate enough to have a letter to Mr. Wordsworth, 
 you will probably see his grounds, which are admirably 
 laid out. The terraced foot-path from the garden-gate to 
 Grasmere is delightful. 
 
 Ride by Clappersgate, and Loughrigtarn, to Grasmere. 
 
 The upper end of Coniston-water should be seen. 
 
 The road to Keswick abounds in beauties. 
 
 Get out of your carriage to look about at a very little 
 common called " Browtop." It is half a mile before 
 entering the town. 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 71 
 
 Walk to Friar's Cragg, and do not forget to ascend the 
 swelling-field, close by, called " Strand-hag." Just at the 
 top of this gentle ascent, at the gate, are four or five 
 views, as different as they are striking. What a spot for 
 a house or a pavilion ! " Oh ! si angulus ille !" The 
 lake seems to belong to the lawn. 
 
 Walk by the parsonage to Ormathwaite, or rather to 
 the field on the left of the house. 
 
 Ride to Borrodale, seeing Barrow and Lodoar water- 
 falls, and proceed by Gatesgarth to Buttermere. Here, 
 while the dinner is being dressed, walk to Cromack 
 Lake ; and see Scale-force, if you have time. 
 
 Return to Keswick by Newlan<l<. 
 
 The higher end of Wast-water is very grand, but I do 
 not like to send you on so long a pilgrimage. There is a 
 short horse-path over the Sty-head, but it introduces you 
 to the scenery disadvantageously. 
 
 You can ride from Keswick to Ulleswater over the 
 mountain (saving some distance); but you must not lose 
 your way, as I once did in a fog. 
 
 Stop at Lyulph's Tower; and, after sitting by the 
 Ara-force, go up the torrent nearly half a mile, crossing 
 the wooden bridge, which hangs over the fall. A path 
 has been made by Mr. Howard, who is good enough to 
 allow strangers to walk there. 
 
 From the front of Mr. Marshall's place (Hallstead) is 
 the noblest lake and mountain-view in the north. 
 
 You must see the walks in Mr. Askew's grounds. 
 
 Near to Patterdale-hall is a waterfall. 
 
 The slate-quarries command fine views ; and if you 
 have time, you should walk up the Gold-rill to Beck- 
 stone's Farm, and to Hartsop village. For nearly a mile 
 above Hartsop-AaW, the brook should be explored. 
 
72 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 Having seen Wharfe-dale as you went, you had best 
 return by Wensley-dale, Hackfall and Studley, unless 
 you wish to see Liverpool, and the rail-road just com- 
 menced. 
 
 You will have observed that I trouble you with few 
 remarks and fewer exclamations, supposing that you will 
 travel with your eyes open. 
 
 The most complete description of the lakes is Mr. 
 Wordsworth's, but it has higher merits than mere 
 accuracy. Gray's letters, though he saw but lilt! 
 exqui 
 
 There are two mistakes often made by travellers in the 
 north and on the continent: that of loitering on the 
 road to visit inferior places before they reach the Lakes, 
 or the Alps; and that of wasting time and strength in 
 hunting after novelty, instead of dwelling on the noblest 
 scenes and getting them by heart Miu-h needless toil is 
 undergone to fill the journal and the >k( t ! 
 Madame de Stael complained to me, at Coppet, that 
 she was often annoyed by travellers, who, a- they had 
 nothing to say to her, must have come merely to 
 the visit in their diaries, or add a paragraph to their 
 letters. 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 73 
 
 ON POVERTY. 
 
 In Dd* Rulhirrc's Anecdotes of the Revolution in 
 Russia, there is a short story exemplifying that decay 
 of the ancient respect for rank, and that growth of a 
 regard for wealth, so observable of late in most parts of 
 the world. 
 
 Odart, a Piedmontese conspirator for Catharine, used 
 to say, I see there is no regard for any thing but money, 
 and money I will have. I would go this night and set 
 fire to the palace for money ; and when I had got enough, 
 I would retire to my own country, and there live like an 
 honest man." More than once the Empress offered him 
 a title: "No, Madam, I thank you," said Odart; 
 " money, money, if you please." 
 
 He did get money, went to Nice, and there he is said 
 to have lived as became a gentleman. 
 
 Since this over-estimate of wealth is almost universal, 
 it can be no wonder that the rich are so vain and the 
 poor so envious. I know that it is only repeating the 
 tritest of common-places to observe that both exaggerate 
 its advantages. 
 
 " I read upon the brows of those who live in idle show, 
 That fortune sells the gifts which men believe her to 
 bestow." 
 
74 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 It must, however, be owned, that the greatest are 
 willing enough to consider the humblest as their fellow- 
 creatures, when they stand in need of their help. A 
 prince in danger of being drowned would not wonder at 
 being saved by the humanity of a common sailor ; and a 
 general, before a battle, addresses his " brave fello-w- 
 soldiers" Indeed many persons do the poor the honour 
 of expecting them to be spotless. Too often is it d< 
 a good excuse for refusing them alms that they have 
 failings like our own. 
 
 There are many advantages in this variety of condi- 
 tions, one of which is boasted of by a divine, who rejoices 
 that, between both classes, "all the holidays of the 
 Church are properly kept; since the rich observe the 
 feasts, and the poor observe the fasts." 
 
 To be more serious, it is fortunate for the Christian 
 world that our public worship tends at once to abase the 
 proud, and to uplift the dejected; while a simihir 
 results in a free country from its elections, where the 
 haughtiest are obliged to go hat in hand he^u'mi: favours 
 t'r>m the lowliest Nor should the lofty he ashamed, for 
 it has so happened that the benefactors of the human nu-e 
 have been poor men ; such as Socrates and Kpaminon- 
 das ; such as many of the most illustrious Romans, and 
 the inspired founders of our faith. 
 
 Among the North American Indians a wish for wealth 
 is even now considered as unworthy of a brave man, and 
 the chief is often the poorest man of the tribe. 
 
 Mr. Burke says truly, "The people maintain the 
 government, and not the government the people. The 
 rich are the pensioners of the poor. They are under an 
 absolute hereditary and indefeasible dependence on those 
 
LETTERS A.ND ESSAYS. 
 
 who labour. That class of dependent pensioners called 
 - the rich' is so extremely small, that if their throats 
 were cut, all they consume in a year would not give a 
 bit of bread and cheese for one night's supper to those 
 who labour." 
 
 Bossuet, in one of his best sermons, has the following 
 rliariirioristic passages: 
 
 lis done, 6 riches du siecle ; que vous avez tort 
 <!<> traiter les pauvres avec me*pris : nous trouverions 
 peutetre, si nous voulions monter a 1'origine des chosrs. 
 qu'ils n'auroient pas moins de droit que vous aux lions 
 quo vous possddez. Non, non, 6 richer 08 no'st pas 
 pour vous souls, quo Dion fait lever son soleil, ni qu'il 
 arroso la torro, ni qu'il fait profiler dans son sein une si 
 grande divorsitc de semences : les pauvres y ont lour 
 OMJ bien que vous. J'avoue que Diou no lour a 
 donne" aucun fonds en proprtete', mais il leur a assigne 
 lour subsistence sur vos biens. 
 
 Quelle gloire, en v^rit^, chr6tiens, si nous la savion< 
 I>IOM comprendre ! Par consequent, bien loin deles 
 ous los dovriez respecter, les considerant 
 les personnes que Dieu vous adresse et vous 
 rerommande. Vive Dieu! dit le Seigneur, (c'estjurer 
 .oimeme) le ciel et la tcrre et tout ce qu'ils renfer- 
 ment est a moi. Vous 6tes oblige de me rendre la 
 redevance de tous vos biens, mais certes, pour moi, je 
 n'ai que faire ni de vos oifrandes, ni de vos richest - : |, 
 >ii u- votre Dieu et n'ai pas besoin de vos biens. Je ne 
 l>ru\ souftrir de ncessite qu'en la personne des pauvres 
 qui j'avoue pour mes enfans : c'est a eux que j'ordonne 
 quo vous payiez, fidelement, le tribut que vous me 
 devez. Que si on les refuse, si on les maltraite, il 
 

 76 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 n'entend pas qu'ils portent leurs plaintes par devant 
 des juges mortels: lui meme il ecoutera leurs cris du 
 plus haut des cieux ; comme ce quil est du aux pauvres, 
 ce sont ses propres ddniers, il en a reserv la connoissance 
 a son tribunal. C'est moi qui les vengerai, dit-il : je 
 ferai misericorde a ceux qui leur ferai misericorde, je 
 serai impitoyable a qui sera impitoyable pour eux. 
 
 " Merveilleuse dignite des pauvres ! la grace, la 
 ricorde, le paHon est entre leurs mains: et il y a des 
 personnes asez insense'es pour les me"pri>er !" 
 
 There is, notwithstanding, so little danger that the 
 indigent will be made supercilious by such considerations 
 that it is needless to remind them of the disailvanta. 
 their condition. The twofold danger of beinu r > 
 both by hunger and by cold is enough; but tin 
 another inferiority, which it is most painful to reflect 
 upon. It is this. When a child is taken from an 
 opulent mother, she comforts herself by saving, I 
 thank God that all that could be done has been done to 
 sa\e it;" but the grief of a poor woman is heightened 
 into agony by the belief that a physician and proper 
 attendance might have preserved her little one. Such 
 thoughts are the harder to bear, because the 
 alVections of the needy are necessarily cherished by the 
 habit of doing those humble services to each other \\hich 
 are rendered to the rich by their menials; and perhaps 
 this necessity alone may counteract the inevitable and 
 therefore pardonable selfishness arising from scanty sub- 
 sistence. 
 
 Upon the whole, there can be no doubt that in- 
 equality of condition is so much more seeming than 
 real, as to suggest unanswerable dissuasives from envy 
 
LETTERS AXD ESSAYS. 
 
 and discontent, as well as from hard-heartedness and 
 vainglory. 
 
 If the difficulty can be surmounted of persuading the 
 poor to be contented with their portion in this world, 
 there will be little or no trouble in overcoming the reluc- 
 tance of the rich to prefer their larger share. 
 
 
78 LETTERS A?sD ESSAYS. 
 
 ON WAR. 
 
 So much has been well said against war, that it li: 
 air of a plagiarism when any of its unavoidable evils are 
 alluded to. 
 
 Yet there is a short passage, in Dr. Aikin's Life of 
 Howard the philanthropist, placing one of them in so 
 striking a light, that it must excite the most painful re- 
 lit rt ions in a reader of common humanity. 
 
 In one of his benevolent journeys, he writes from 
 Moscow, that " no less than 70,000 recruits for the army 
 and navy have died in the Russian hospitals during a 
 tingle year." 
 
 II was an accurate man, incapable of saying any 
 thing but the truth, and therefore this horrib! 
 cannot but heighten our detestation both of war and of 
 ;ism. It has, however, been scarcely spoken of in 
 Europe; while other hateful crimes, though affecting only 
 indhidu;ds. have justly become the perpetual ol.j. 
 pity and indignation. For instance, the cruel murders 
 of the Princesse de Lamballe and of Louis the Sixteenth. 
 
 The truth is, that despotism is ever destroying its 
 millions silently and unnoticed ; while sedition is general- 
 ly tumultuous, and always dreaded and detested. So 
 many are interested in painting exaggerated pictures of 
 its mischiefs, that the world is kept in perpetual alarm, 
 and even the writers themselves become unable to judge 
 
LETTERS AM) KSSAYS. 79 
 
 impartially between, oppression and resistance ; us an artist 
 is said to have drawn the, devil so hideous that he lost his 
 senses by looking at his own colours. 
 
 There are few riots without some grievance. "Ju- 
 piter," says Lucian, " seldom has recourse to his thunder, 
 but when he is in the wrong;" and, at the close of a long 
 military life. Monsieur de Vendomc owned that, "in the 
 ! disputes between the mules and the muleteers, the 
 mules were generally in the right." 
 
 All our praise-worthy toil and expense, in building 
 infirmaries and asylums, cannot save a hundredth part of 
 the lives, nor alleviate a hundredth part of the afflictions 
 brought upon the human race by one unnecessary war. 
 " Next to the calamity of losing a battle is that of gaining 
 a victory," is reported to have been said by our great 
 commander, on the evening of the bloody day of 
 Waterloo. 
 
 It is, therefore, much to be lamented that so many 
 persons of influence are benefited by war, as the tolls at 
 Cork are raised by the slaughtering season. Alas ! 
 " Multis utile bellum !" 
 
 Great conquerors are curses on mankind while they 
 live ; and, when they die, they leave no relics like the 
 skins of their predecessors, I had almost said their ances- 
 tors, the wolves and bears. 
 
 How easily are the silly victims deluded ! What a 
 humiliating picture of human life is exhibited in the 
 hand-bills usually stuck up all over London ! " All 
 aspiring heroes, who wish to serve their king and coun- 
 try, defend the protestant religion, and live for ever, may 
 receive ten shillings and sixpence by applying at the 
 Britannia public-house in Wapping." Such temptations, 
 

 
 30 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 who can withstand ! Fame, future happinf >>. and half 
 a guinea ! 
 
 Since statesmen complain so much of what they call 
 " declamation," why will they render it so easy and so 
 unanswerable ? 
 
 In one of Footers farces, Dr. Last asks boastingly, 
 " Have you heard of my black potvder .?" As it h< had 
 been the discoverer of so famous a medicine, though all 
 the state-quacks, since the invention of artillery, have 
 been as fond and as proud too of the doctor's prescri, 
 

 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 81 
 
 ON INTOLERANCE AND BIGOTRY. 
 
 The crime of intolerance is not only hateful, but so 
 ridiculous, that many of its absurdities are scarcely 
 credible. 
 
 The Chancelier de 1'Hdpital was called an atheist, 
 because he refused to be a persecutor : Galileo for think- 
 in.tr the earth turns round : Descartes for saying there 
 are innate ideas : Gassendi and Locke for denying them. 
 Father Hardouin proved, very much to his own sati-tac- 
 tion, that Malehranche, Pascal, Arnaud and Nicole, (the 
 most pious of men,) would certainly be damned. The 
 mother of Louis XIV. was shocked by the notion that 
 iist< might be saved, and cried out, " Ah ! fi ! fi ! 
 de la Grace." In Hispaniola, some Spaniards made a 
 vow to sacrifice every day twelve Indians in honour of 
 the twelve apostles. When Savoy and Geneva ex- 
 changed a \ i liaise or two, Geneva engaged to tolerate the 
 catholic inhabitants for tiventy-Jive years ! If the Ma- 
 hometans conclude a treaty of peace with Christians, 
 they forthwith proceed to the mosque, and ask pardon of 
 God Almighty for discontinuing to cut the throats of his 
 children, on whom they imprecate calamities. Now it 
 is unfortunately, or fortunately true, that curses are sel- 
 dom quite ineffectual, inasmuch as they have a tendency 
 to bring down well-merited punishments on the heads of 
 those who pray that evils may fall on others. But there 
 would be no end of enumerating these weak and wicked 
 creeds and practices. 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 It has been asked by a great author " What does it 
 signify, whether you deny a God or speak ill of him ?" 
 A question well answered by another sage, when he 
 declares, " I would rather men should say, that there 
 never was such a man as Plutarch, than that Plutarch 
 was an ill-natured, mischievous fellow." 
 
 A most affecting instance of a contrary way of think- 
 ing is found in the pious poet Cowper's belief tlmt 
 "somewhere in infinite space there is a world ! 
 the province of mercy," and that he himself had been 
 selected as an example of the Almighty's sovereign power 
 and indisputable right " to do what he pleased with his 
 creatures" in dooming him to everlasting misery, though 
 not the very worst of human beings. Perhaps th 
 not another known case of so heart-rending an ilh; 
 
 Yet bigotry is just as amiable and as respectable in 
 
 lulgences as in her severities, in her partialities as 
 
 in her persecutions. She deified most of the Roman 
 
 ore, and she has graced the calendar of saints with 
 
 the names of many disgusting fools and villains. 
 
 The Scythians reasoned well when pursued l>y tin- 
 would-be son of Jupiter Ammon, that he who did so 
 much harm to men could not be divine." Their inter- 
 however, has been carried too far by the African 
 people, who were of opinion that " God is too good to 
 require that his creatures should pray to him for Mess- 
 ings," and therefore they worshipped only the e\il 
 spirits. 
 
 There can be no reasonable doubt that it is i 
 to helieve too much than too little, since, as Boswell 
 os, (most probably in Johnson's words,) " a man 
 may breathe in foul air, but he must die in an exhu 
 receiver." 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 83 
 
 Much of the scepticism that we meet with is necessa- 
 rily affectation or conceit, for it is as likely that the 
 ignorant, weak, and indolent, should become mathema- 
 ticians as reasoning unbelievers. Patient study and 
 perfect impartiality must precede rational conviction, 
 whether ending in faith or in doubt. Need it be asked 
 ho\\ many are capable of such an examination] But 
 whether men come honestly by their opinions or not, it 
 
 more advisable to refute than to burn, or even to 
 
 n-h them. 
 
LETTERS A3D ESSAYS. 
 
 ON THE PASSIONS. 
 
 I have heard that a gentleman, to whom an estate had 
 been bequeathed, called up his servants and ad! 
 them thus: " Ladies and gentlemen ! I IIOJK- \ou\vill 
 have the goodness to remember that I h ly one 
 
 more estate of one thousand pounds per annum, and I 
 beg that every one of you will not be spending at that 
 rate." 
 
 Something like this should be said of our different 
 appetites, for the consequence of freely indulging all, 
 would be ruinous to body, mind, and fortune. Yet each 
 muM I*, moderately satisfied, since gratifying one alone 
 would be like giving food to a single head of Cor! 
 : tin- others only more voracious. 
 
 Such, notwithstanding, is the complicated constitution 
 of human nature, that a man, without a predominant 
 inclination, is not likely to be either useful or happy. 
 
 " Chrysologue est tout et n'est rien." He who is 
 every thing is nothing, is as true of our sensitive as of 
 our intelleeUial nature. He is rather a bundle of little 
 likings than a compact and energetic individual. A 
 strong desire soon subdues all the weaker, and rules us 
 with the united force of all that it subjugates. 
 
 Vivid perceptions and intense feelings have, some- 
 times, a sort of fascination, compelling us to rush head- 
 long into danger ; as in the delirious giddiness caused by 
 looking down a frightful precipice. Action so commonly 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 85 
 
 follows lively sensation that the habit becomes invete- 
 rate, and, now and then, irresistible, even when certainly 
 fatal. Any desire, suffered to rule uncontrolled, quickly 
 gains this terrible ascendancy, and even madness itself 
 is, sometimes, only outrageous selfishness. 
 
 Such being the force of human feelings, it must em- 
 bitter our daily lives if our employments are unsuited to 
 our talents and wishes ; yet, how few, alas ! are so for- 
 tunate as to be gaining either wealth or fame while gra- 
 tifying an inclination. 
 
 The well known doctrine of a master-passion is only 
 an exaggeration of the fact, as displayed in the charac- 
 ters of most persons, and especially of those who have 
 warm constitutions. 
 
 It is therefore of great importance to watch the growth 
 of such a powerful despot in ourselves and in others, if 
 we hope to govern or to understand either. Yet it is, in 
 truth, surprising how few are sufficiently acquainted with 
 themselves to see, distinctly, what their own motives 
 actually are. It is a rare as well as a great advantage 
 for a man to know his own mind. 
 
 If we attend to what is going on, we have, at first, a 
 voice in choosing our own sovereign ; for the monarchy, 
 though absolute, is elective, and much indeed does it 
 concern us to choose our ruler wisely. 
 
 Ambition and vanity are hard taskmasters, and it is 
 only to our home-bred affections that we must trust for 
 real pleasures. The world tempts and disappoints ; first 
 makes us thirsty and then gives us bitter water to drink. 
 Even when defeated and mortified, the social feelings 
 are not wholly unpleasing, for the French actress's ex- 
 clamation, while speaking of an unfaithful lover's once 
 3 
 
86 LETTERS AM) !:V\>. 
 
 deserting her, was quite natural. " Ah ! c'ctoit le bon 
 terns ! j'etois bien malheureuse." No colours are so gay 
 as those reflected by the clouds that have passed away. 
 
 It cannot be denied, that our wannest emotions, though 
 subjecting us to innumerable temptations, have many 
 countervailing benefits. Though all the passions are 
 subtle sophists, and ever justify themselves, yet they are 
 not without their use in our mental improvement, since, 
 probably more prejudices are removed by passion than 
 by philosophy. Temper too, even i!! I more 
 
 frank and honest than a calm, calculatin .-.-If-l-'vc; or, 
 I, it puts others on their guard, by exhibiting the 
 character plainly, as an insect shown in a microscope. 
 
 Of the generous impulses, it is to point out 
 
 tlu* merits. They are, luckily, felt in all conditions of 
 lili . Admiration, for instance, is found in all, esp 
 in unspoiled youth, and in the unambitious common 
 people. What a simultaneous burst of applause from 
 pit. box, and gallery, instantly follows a magnanimous 
 deed or sentiment ! " Les grandes pense'cs vk-nnent du 
 cceur," says a most discerning, self-taught, man of the 
 world. 
 
 In the voluptuous and self-indulgent vie 
 often some mixture of kindness, some little regard to 
 others ; but the vain, too commonly, and the ambitious, 
 always, are purely selfish, admitting of no partners in 
 success, and hating their dearest friends, should such, 
 unfortunately, happen to be their competitors for fame 
 and power. She must be an antiquated beauty who can 
 hear with perfect pleasure a compliment paid to her own 
 daughter's rival charms, and no aspiring public man can 
 44 bear a brother near the throne." 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 87 
 
 All solitary enjoyments quickly pall, or become pain- 
 ful, so that, perhaps, no more insufferable misery can be 
 conceived than that which must follow incommunicable 
 privileges. Only imagine a human being condemned to 
 perpetual youth, while all around him decay and die ! 
 Oh ! how sincerely he would call upon death for deliver- 
 ance ! No means of suicide would be left unattempted. 
 
 What, then, is to be done ? Are we to struggle 
 against all our natural desires'? Luckily we should 
 strive in vain ; or, could we succeed, what fools should 
 we be for our pains ! 
 
 There is no need to extinguish the fertility of the 
 soil, lest the harvest should be unwholesome. Is it not 
 better, far, to root up the weeds, and to plant fruits and 
 flowers instead ? Were but a tithe of the time and the 
 thought, usually spent in learning the commonest accom- 
 plishments, bestowed upon regulating our lives, how 
 many evils would be avoided or lessened ! how many 
 pleasures would be created or increased ! 
 
 

 88 LETTERS AND KSSAYS. 
 
 ON POLITICAL AGITATIONS. 
 
 A French gentleman said to Monsieur Colbert " You 
 found the state-carriage overturned on one side, and you 
 have overturned it on the other." This was probably 
 untrue, but it must be confessed, that there is always 
 some danger of destroying institutions by unskilful or 
 violent changes. A conflagration may be extinguished 
 without a deluge. 
 
 It is not only hard to distinguish between too little 
 and too much, but between the good and evil intentions 
 of the different reformers. One man calls out <k I 
 thai he may save the house; another, that he may run 
 away with the furniture. 
 
 I am inclined to believe, that in revolutions, more 
 harm is done by hurry and self-conceit, than by mis- 
 chievous purposes. Very few indeed should presume to 
 lay their hands on the Ark, but 
 
 " Fools rush in where angels fear to tread ;" 
 and unluckily, 
 
 " A down-hill reformation rolls apace." 
 
 When honest men infer from their desire to do good, 
 that they have the knowledge and talents requisite to 
 govern wisely, it is incalculable what evil-doers they 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 89 
 
 may innocently become ! What an eternal shock of pur- 
 poses where each man pursues his own crude schemes, 
 with all the obstinacy of self-satisfied integrity ! Yet to 
 leave serious grievances imperfectly redressed, or indis- 
 putable improvements unattained, merely through a vague 
 apprehension of innovation, is at once a great and a com- 
 mon (\il. There is much truth in Bacon's complaint, 
 u That some men object too much, consult too long, 
 adventure too little, repent too soon, and seldom drive 
 business home." 
 
 Even moderation itself may sometimes be folly or 
 cowardice. On the Exclusion-bill being opposed in the 
 home of commons, Colonel Titus exclaimed both wisely 
 and eloquently. " We are advised to be moderate ; but 
 I do not take moderation to be a prudential virtue in all 
 cases. If I were flying from thieves, should I ri.. 
 derate ly, lest I break my horse's wind 1 If I were de- 
 rjj my own life or the lives of my wife and chil- 
 dren, should I strike moderately, lest I put myself out of 
 breath? And if, Mr. Speaker, we were in a sinking 
 ship, (no unapt representation of our decaying common- 
 wealth,) ought we to pump moderately, lest we bring on 
 a fever ?" 
 
 Gradual improvements, notwithstanding, are not only 
 safer but better than sudden ones, and more, much more, 
 may be learnt from their example, when well recorded : 
 but history is addicted to dwell on the latter, and rarely 
 investigates the former. Their effects also are more 
 permanent and more extensive ; anarchy being only the 
 stakeholder for tyranny. There is, besides, something 
 more terrible to the imagination in the disorderly vio- 
 lences of the multitude, than in the organised oppression 
 8* 
 
90 LETTERS AZSD ESSAYS. 
 
 of a despot ; something more hideous in myriads of rep- 
 tiles, than in a gigantic beast of prey. If there were no 
 alternative but either the absolute government of St. 
 Giles's, or of St. James's, who in his senses could hesi- 
 tate a moment which to prefer ? 
 
 Besides its other innumerable benefits, a really repre- 
 sentative government has the advantage of exempt in:; 
 individual persons from the necessity of becoming politi- 
 cal agitators ; and, by increasing the competition while it 
 diminishes the rewards, it lessens the numbers of those 
 who can be advanced in reputation or in fortune by 
 office. The young people of this country, in 
 rank, from a peer's son to a street-sweeper's, are drawn 
 aside from a praiseworthy exertion in honest callings, by 
 having their eyes directed to the public treasure. The 
 rewards of persevering industry are too slow for them, 
 too small, and too insipid. They fondly trust to the 
 great lottery, although the wheel contains so many 
 blanks and so few prizes ; hoping that tlu-ir ticket may be 
 drawn a place, a pension, or a contract, a living, or a stall, 
 a ship, or a regiment, a seat on the bench, or the great seal. 
 
 It is, indeed, most humiliating to witness the indecent 
 scramble that is always going on for these prizes, the 
 highest born and best educated rolling in the dirt, to 
 pick them up, just as the lowest of the mob do for the 
 shillings or the pence thrown among them by a success^ 
 ful candidate at a contested election. 
 
 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 9 1 
 
 ON VISITING-ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 A lady complaining that her shoes were burst on the 
 first day of wearing them, the shoemaker exclaimed, 
 " What wonder 1 why your ladyship actually walked in 
 them." 
 
 It is not unusual to hear lamentations, as unreasonable 
 as the lady's, from simple people, who have been dis- 
 appointed in expecting aid or sympathy from those whom 
 the courtesy of the world calls " friends." None but the 
 inexperienced look for real services from merely fashion- 
 able connections. They are like roughly painted pic- 
 tures, to be kept at a distance. It is understood, that 
 people are to be charmed with each other, just so long as 
 it is amusing to meet, but not an hour longer. Adversity 
 not only lowers people's spirits and renders friends dull, 
 but too often it has the unpardonable effect of taking 
 away the means of receiving others in return. 
 
 The friendships of the world lie chiefly in frequent 
 visits and in joint subscriptions to a club, or to an opera- 
 box, but as for the mutual self-sacrifices, so delicious to 
 heartfelt affection, it is perfectly ridiculous to rely upon 
 such things from such persons or to cry out when they 
 are refused. " Nam illse ambitiosae fucosseque amicitiae 
 sunt in quodam splendore forensi, fructum domesticum 
 non habent."* Who does not know how much, or how 
 
 * For these false and complimental friendships make 
 a show of civility in public : they yield no domestic fruit. 
 
 [ 
 
 
92 LETTERS AND ESS 
 
 little is meant, when a correspondent signs himself 
 ' your humble servant," and assures you that " he is 
 ever most faithfully yours ?" 
 
 The fate of those whose talents raise them suddenly 
 to reputation, is particularly hard. The blaze of a suc- 
 cessful first appearance, on the stage, or in parliament, 
 attracts the eyes of all the world. The very don 
 ladies, who delight in being " at home," iniined 
 throw open their doors to the petted, and, too often, the 
 spoiled child of the season. The vogue lasts throughout 
 the spring, and then " farewell," perhaps, " for ever" to 
 the shower of flattering notes and pressing invitations. 
 This is bad enough in the world, but the dt >ntr.l 
 arc often most to be blamed, who mistake notorir; 
 and curiosity for affection. 
 
 Indred, there are many respectable persons well \\oith 
 iig, because their manners towards us mail 
 
 uial degree of our fashion at any given mo- 
 and is not this being of use? Have \\c not in 
 them those magical mirrors which show us what is pass- 
 i othrr ji laces] 
 
 There is, to speak seriously, another complaint, truly 
 unreasonable. How frequently do we hear sc-\ 
 unmerited reflections on those, who, in consequence of a 
 change of residence, or of pursuits, naturally drop the 
 acquaintance of old associates ! Perhaps business may 
 rob them of their leisure ; perhaps they may have lost 
 their health or their incomes; perhaps they have gh< 
 up drawing, and have taken to music; or they have 
 entered into another political party. With the similarity 
 of habits and opinions, it is plain, that the desire to meet 
 must also be lost Even a long absence may have 
 
 
LETTERS A1SD ESSAYS, 93 
 
 greatly altered the nature of the connection between two 
 persons sincerely attached. They have untold secrets, 
 new alliances, new fancies, new sentiments. They have 
 to point out to each other every thing about them, as 
 they show the town to a stranger. Yet a true friend it 
 is shameful to forget ; but mere acquaintances may be as 
 innocently changed as our studies, occupations, or amuse- 
 ments. 
 
 To do mankind justice, it must be owned, that such 
 mortified feelings, as have been alluded to, are seldom 
 expressed when they who give us up have declined in 
 their circumstances, or in their fashion. It is those who 
 ri.sc that are regretted and abused. 
 
94 LETTERS AND 
 
 ON A VOICE. 
 i \TF.MI F.I) FOR A PERIODICAL PAPER PROJECTED 
 
 ITS 1800 BY SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH. 
 
 There are few natural gifts which may not be turned 
 to profitable use. A well-known person has always 
 gained his living solely by his voice. He once owned 
 that his mother told him (though he generally was too 
 busy in talking himself to listen to others) that he had 
 begun, while in arms, to tyrannise over the whole family 
 ly Ins cries and screams. A maiden aunt always com- 
 
 ! that nobody else could be heard in 
 \vlii ! he was awake; nay, his noisy mode of sleeping 
 !( j>rived his little brothers and sisters of thrir 
 natural rest. 
 
 His parents being poor, he was set to frighten away 
 the rooks from the newly-sown corn lands ; and he then 
 got the two offices of common-crier and counter-tenor in 
 the cathedral, serving at the same time both church and 
 state. The former he deserted for a short time, having 
 turned field-preacher; but he soon became worldly again, 
 earning his dinners and evening enjoyments by singing 
 at taverns and ale-houses : yet he always declared, that 
 he got more by his piano manner than by his forte. 
 Whispering at morning-calls and at tea-tables did more 
 for him, a long time, than voting or shouting at elections ; 
 though, in the end, he was greatly advanced by his 
 success in the latter. His great merits, both in can- 
 
 
LETTERS AKD ESSAYS. 95 
 
 vassing, and in loud speaking on the hustings, procured 
 for him, unexpectedly, a seat in parliament ; where his 
 incessant cheers, (friendly or hostile,) his readiness to 
 speak against time, and his well-timed calls to order, but 
 above all, his audible pronunciation of the two monosyl- 
 lables, " aye," and " no," quickly made his fortune. He 
 was knighted on being chosen to deliver a corporation 
 address to his majesty, when passing through the bo- 
 rugh % 
 
 Now he lives in honourable retirement, swearing im- 
 partially at friends and foes. In short, he would have 
 been perfectly happy, if he had not been haunted by a 
 perpetual alarm, lest an asthma, or some disease of the 
 trachea, should reduce him to poverty and insignificance. 
 
 " Tot rerum vox una fuit." 
 
 
96 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 
 NATURE AND UTILITY OF ELOQUENCE. 
 
 BEAD IN THE MANCHESTER SOCIETY, NOVEMBER 2, 1787, 
 AND PRINTED IN THEIR MEMOIRS. w 
 
 "Fructu, ct popular! estimatione, Sapientia Eloq 
 Ita cnim Salomon, sapiens cordc appellabitur prude**, ted dulcis 
 doquic majora rrpcrict; baud obscure innucns, Sapient i;u:i fninnin 
 quan lam, ct admirationcm cuipiam conciliarc, at in rebus : 
 ct vita communi, eloqueniiam precipue ease efficar 
 BACON, DB AUOM. SCIBN., Liu. 
 
 I must hope to be forgiven, for owning that I con>idcr 
 myself as running some risk in venturing to solicit the 
 ion of the society, when I have nothing to offer luit 
 a few thoughts concerning such a kind of subject as 
 Eloquence. Generally prevalent as the study of nut n ral 
 philosophy is, at present, in this kingdom, and particu- 
 larly cultivated as this science has been by so many of 
 the most eminent members of the society. I -hould be 
 somewhat surprised if the philosophy of the fine arts 
 were held in much estimation. I never could, and I hope 
 I never shall, allow myself to speak or think disrespect* 
 fully of other men's pursuits, merely because they tliiler 
 from mine ; but surely I may be permitted to say, that 
 the study of that grand and seducing science, Natural 
 Philosophy, has a tendency to excite in its followers low 
 ideas of arts as useful as any that can be founded even 
 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 97 
 
 upon its noblest discoveries. It is true, that in dis- 
 tinguishing the arts from each other, the fine arts have 
 been usually opposed to the useful ; but is not this im- 
 proper ] and would it not be better to consider them as 
 divided into the liberal and the mechanical? Had I 
 thought eloquence to be a fine art only, in the common 
 sense of that term, I should, in the first instance, have 
 probably saved myself the trouble of thinking or writing 
 about it all ; but, in the second, I should certainly have 
 spared the society the trouble of reading what I had 
 written. Eloquence, so far as it is an art, is undoubtedly 
 classed with propriety among x the fine arts; since the 
 means it uses to effect its purposes are not mechanical, 
 and inasmuch as it is so constantly connected with the 
 strong a of the imagination; but surely it can 
 
 never io rxrlmkd from an eminent place among th 
 ful arts, so long as men have prejudices to be attacked. 
 1, hopes to be excited, or passions to be 
 moved ; and so long, it may be added, as they have un- 
 dorstundiiiir.s to be informed. For, perhaps, the most ex* 
 tt-nsive field for the display of real ability in speaking i< 
 the rich, the vast, and hitherto imperfectly cultivated 
 tract of probable evidence. 
 
 Within the sphere of demonstration, indeed, eloquence 
 has but little to do, having only room enough to exhibit 
 two of her lowest qualities, perspicuity and order : but 
 demonstration, though absolute so far as her power ex- 
 tends, reigns over a very narrow territory. I will not 
 presume to go quite so far as D'Alembert, and say of 
 eloquence, " Les prodiges qu'elle opere, sou vent, entre 
 les mains d'un seul, sur toute une nation, sont peutdtre 
 le temoignage le plus eclatant de la superiority d'un 
 9 
 
98 
 
 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 homme sur un autre ;"* but still, that art which teaches 
 us how we are likely, in the most effectual manner, to 
 make ourselves masters of other men's minds by speech, 
 must be permitted to rank very highly in the scale of 
 useful studies. 
 
 It has, in truth, been common with those men of sense 
 who have themselves been deficient in expression, to speak 
 with contempt of the eloquence of others, and to repre- 
 sent it as useless at least, if not highly dangerous ; nay, 
 some men have very dexterously and sucrr.-oful!;. 
 the art itself to decry its importance, and vilify i 
 dcncy.f "Quod sit indignissimum," says Quintilian ; 
 "in accusationem orationis, utuntur orandi viribus." 
 " Unbecoming as it is, the power of eloquence is employ- 
 ed in her own accusation." 
 
 " It is evident," says Mr. Locke, "how men love to 
 deceive, and be deceived; since rhetoric, that powerful 
 instrument "Terror and deceit, has its esta!>!i>hed pro- 
 fessor*, is publicly taught, and has always been li.id in 
 great reputation." "What is the end of dc><n!. 
 says Warburton in the chapter already referred to, "but 
 to stifle reason, and inflame passions]" Tin- prejudices 
 of Mr. Locke were undoubtedly honest, but they plainly 
 show that he mistook the abuse of the art for the art 
 
 * Discours pre*liminaire a PEncyclopedie. " The ex- 
 traordinary effects, which, in the hands of a single indi- 
 vidual, it often produces upon a whole nation, are perhaps 
 the most striking evidence of the superiority of one man 
 over another." 
 
 tThe instances of this self-condemning censure are 
 very numerous ; but there are few examples of it so re- 
 markable, or so entertaining, as a long passage in Plato's 
 Gorgias, and another in the ninth chapter of Warburton's 
 Doctrine of Grace. 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 99 
 
 itself; and happily for mankind, Bacon's observation is 
 true : " No man can well speak fair of things sordid 
 and base, but in things honest it is an easy matter to be 
 eloquent." To the bishop's authority it may be objected, 
 as Thucydides says it was to Cleon's, " that because he 
 used to hold the bad side in the causes he pleaded, there- 
 fore he was ever inveighing against eloquence and good 
 speech." It were easy to multiply the examples of 
 such misrepresentations ; the sophists and the fathers of 
 old, the metaphysicians and theologians of late, have 
 united in abusing an art which they wanted judgment as 
 well as taste to understand. Yet in all the various in- 
 stances of these inconsiderate attacks, it ever appeared 
 to me, that the objections and censures constantly arose 
 from a misconception of the real nature of the art. 
 
 " 'Tis poor eloquence," says Sir J. Reynolds, " that 
 only shows a man can talk." 
 
 How often is the epithet "eloquent" applied to some 
 ignorant coxcomb, who in every gesture, look, and word, 
 oll'rnds against the first rudiments of speaking, forgetting 
 "arsest celaro artom !" How many times must every 
 man have heard the title of " orator" given to some 
 wretched phrase-monger, whose skill consisted only in 
 the frequent use of a gaudy word, or an affected anti- 
 thesis ! Thus has this efficacious and important art be- 
 come disreputable ; and, of course, disregarded by many 
 great and wise men, even among those whose professions 
 are connected with the daily practice of public speaking. 
 But this misconception is far from being peculiar to those 
 who have not attended to the subject; for perhaps it is 
 hardly possible to produce any definitions of rhetoric 
 from the ancient, and there are but few to be found in 
 
100 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 modern writings, which do not either lay it open to just 
 objections, or degrade its importance by confining its 
 powers and its application. 
 
 It cannot but have been matter of some surprise to 
 such as are conversant with the works of the most cele- 
 brated rhetoricians, that they should differ so generally 
 and so widely respecting the nature of the art which they 
 profess to teach. In the fifteenth chapter of his second 
 book, Quintilian states and refutes a great variety of dif- 
 t ere lit definitions, which, even in his time, had been given 
 of rhetoric; and he censures, among 
 rested on the authority of names no less eminent than 
 Isocratcs, Plato, Aristotle, and Cicero. He then p 
 to express and support his own opinion ; but less skilful- 
 ly and less successfully than he had attacked the scnti- 
 ments of his predecessors. The same irreconcileablc 
 Miriety of opinion prevails among later writers on this 
 subject ; which, to say the truth, has been considered by 
 so many able authors, and by some of such exalted re- 
 putation, that I choose to mention this dillerence among 
 them, as an apology for presuming to go over the ground 
 which such men have trodden. Since all cannot be 
 right where all disagree, the authority of one sen 
 counterbalance that of another; and thus a man i 
 
 : :ller from any of them, without dreading the 
 imputation of vanity. "II faut, dans tous les arts, se 
 d. Miner bien de garde de ces definitions trompeuses, par 
 lesquelles nous osons cxclure toutes les beautcs, qui nous 
 sont inconnues, ou que la coutume n'a point encore ren- 
 dues familieres."* Volt, sur le Poeme Epique. 
 
 * It is necessary, in every art, to beware of those de. 
 ceptive definitions, by which we allow ourselves to ex- 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 101 
 
 Aristotle says, it is the office of rhetoric " Not to 
 persuade, but to discern whatever is fitted to induce per- 
 suasion." Rhet., Lib. I. c. I. 
 
 " But the office of this faculty appears to be, to adopt 
 a discourse to the purpose of persuasion." Cicero de 
 Inven., Lib. I. s. 5. 
 
 " For eloquence is nothing else than wisdom discours- 
 ing fluently." Cicero Orat. Part. s. 22. 
 
 " The science of speaking well." Quin., Lib. II. cap. 
 15. 
 
 " The most usual definition of rhetoric is, therefore, the 
 poiver of persuasion. This opinion originated with 
 Isocrates : Plato likewise says almost the same thing." 
 Quin., Lib. II. cap. 15. 
 
 " Eloquence is the talent of impressing forcibly upon 
 the minds of others, and infusing into them with rapidi- 
 ty, the deep feeling in which you are absorbed." D'Al- 
 embert, sur TE locution Oratoire. 
 
 "Eloquence is the power of speaking with fluency 
 and elegance." Dr. Johnson's Dictionary. 
 
 " Eloquence is the art of speaking or writing well, so 
 as to move and persuade." Chambers's Cyclopaedia. 
 
 This is but a small sample of the various modes of 
 speaking concerning the subject ; but no more need be 
 produced, and to me all these appear either false or im- 
 perfect. Perhaps the most sensible, most substantial, and 
 most useful idea of eloquence, is that expressed by Dr. 
 Campbell in the first sentence of his PHILOSOPHY OF 
 BHETORIC: "Eloquence is that art or talent by which a 
 
 elude all beauties, which we do not appreciate, or which 
 custom has not yet rendered familiar. 
 
 9* 
 
102 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 discourse is adapted to its end." The same sentiment 
 timated by Quintilian, when he says, " The more a man 
 effects by speaking, the more he speaks according to the 
 method of eloquence."* Fenelon, the best of all c 
 in his Dialogues of the Dead, represents Demosthenes 
 as saying to Cicero, " You made people say : Ho 
 he speaks! I made them say: Come! let us march 
 against Philip." " Whatever composition," says Mr. 
 Wilkes, in one of his speeches, " produces the 
 which is intended, in the most forcible manner, is, in my 
 opinion, the best, and most to be approved. That mode 
 should always be pursued : it has the most HP 
 as the most success, on the great theatre of the world, 
 no less than on the stage, whether you mean to in-j>irc 
 Tror, or any other passion." It may, perhaps, be 
 
 ;i;it the word eloquence has general!;, 
 used in a more limited sense; and, to say th- truth, it 
 has by many been applied to denote ornamental cornpo- 
 
 : hm has not this arisen from a mist i 
 a part of the art has been taken tor tin* v 
 This has been the case with poetry, and it is amusing to 
 observ. into which the error has brought 
 
 many learned men, in their attempts to settle the nature 
 : i IK! essential qualities of this noble art. Some have 
 though re to consist in imagery, some in imita- 
 
 tion, someJfcfiction, some in metre, and others in pas- 
 sion ; whdflp these are only so many difl, 
 employed by the poet to effect his purposes, and are all 
 mere parts of that of which it has been supposed they 
 constitute the essence. However, let the common mean- 
 
 * Lib. XII. cap. 10. 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 103 
 
 ing of the term be what it may, we are not now con- 
 sidering the proper acceptation of a word, but the real 
 nature of a serious art. The existence of such an art 
 can hardly be doubted, for that would be to question 
 whether men speak best by accident or by design, when 
 they take no thought, or when they previously consider 
 what they are about to do. Nature, it must be confessed 
 does much, and will not only lead but compel us, on in- 
 t ere -ting occasions, to use those forms of speech (even 
 the most complex) which rhetoricians have arranged and 
 named. Perhaps no language is more natural than that 
 which abounds with figure and allusion. Vet still ability 
 alone is not sufficient ; and a living man, of high rank 
 in politics, might be pointed out, who, though gifted far 
 beyond any of his contemporaries, and greatly superior 
 
 i in acquirements, has yet been often found 
 less and sometimes a dangerous auxiliary, K van -e he 
 wanted the skill to manage his prodigious powers. He 
 ag something only for the sake of saying it ; 
 htMMuse it is Miigular, beautiful, or sublime, and 
 without any regard to its effect on his auditors. A real 
 thought he never can dismiss, till he has made it the sub- 
 ject of innumerable comparisons, or darkened it by super- 
 abundant illustration. If it be possible for such a waste 
 of talents to be occasioned by a deficiency in the art we 
 are speaking of, it may not be amiss to consider whether 
 the definition of it given by Dr. Campbell be the true one, 
 and, at the same time, to examine the opinions of the 
 other celebrated writers, whose definitions I have quoted, 
 as they are maintained and defended by two authors of 
 great reputation, and of peculiar abilities for the discus- 
 sion of such a subject, Dr. Browne and Dr. Leland, both 
 

 104 LETTERS AND ESSATS. 
 
 of whom have stated their sentiments at length ; the for- 
 mer in his ESSAY ox RIDICULE, and the latter in his DIS- 
 SERTATION ON THE PRINCIPLES OF HUMAN ELOQ.I 
 
 Dr. Browne speaks thus : " As eloquence is of a vague, 
 unsteady nature, merely relative to the imaginations and 
 passions of mankind ; so there must be several orders 
 and degrees of it, subordinate to each other in disinity, 
 yet each perfect in its kind. The common end of each 
 is persuasion : the means are different, according to the 
 various capacities, fancies, and affections of those whom 
 the artist attempts to persuade. The pathetic orator, 
 who throws a congregation of enthusiasts into tears and 
 groans, would raise affections of a very different nature, 
 should he attempt to proselyte an English parliament. 
 As, on the other hand, the finest speaker that mi com- 
 manded the house would in vain point the thunder of his 
 eloquence on a Quaker meeting." Essay on Ridicule, 
 sect. 3, p. 32. 
 
 Of this passage, Dr. Leland says, "This is plausibly 
 and ingeniously urged; but the whole argument U found- 
 ed on the supposition that eloquence and persuasion are 
 one and the same, and that to be denominated an orator, 
 no more is necessary than to influence and move the 
 hearer : a supposition which cannot be admitted, however 
 witty'men may have talked of the l eloquence of si I 
 or the 'eloquence of nonsense. 1 ['Persuadent mini 
 ilieriulo,' saith Quintilian; vel ducuntin id quod volunt, 
 alii quoque meretrices, adulatorcs, corruptores.' Lib. II. 
 cap. 16.] The alluring accents of an harlot move tin- 
 sensualist; the abject and extravagant praises of a flatterer 
 move the vain man ; and the plain promise of a large 
 reward, expressed without trope or figure, may have the 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 105 
 
 greatest power over the conduct of a traitor or an as- 
 >:>-sin. But it will by no means follow that the harlot, 
 the flatterer, or the suborner, is eloquent. To merit this 
 praise, a man must persuade (if he does persuade) by 
 the real excellences, the engaging and conciliating quali- 
 ties of speech. Accordingly, Aristotle tells us it is the 
 office of rhetoric, 'to perceive whatever is adapted to 
 persuasion in every case.' So that the doctor's orator, 
 who throws a congregation of enthusiasts into tears and 
 groans, is, in reality, no orator at all, because he owes 
 his influence, not to clearness and strength of reasoning, 
 not to dignity of sentiment, force or elegance of expres- 
 sion, and tin 1 like, but to senseless exclamation, unmean- 
 ing rhapsody ; or to grimace, to a sigh, to a rueful coun- 
 tenance ; and if he would in vain endeavour to proselyte 
 an English parliament, it is for this very reason, because 
 he is no orator, nor can any man without any one of the 
 apposita, the rational excellences and engaging qualities 
 of speech, be said to possess a degree of eloquence per- 
 fect in its kind." Leland's Dissertation, ch. 14. 
 
 What Leland says of Browne's may be as justly said 
 of his own argument, that it is plausibly and ingeniously 
 urged ; but probably the opinion of neither is true. Al- 
 though it may be acknowledged that " eloquence is rela- 
 tive to the imaginations and passions of men," yet it 
 does not therefore follow that it is of a " vague, unsteady 
 nature." It mipht as justly be said, that the art of music 
 is of a vague, unsteady nature, because it produces com- 
 positions so infinitely various ; or that the art of the pain- 
 tor is liable to the same reflection, because it is sometimes 
 exercised on copper and sometimes on canvass. The arts 
 themselves are fixed, steady, and immutable ; it is only 
 
106 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 the objects on which they operate that are various and 
 perishable. Neither is it true that the only end of all 
 eloquence is persuasion. An orator undoubtedly often 
 aims to persuade, but he generally has some other end 
 in view. He frequently wishes to alarm, to ron 
 depress, to excite our pity, or to fire our indignation, and 
 sometimes is only desirous to delight the imagination. 
 Now these different objects can never be reduced under 
 - the general head of persuasion, without departing most 
 unwarrantably from the common acceptation of that 
 term. The ingenious instances adduced in the l;i 
 tence of the quotation from Browne, are certainly not 
 sulluirnt to prove either of his positions: namely, that 
 eloquence is of a vague, unsteady nature, or that the com- 
 mon end of all eloquent discourses is persua-ion. The 
 answer just given to the principles themselves, will also 
 destroy the application of these instances. And, in t ruth, 
 the facts which he takes notice of may be acouin 
 in a much more reasonable and unobjectionable manner. 
 
 That the Methodist preacher would product no other 
 eiVect in parliament but that of making himself ridiculous, 
 is unquestionable ; and why 7 Because, in attempting 
 to affect the house, by the use of the same means as 
 those that are successful in his own pulpit, !>< would 
 cease to be eloquent He would be violating one of the 
 fundamental rules of rhetoric, which teaches us, that a 
 speaker ought to have a constant regard to the quality of 
 his audience. His ill success, therefore, would be owing 
 to his want of art He would fail, because he was inelo- 
 quent. The eloquence which he had displayed on his 
 own ground would still remain unimpeachable. 
 
 The same reasoning is just as applicable to the parlia- 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 107 
 
 mentary speaker, who should point the thunder of his 
 eloquence on a quaker meeting. The thundering sort of 
 eloquence would here be misapplied; and how many 
 soever he might use of those conciliating qualities of 
 speech which Leland speaks of, he would still be 
 unsuccessful, because his speech would not be ad 
 homines. Dr. Leland's remarks are truly sensible, and 
 would not be liable to objection, if altered but a little. 
 The addition to be recommended is a short explanation 
 of what he means by those rational and real excellences, 
 those conciliating qualities of speech, which he repeats 
 as the basis of his reasoning. Had he been called upon 
 for such an explanation, he would, I am persuaded, have 
 expressed himself so as to deviate materially from the 
 truth of the case. He would probably have said, that 
 nature had at first suggested certain forms of speech, 
 which rhetoricians had arranged and settled, and that 
 these he meant to describe by the terms rational and real 
 excellences, engaging and conciliating qualities. This 
 others hare said ; and to such let it be answered, that 
 uerhups the most common faults of all hud writing arise 
 from this supposition, of something intrinsically excellent 
 and eloquent in certain forms of speech, even when 
 considered without any view to the effects which they 
 are fitted to produce. Most writers, it must be confessed, 
 employ tropes and figures because they are tropes and 
 figures, and not because they are calculated to produce 
 certain effects on the minds of their readers or hearers. 
 The term conciliating is itself relative, and supposes some- 
 body to be conciliated ; and these conciliating qualities of 
 speech must vary as much as the tempers and under- 
 standings of those who are to be conciliated. That 
 
108 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 which is a conciliatory quality in a Methodist congrega- 
 gation is not so in parliament, and that which is so in 
 parliament is not so in quaker meeting. 
 
 The grimaces and rueful exclamations, which Leland 
 supposes are so effectual in a conventicle, are certainly 
 more useful there than even his conciliating qualities and 
 rational excellences of speech ; but it is also true, that 
 exclamations more pathetic, and gestures more natural, 
 would be still more clfretual, e\en in an assembly of 
 enthusiasts; and the tears and groans prodin 
 grimaces only show the great advantage of appropriating 
 nnd adapting both style and gesture, since he ! 
 allows that these awkward attempts at adaptation have 
 more effect than the most polite and splendid oration, if 
 composed and delivered without any regard t 
 peculiarities of the audience. Yet although the \ 
 
 per, int. lli'.renee. cu>toms, opinions and prr'r 
 among mankind, is very great, there are 
 
 am master-passions an 
 
 lices, that all men have in common, which form the 
 character of the species, and greatly ov< 
 dental and acquired differences. Variety of < 
 undoubtedly one of the characteristics of man, but simi- 
 larity is a more important one. We all both n 
 differ from each other in countenance and form, 11 
 as in the turn and quality of our minds. Just M> it is in 
 the art of eloquence ; the kinds are as various as the kinds 
 .ill arise from a few fixed and invariable 
 principles ; and no other forms of speech can deserve the 
 names which Leland has given them, but such as are 
 addressed to those qualities in human nature, which 
 
 perfect individual of the species is found to possess. 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 109 
 
 Such qualities there undoubtedly are ; and so far as we 
 are all alike, so far are the rules of eloquence invariable, 
 so far must a speaker's addresses to our understandings 
 and tempers be in all cases the same. In what situation, 
 or at what season, would it be wrong that the style 
 should be proportioned to the subject, should be perspicu- 
 ous in explanation, accurate in reasoning, decorated in 
 giving delight, or animated in exciting passion 1 That 
 the opening of a speech should not betray insolence nor 
 conceit ; that the narration should be intelligible ; that 
 the arguments should be cogent ; that the arrangement 
 should be advantageous ; that the expression should tt 
 suitable ; that the pronunciation should be varied and 
 distinct ; these are not the precepts of one age or one 
 country ; they are necessary to be observed at this time, 
 as they were when Aristotle orQuintilian first inculcated 
 them. 
 
 Instead, therefore, of concluding with Dr. Browne, 
 that eloquence is of a vague, unsteady nature, or with 
 Leland, that the enthusiast would fail because he is no 
 orator, let these inferences be drawn that eloquence is 
 fixed on steady and unchangeable principles ; that it is 
 exceedingly extensive in its use, and relates to every 
 kind of discourse or speech that can be imagined ; that 
 he who follows its precepts in one instance, is in that 
 instance truly eloquent, however he may fail of success 
 when attempting another kind of speaking, whether it be 
 of a higher or lower degree ; and, in short, let Dr. 
 Campbell's definition be thought the true one, when he 
 says, that " eloquence is the art by which a discourse is 
 adapted to its end." This definition solves all difficulties, 
 explains, and, as it were, embodies all rules, and is the 
 10 
 
1 10 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 
 grand axiom by which the propriety of every subordinate 
 rhetorical precept must finally be tried. If such con- 
 clusions can be satisfactorily drawn from the foregoing 
 thoughts, the [examination of the subject has not been 
 useless. For it is plainly of material consequence to be 
 right in the first principles of a practical question, since 
 real conduct in life and business cannot but be greatly 
 affected by their truth or falsehood. He who thinks 
 eloquence to be the art of deceiving, with Mr. Locke, 
 will, if h- he a good man, never study to 1x3 eloquent. He 
 who thinks it is speaking ornamentally, will he speakinir 
 ornamentally when speaking plainly would be more 
 efficacious. He will, most probably, be lavish of his 
 tropes and figures, when these ambitious decorations 
 should be shunned, or employed with the most sparing 
 caution. He who thinks it consists in movinp the 
 passions, will often be weeping unaccompanied by the 
 lean of his ainlinice ; and he who thinks it is the art o^ 
 persuading, will not unfrrqueiitly he urgent when he 
 ought to be instructive, or using vehement entreaties 
 instead of powerful proofs. He, and he only, will not be 
 cramped in the exercise of his art by the narrowness of 
 his principles, who thinks it is the art of speaking and 
 writing in such a manner as is most likely to obtain 
 the ends which he proposes to himself in speaking or 
 writing. Does he address the multitude ? He will aim 
 at being perspicuous, intelligible, and impassioned. 
 Does he speak before men of learning, and such as are 
 eloquent themselves ? He will endeavour to be rational 
 and concise. Does he desire to convince? He will 
 reason. Does he wish to give delight? He will be 
 copious, flowing, rich in imagery, and elegant in ex- 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 1 1 1 
 
 pression : nothing will be harsh, nothing careless, nothing 
 unpolished or repulsive. Does he mean to agitate or 
 persuade ? He will be warm, animated, and glowing. 
 He will arm himself with the thunders and lightnings of 
 eloquence ; or will speak in the mildest tone of insinua- 
 tion, with " bated breath and whispering humbleness." 
 In short, he will at all times accommodate himself to his 
 situation ; he will be 
 
 " Orpheus in the woods, Arion among dolphins." 
 
 Like Sylla, he will convert the trees of the academy into 
 martial engines. 
 
 Yet this is not all his praise, for it is not only on public 
 and solemn occasions that he will find opportunities to 
 use his manifold skill his eloquence is not only fitted 
 for the bar, the pulpit, or the public assemblies of the 
 state, but for the numberless interesting occurrences of 
 private life, and may even descend to the narration of 
 * vi Mils, the composition of a letter, or the dexterous 
 management of common conversation. To men who 
 have lived in the world, and seen real affairs, the utility 
 of such a varied, accommodating, and ready skill, cannot 
 but be obviously apparent. It is thus spoken of by Lord 
 Bacon, and is set down by him among the desiderata : 
 
 *' Surely it will not be amiss to recommend this 
 whereof we now speak to a new enquiry, to call it by 
 name, The wisdom of private speech, and to refer it to 
 deficients ; a thing certainly which the more seriously a 
 man shall think of, the more highly he shall value. 
 But setting aside the evident advantages arising from 
 a superior ability in delivering one's sentiments on great 
 occasions, and even omitting to lay any stress on the 
 
1 1 2 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 obvious utility of the same skill when exerted in a 
 private affairs ; the pleasures that arise from fine writing 
 are so great, so various, so often to be communicated, 
 and so easy to be obtained, that this consideration alone 
 would defend the art from the imputation of insignifi- 
 cance. For I can never be brought to believe that they 
 are unprofitably employed, who are constantly increasim* 
 the daily pleasures of their fellow creatures ; who can 
 contrive, without corrupting men's minds, to divert ;'-nd 
 entertain them. Shall those be called unprofitable 
 labours, which deliver a private man from the influence 
 of his domestic anxieties ; an artisan from the ell 
 his labour; a soldier from his sufferings; a statesman 
 from his cares: which enable one man to forget his 
 poverty, another his disease, a third his captivity, and 
 all their misfortunes?" 
 
 \\lioare these severe judges that are ever in 
 iip.m the exclusive excellence of the mechanical, com- 
 mercisil, or even philosophical employments; as if 
 employment* were good for any t: 
 separately from the end which they aim at in common 
 with works of imagination, "the promotion of happi- 
 ness?" Are there any of them that tend mon 
 diately to this great purpose? Which of them has 
 more power to refine the manners, to soften the temper, 
 to diffuse tranquillity and cheerfulness, to coned and 
 enlarge the mind? Away, then, with such short-sighted 
 objections, and let those that choose it prefer the man 
 who makes a blade of grass grow where it grew not 
 before, to the poet and the moralist who water the 
 sickly seeds of virtue, and cause a rich harvest of good 
 deeds to spring up from the unfriendly soil of a depraved 
 or neglected heart. 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 1 13 
 
 TO MR. HORNE TOOKE. 
 
 21** October, 1792. 
 
 I have attain gone through the " EEIEA nTEPO 
 ENTA" carefully, without once using an Englishman's 
 most valuable privilege, the right of skipping; but I have 
 read it a second time with much delight, and more 
 
 osed it to be a mere grammar, and 
 being (what it truly is) a treatise on 
 ysics; yet I was already aware that 
 ally, analytic methods, and that, in 
 lencc, we are learning to combine, 
 ^ralise. Without mentioning algebra 
 well-known fact that the blind can 
 cting forms and colours, is a proof 
 laracters are the chief, though not 
 . nts of ratiocination. In the simpler 
 life, I acknowledge the same to be 
 hing a name, and it is attended to, 
 oliar tint has been christened, we 
 i it, but not before. 
 
 possible to overrate either the hin- 
 
 'm a clumsy and a confused notation, 
 
 from one that is skilful and clear. 
 
 -t the invention of logarithms has, in 
 
 he lives of astronomers ; and Newton, 
 
 that, " by an algebraical process, Mr. 
 
 10* 
 
 
1 1 2 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 obvious utility of the same skill when exerted in a man's 
 private affairs ; the pleasures that arise from fine writing 
 are so great, so various, so often to be communicated, 
 and so easy to be obtained, that this consideration alone 
 would defend the art from the imputation of insignifi- 
 cance. For I can never be brought to believe that they 
 are unprofitably employed, who are constantly inn. 
 the daily pleasures of their fellow creatures ; who can 
 contrive, without corrupting men's munis, to divert and 
 entertain them. Shall those be called unpn. fit able 
 labours, which deliver a private man f 
 of his domestic anxieties ; an artisan f r 
 his labour; a soldier from his sullerii 
 from his cares: which enable one nv, ? 
 poverty, another his disease, a third 
 all their misfortunes!" 
 
 Who are these severe judges that i 
 upon tli. exclusive excellence of the 
 mercial, or even philosophical cmployn 
 employments were good for any * 
 separately from the end which i 1 
 with works of imagination, "the 
 ness?" Are there any of them that 
 diately to this great purpose! \\'\\ 
 more power to refine the manner 
 to diffuse tranquillity and cheerfubu 
 enlarge the mind 1 Away, then, with 
 objections, and let those that choose 
 who makes a blade of grass grow \ 
 before, to the poet and the moral i 
 sickly seeds of virtue, and cause a ri 
 deeds to spring up from the unfriendly 
 or neglected heart. 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 1 13 
 
 TO MR. HORNE TOOKE. 
 
 Zlst October, 1792. 
 
 I have again gone through the " EIIEA I1TEPO 
 ENTA" carefully, without once using an Englishman's 
 most valuable privilege, the right of skipping; but I have 
 read it a second time with much delight, and more 
 advantage. 
 
 I at first supposed it to be a mere grammar, and 
 did not suspect its being (what it truly is) a treatise on 
 logic and metaphysics; yet I was already aware that 
 languages are, really, analytic methods, and that, in 
 K-arning the accidence, we are learning to combine, 
 abstract, and generalise. Without mentioning algebra 
 or fluxions, the well-known fact that the blind can 
 reason well respecting forms and colours, is a proof 
 that words and characters are the chief, though not 
 the only instruments of ratiocination. In the simpler 
 cases of common life, I acknowledge the same to be 
 true. Give any thing a name, and it is attended to, 
 as when any peculiar tint has been christened, we 
 learn to distinguish it, but not before. 
 
 It is scarcely possible to overrate either the hin- 
 drances arising from a clumsy and a confused notation, 
 or the aid derived from one that is skilful and clear. 
 La Place says, that the invention of logarithms has, in 
 effect, lengthened the lives of astronomers ; and Newton, 
 long ago, observed that, " by an algebraical process, Mr. 
 10* 
 
1 1 4 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 Machin has approximated the quadrature of the circle 
 much more nearly than was practicable by the methods 
 of the ancients ; since the utmost length of man's life 
 would have been too short for the task." 
 
 Even in the shifting hues that play over the creations 
 of wit and humour, the phraseology is a help to inven- 
 tion. Thus many have remarked, that it is easier to be 
 witty in French than in German.* 
 
 Your etymological discoveries have dispelled many a 
 thick cloud hanging over intellectual objects. and hiding 
 them even from the piercing eyes of Mr. Locke. I well 
 remember my own perplexity and discouragement ^hen 
 I first read the following wordy and confused passages in 
 his "Essay." 
 
 " Besides words, which are names of ideas, there are a 
 
 many others that are made use of to signify the 
 
 cunnt .rinn that the mind gives to ideas, or propositioTis, 
 
 The mind in communieat> 
 thoughts to others, does not only need signs of Un- 
 it has then before it, but others also, to show or intimate 
 some particular action of its own, at that time, n !..- 
 those ideas * * * *. He who would show tli- 
 use of Particles, and what force and BJ they 
 
 have, must take a little pains, enter into his own 
 thoughts, and observe nicely the several postures of his 
 mind in discoursing * * * *. They are all marks of 
 some action, or intimation of the mind: and therefore, 
 to understand them rightly, the several views, postures, 
 
 * A most ingenious writer goes so far as to say of the 
 French, " C'est une langue qui va d'clle meme, cxprimc 
 sans qu'on s'en me"le, et parait presque toujours avoir 
 plus d'esprit que celui qui parle." 1834. 
 

 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 1 15 
 
 stands, turns, limitations, and exceptions, and several 
 other thoughts of the mind, for which we have either 
 none, or very deficient names, are diligently to be 
 studied." 
 
 A greater philosopher still has said, " Verba vestigia 
 mentis." What, then, must be his deserts who enables 
 us to understand, and to employ them, by giving, as it 
 were, their whole biography 1 
 
 There are, however, difficulties in abstruse enquiries 
 far beyond the reach of lexicons. The words, too, 
 themselves, often come down to us from antiquity in a 
 waving line, departing from the original signification, so 
 far as to be opposed to it. Your admired Des Brossas 
 has a chapter full of such examples, but I shall remind 
 you only of our. 
 
 " L'emploi que nous faisons de notre mot quitte a tire 
 son origine d'un Latinisme assez connu. J'en xuis 
 quitte, c'est-a-dire, on ne m'en parlera plus; je su 
 Quietus sum ab ilia re. Sin 
 
 locution nous avons fait le verbe quitter pour abandon- 
 De sorte que le mot quitter se trouve, des la 
 seconde generation, avoir quelquefois un sens tout con- 
 traire au primitif. Car lorsqu'on dit : Je vuis dans une 
 grande inquietude depuis le moment ou vous m'avez 
 quittc, n'est-ce pas comme si Ton disoit en Latin: 
 Valda sum inquietus. ex qua die quietus sum a te?"* 
 
 Much depends on the feelings and habits of the word- 
 makers and word-users, as, perhaps, in the language of 
 post-horses, humanity may signify cruelty. 
 
 Now do not think your thankful pupil impudent for 
 
 * " Mechanisme des Langues," Sect. 175. 
 
I 
 
 1 1 6 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 confessing that you seem, occasionally, to place too much 
 confidence in etymology, when you are analysing im- 
 portant terms in morals and metaphysics. You must not 
 suspect me of undervaluing the truth of any individual 
 derivation, or its logical consequence. The more we 
 read and reflect, the more frequently do we discover that 
 abstract disputes are commonly mere logomachis, wars 
 of words, battles in the air between phantoms without 
 souls or bodies. Words, therefore, must be examined as 
 with a microscope. 
 
 Even though I have taken the trouble to write out 
 these doubts, I should not have put the japi r into this 
 parcel, if I had not known that Cooper has ahead 
 you of our scepticism. Since he has turned king's 
 nee, he may be pardoned ; but you can punish me, 
 if you please, to-morrow, by sending me to tin 
 We shall go to Wimbledon together, 
 perhaps Rogers may accompany us. He is quite in- 
 rescnt, but, to own the truth, there is a con- 
 y to treat you as the prophet in Virgil was 
 by the boys and girl, in compelling you to talk j! 
 phy, instead of politics. Our motives are two. We 
 think it will to you be a " douce violence," and we 
 would much rather that you should philosophise, 
 at the cost of hearing our own notions refuted and 
 laughed at. 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 1 17 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 July, 1794. (Extract.) 
 
 It has been objected by a fine writer to your prime 
 favourite, Mr. Locke's important refutation of the doc- 
 trine of innate ideas, and to the well-known comparison 
 of the intellect to a sheet of blank paper, that "on the 
 paper may be written, sugar is bitter, wormwood is 
 sweet, gratitude is base, envy is noble ; but no force nor 
 fraud can ever print such impressions on the mind. 
 The human soul," it is added, has predetermined sen- 
 timents and tastes springing from a source beyond expe- 
 rience, custom, or ch 
 
 Now, this objection, though it has a \>' 
 ance, is not an accurate statement of the fact. Authority, 
 and even accident, do frequently inscribe false proposi- 
 tions on the minds, both of young and old. The memory 
 and the understanding are " ras tabulae," for testimony 
 and experience to write upon ; though testimony and 
 experience, it is true, are controlled by the natures of 
 physical and of moral existence, by our senses, and by 
 our feelings of pain and pleasure : that is, by the very 
 constitution both of the universe and of ourselves. It is 
 indisputable that our senses do not usually write non- 
 sense or falsehood on the memory ; but it is equally true 
 that their evidence being mistaken, they jdo so occasion- 
 ally, and nothing but patient, persevering analysis, can 
 efface or correct the inscriptions. The difference be- 
 
118 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 tween visible and tangible magnitude, and, to use more 
 homely examples, the delusive perceptions of pain in an 
 amputated limb, and the appearances on the banks of a 
 river while we are sailing, " terraeque urbesque recedunt," 
 are decisive proofs of erroneous conclusions. Indeed it 
 requires much caution to form right opinions; and, as 
 Dr. Moore observes, " if ideas were innate, it would save 
 much trouble to many worthy persons." 
 
 Leibnitz, after truly representing Locke's doctrine as 
 an exemplification of the ancient maxim, "IS'ihil < >t in 
 intellectu quod non prids fuerat in sensu,"* adds, "nisi 
 intellectus ipse ;" and Mr. Dugald Stewart \\annly 
 praises the acuteness of this remark. But how can any 
 man think highly of an axiom which has absurdity in its 
 . xpression 1 OnJy strike out the middle clause, and 
 see what can be made of " Nihil est in intellect u nisi 
 intellectus ipse."f Why, the question its< It in di>e, 
 
 re the laws of the intellect, and how do they 
 origin 
 
 'plying to this enquiry, we must, at present, men- 
 tion instinct as well as perception, though, since the prin- 
 ciple of association (that great sensitive and into!,- 
 law!) has been carefully traced, the theory of instinct is 
 daily becoming less and less necessary to account for the 
 phenomena. Hero lie (and but little below the surface) 
 the seeds of a rich harvest for the sickle of future 
 metaphysicians. Sensation and association will probably 
 be found to account for nearly all the appearances. Thus 
 
 * There is nothing in the intellect which was not pre- 
 viously in the senses. 
 
 t There is nothing in the intellect but the intellect 
 itself. 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 1 19 
 
 in ethics, the existence of a moral sense cannot be doubt- 
 ed ; but its instinctive, innate origin is, I suppose, given 
 up by most philosophers, and habit, unavoidable habit, is 
 admitted to be its source. 
 
 A stumble at the threshold, not unlike Leibnitz' false 
 step, occurs in the elementary dictum of some eminent 
 modern materialists ; " Movent sed non promovent." 
 Two great teachers in this school have defined an idea 
 to be " a motion in the brain perceived." Now, did any 
 man ever perceive a motion in his brain 1 There may 
 be, and there probably is a motion there, and it may be 
 followed by perception ; but who has ever pm-i'iviul the 
 motion, or detected the connection! Anatomists and 
 physiologists may do their utmost, but there will always 
 remain an undiscovered something between the bodily 
 organ and the percipient power. 
 
 In subjects of this kind (and indeed in all suijrcts) it 
 is best to learn, as it were, the alphabet of the doc-trim 1 . 
 Many a time something may be found in the first chap- 
 ter of a book, rendering it needless to read on ; and when 
 it happens otherwise, still the benefit of examining first 
 principles is great. 
 
 The ascent from the bottom of the hill may be fa- 
 tiguing ; but, when the summit is attained, what a pro- 
 spect ! What a distance between a minute examination 
 of the mere letters composing a word, and the sublime 
 theory that may be disclosed in its import ! 
 
 You must sometimes have been surprised by the length 
 of your journeys. 
 
1 20 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 TO FRANCIS HORNER, ESQ. 
 
 Fredley Farm, 18th June, 1805. 
 
 I am not surprised that you have reflected, as you say, 
 " again and again," on the subject of our singular con- 
 versation, although you still smile at our ha\inu r fallen 
 upon such a topic, in our long walk among the woods of 
 NORBCRT. No sulijtvl ran well be more important, and 
 none is more perplexing it is a sea almost \\ithouta 
 shore. 
 
 In Turgot's article, "Existence/' h<- hardly < xagge- 
 rates, though he says, "Les degres de probability dont 
 ui ir juste estimc et une exacte mesure seroient le comblc 
 de la sagacitc ct de la prudence."* 
 
 Hear Lucretius too : 
 
 " Nam nihil egregius quam its seccrnere apertas 
 A dubuV't 
 
 And Cicero ;t " Bene qui conjiciet vatem hunc perhibebo 
 optimum. ' 
 
 * u The degrees of probability, a just estimate and an 
 exact measure of which would be the height of sagacity 
 and prudence." 
 
 t " For nothing is more excellent than to separate the 
 certain from the doubtful." 
 
 t " I will esteem him the best prophet who guesses 
 well." 
 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 121 
 
 I agree with you, however, that a common opinion 
 intimated by Gibbon, in the following passage, is not 
 true. 
 
 " I desisted from the pursuit of mathematics before my 
 mind was hardened by the habit of rigid demonstration, 
 so destructive of the finer feelings of moral evidence ; 
 which determine the actions and opinions of our lives." 
 
 Are we not more benefited by the habits of close at- 
 tention formed in the study of mathematics, than injured 
 by the hardening process which he dreaded ? Surely the 
 necessity of walking all our lives in the twilight of pro- 
 bable evidence, corrects the searing influence of our see- 
 ing occasionally by the blaze of a noon-day sun. 
 
 It is remarkable, that the rules of probability have al- 
 ways been spoken of as important desiderata, and that 
 several of the greatest authors have declared their inten- 
 tion to treat of them at length ; but, somehow or other, 
 they have always put off the task to another day. Leib- 
 nitz even tells Thomas Burnet in a letter, " Si Dieu me 
 donne encore de la vie et de la santc, j'en ferai ma prin- 
 cipale affaire."* 
 
 It has often struck me, that this never-failing post- 
 ponement of the arduous undertaking cannot have arisen 
 from a want of courage or of industry ; but that it proves 
 only a secret suspicion of the truth, that a complete, or 
 even a very useful enumeration of such rules, is imprac- 
 ticable. 
 
 Fortunately, the habits always generated by an irre- 
 
 * " If God should yet spare me life and health, I will 
 make it my chief occupation. 1 ' 
 
 11 
 
122 LETTERS AND ESSAYS 
 
 sistible association of ideas and motives well supply the 
 deficiency. Only consider the vast multitude, and the 
 complication of facts to be dealt with, their infinite de- 
 grees and shades, and the incalculable consequences of 
 the slightest error in the data. A single leaf close to tin 
 eye may hide a mountain. 
 
 As you have mislaid our short account of those who 
 have written on this peculiar subject, 1 shall copy, on the 
 other side, my own imperfect list. What great n 
 What unperformed promises ! 
 
 As a professional man, you needed not to be reminded 
 of GILBERT and PHILLIPS. They are, perhaps, the best 
 guides ; since, in law, there are adjudicated principles, 
 founded on the learning and experience of the subtlest 
 and most pains-taking of men. 
 
 The nature of the evidence to be looked for in any 
 particular enquiry, has been often and well considered : 
 and herein our great master, Dr. Butler, has shown his 
 usual superiority. 
 
 Among the humbler hills of Cumberland, I shall envy 
 you the sight of the sublimer mountains in your nati\< 
 country ; yet, I shall grudge you much more the oppor- 
 tunity of discussing these things with Mr. Dugald Stew- 
 art, either at Kinneil or in Edinburgh. With us, meta- 
 physics are out of fashion ; and I hardly know any man, 
 but our friend Mackintosh, who eulti\ ience. 
 
 He, alas ! is gone to another hemisphere ; and in his 
 last letter, he talks of forsaking psychology for history. 
 
 THE LIST. 
 
 Aristotle; especially Topic, ch. 14, and Ethic, ad Ni- 
 com., Lib. I. ch. 1. 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 123 
 
 Gassendi, Locke, and Leibnitz, passim. 
 
 St. Augustin, De Utilitate Credendi." 
 
 Rudiger, Reusch, Muller, Hoffman, Kahle, Ahlward. 
 
 Gravesande ; " Introductio ad Philosophiam." Ley- 
 den, 1737. The chapters on simple and complex pro- 
 bability : the whole book on the origin of errors : the 
 chapter on analysis and synthesis, and other parts rela- 
 tive to dexterity in practice. 
 
 Halley's Philosophical Transactions, No. 196, &c. 
 
 Butler's Analogy. 
 
 Borlffius, " De Lege Probabilitatis." 
 
 Bernouilli, " Ars Conjectandi." 
 
 Buffon, " Arithmetique Morale." 
 
 Hume's treatise " On Human Nature." Vol. I. 
 
 Condorcet's " Essai sur 1'Application de 1'Analyse a 
 la Probability des Decisions rendues a la Pluralite des 
 Voix." Paris, 1785. 
 
 Thorshmid, " Historia Probabilitatis Antiquissima." 
 1749. 
 
 Garve, " De nonnullis quae pertinent ad Logicam Pro- 
 ubilitatis." Halle, 1776. 
 
 The concluding part of Freret's " Essay on the Evi- 
 dence of History," in the Memoires de 1' Academic. Vol. 
 VIII. 12mo edition. 
 
 Helvetius, De 1'Homme." Sect 2, Note 40. Ch. 
 15, Sect. 9. 
 
 Helvetius, De 1'Esprit." Tom. I. page 7. 
 
 Mendelsohn, as quoted by Pistorius in his Notes on 
 Hartley. 
 
 Robins's Answer to Berkeley's " Analyst" 
 
 The latter part of the Report to the House of Com- 
 mons on the Proceedings in Hastings^ Trial, 1794" 
 By Mr. Burke. 
 
124 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Fredley Farm, July 1, 1805. 
 
 You think that I expressed myself too unguardedly in 
 my last letter, when I said that a very useful enumera- 
 tion of rules is impracticable. Perhaps I did so. 
 
 It is true, also, that the great law of thought, the asso- 
 ciation of ideas and feelings in daily life, is too vague in 
 its results to be relied upon in abstruse reasoning. The 
 difference between them I own to be both unquestion- 
 able and important. In a scientific experiment, we 
 must measure heat by a thermometer, and not by the 
 hand, though we need not ask the instrument whether 
 we should put on an additional waistcoat. 
 
 The necessity for instant decision in life, ren!< 
 often prudent ! t:ikr the ehance nf beinjr ritiht or wrong, 
 without waiting to balance reasons very nicely. In such 
 cmaea, and sometimes even in speculation, this kind of 
 credulity is more philosophical than scepticism ; though 
 authority in abstruse investigations should usually do 
 little more than excite attention, while in practice it 
 must guide our conduct. We trust to the mile-stoi 
 a journey to York, and do not wait for a trigononv 
 sur\ey before we set out. In our daily affairs, we 
 luckily do not act on a mathematical estimate of proba- 
 bilities. Who, for instance, would be perfectly at ease, 
 were his life depending on a lottery of 5,000 tickets, 
 though there were but one fatal blank in the wheel ? 
 

 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 125 
 
 Yet what is our chance of living out the week ? Mo- 
 iiere's well-known couplet ridicules this misapplication 
 of philosophical arguings : 
 
 To reason is our business, day by day, 
 And reasoning chases reason quite away." 
 
 In experiments and in abstract pursuits, we cannot, 
 often, be too hesitating and distrustful. Are those scales 
 bad ones that weigh to a scruple ? You will pardon the 
 double meaning. Yet, sometimes, even in such enquiries, 
 while truth lies on the surface, we dig and dig only to 
 turn up errors, almost as ridiculously as the monkey's 
 carefully examining the back of a looking-glass to find 
 out the image. 
 
 The mental habits formed in the streets and in the 
 study are more than different they are sometimes at 
 variance with each other ; and superiority in science, as 
 you will remember, does not always imply the soundest 
 judgment in morals or in religion. Pascal, a superlative 
 mathematician mid an exquisite controvertist, believed 
 that miracles were performed by a holy pickle, and wore 
 under his shirt an unintelligible amulet. 
 
 How to measure precisely the danger of believing too 
 readily or too reluctantly, I do not know ; and, though 
 you are right in thinking that it would be advantageous 
 to study the maxims of evidence, yet you are quite wrong 
 in supposing that I can suggest a single one that is either 
 new or incontrovertible. 
 
 The difficulties are many, and one springs up at the 
 very outset : for the probability itself of a fact, by pre- 
 possessing the mind, may prevent due examination, and 
 11* 
 
1 26 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 become a reason for distrusting the general belief. 
 Then, as we go on, argument confutes argument, fact 
 opposes fact, testimony contradicts testimony one man 
 doubts the bible, another believes the gazette. A person 
 thinks he has a pain in his arm after it has been cut off. 
 Cross the fingers and one pebble feels like. two. Do we 
 not most plainly see the sun moving along the heavens T 
 But these are old remarks, and they do not justify scep- 
 ticism ; they only call for caution. 
 
 Do what we will, we must philosophise, well or ill, 
 and the minds of the ignorant swarm with insect-hypo- 
 theses ; they for ever generalise too soon and too much. 
 Objects at a distance, or seen by a mere glance, are much 
 alike, and all colours are the same to those that are in 
 tin- dark. Lessing has declared, that if the Almighty 
 had offered truth in one hand, and the art of searching 
 for it in the other, he would have taken the latter. 
 This is pretty strong; and very diili -rent is the fashion- 
 reed in our time ; though it is confessed by soasfl, 
 that metaphysics are good preparatory studies, as some 
 Hivrn ernp.N may he j.rofitahly raised, if to be ploughed 
 into the land intended to bear more useful grain. It is 
 allowed, too, that they may invigorate the Lenities, as 
 archers strengthen their arms by shooting into the air. 
 
 1 think I see you smiling at this long postscript to mv 
 last lettei (for it is no more), as a new (I wish I could 
 say an amusing) instance of the inutility of such pursuits, 
 ending, after many turnings and windings, just where 
 they began. You look a little giddy just now, after this 
 intellectual waltzjthis jaunt in a round-about ; " vacuum 
 per inane volutus." Take down directly one of your 
 law-books ; read but two pages, and the walls of your 
 chambers will again stand still. 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 127 
 
 TO SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH. 
 
 January 8, 1830. 
 
 Your friend must have been in a very good humour, 
 when he spoke so civilly of my hasty plan for the study 
 of that much ridiculed science, metaphysics ; and you 
 must have been more than reasonably humble, when, 
 being so much better informed than I am, you could 
 have any wish to ask my feeble help in directing your 
 young and eager correspondent. Why ! you surely have 
 forgotten that I do not read the German writers, whom 
 you have of late esteemed somewhat more highly than 
 you formerly did. Perhaps you are too busy to spare 
 the time for such a sketch, and any desire of yours is 
 suili.-ient to overcome even my reluctance to appear as 
 teaching him from whom I am accustomed to learn. 
 I thought you justly blamed Mr. Dugald Stewart the 
 other day, for having spoken so decidedly of the German 
 pliilosophy, without having the means of examining the 
 books of its original inventors ; yet, pardon me, I must, 
 though with real diffidence, own, that so far as I am 
 enabled, by the French and English expositors to com- 
 prehend their doctrines, they seem to be chiefly ancient 
 errors newly christened and made formidable by the 
 disguise of a systematic and mysterious nomenclature 
 an old play with new dresses and decorations. The 
 cobwebs appear to be spun with scientific formality, and 
 with some elegance. Of course, those learned persons, 
 
 
1 28 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 who have taken the trouble to learn the new language, 
 will say, that " the grapes are sour ;" I hope they have 
 found them sweet and nutritive. In our English gar- 
 dens they do not ripen. Now, then, you will acknow- 
 ledge that I am a blind guide, and not fit to be trusted. 
 Give this caution to the young student ; but here, not- 
 withstanding, is the list that you request, and you will 
 see that I by no means advise an enquirer to read in a 
 chronological order. 
 
 Perhaps the following is a convenient arrangement of 
 the works to be studied. 
 
 Locke's " Conduct of the Understanding." 
 
 The first book of his " Essay." 
 
 Duncan's " Logic," not as a logic, but as a clear and 
 elegant exposition of Locke's elementary opinions. 
 
 Hobbes's "Treatise on Human Natu; 
 
 The first nine chapters of the " Leviathan." 
 
 Hobbcs's " Treatise on Liberty and Necessity." 
 
 Hobbes's " Computatio," in his Latin works, which 
 are not in the folio rdiu<m. 
 
 Locke, as you know, has borrowed from Gassendi -me I 
 from Hobbes, though he prudently did not venture to 
 quote the latter, foreseeing that he should call uj> a host 
 of implacable and powerful enemies. 
 
 HARTLEY'S "Theory," paying no attention to hi> 
 hypothesis of vibrations. 
 
 Condillac " Logique," and " Essai sur 1'Origine de nos 
 Connoissances." 
 
 N. B. I have a manuscript of Hartley'.-, Theory, 
 dated many years before Condillac had published. 
 
 Bonnet " Psychologic," and his " Essai Analyticjue." 
 are good, but they may be deferred or omitted. 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 129 
 
 The remainder of Locke's " Essay." 
 Collins on " Liberty and Necessity." 
 Dr. Clark's metaphysical works. 
 Reid's Enquiry." His larger work may be looked 
 at cursorily. 
 
 All Dugald Stewart's works for, though he is some- 
 times wrong in his elementary principles, he is always 
 an instructive, elegant, and encouraging writer. 
 
 Berkeley's " Theory of Vision," which, I know, you 
 justly consider as an inestimable contribution to the 
 science. 
 
 Whateley's Logic." 
 
 By this time, Aristotle must be consulted. The in- 
 dexes will facilitate the search ; and, if the tyro is not a 
 thorough hellenist, let him get help from the best trans- 
 lators, or rather the paraphrasers and commentators on 
 the Ethics," Politics," and " Analyi 
 Cudworth's " Immutable Morality." 
 Butler's " Analogy," and all his sermons." 
 Cooper's " Essay on Moral Obligation." 
 Shaftesbury's " Enquiry concerning Virtue." 
 Hume's " Enquiry into the Principles of Morals." 
 Dr. Johnson's " Review of Soame Jenyns." 
 Bentham's " Essay on Legislation." How remarkable 
 that he should consider Hume as the original author of 
 his ethical system ! 
 
 Mackintosh's Dissertation to be read with care. 
 Dr. Brown's " Lectures." The ethical lectures seem 
 to me inferior to the metaphysical, being not only wordy, 
 but erroneous in the fundamental principle. 
 
 He has misconceived Hartley's and Hume's opinions ; 
 
130 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 yet, the earliest parts of the work are of much value ; 
 especially his account of the origin of our notion of 
 extension and external existence. This excepted, it 
 appears to me that even his best passages are chiefly 
 commentaries on Hartley's thoughts, though he does not 
 seem to have read him carefully. Brown is also too 
 declamatory and too full of repetitions. 
 
 Mill's "Analysis of the Human Mind." 
 
 The writers here recommended often differ from each 
 other ; but it frequently happens that, to understand an 
 author, it is necessary to look at his predecessors ami his 
 antagonists. In most speculations, prevalent opinions 
 are either disputed or defended. This should never be 
 forgotten. 
 
 I am aware that this is the road-book of a long jour- 
 ney ; but, I believe that, in such subjects, " the fart lust 
 way about is the nearest way home." I remember Mr. 
 Home Tooke's saying of intellectual philosophy, that he 
 had become better acquainted with the country through 
 having had the good luck, sometimes, to lose his way 
 " Si non crrasset fecerat ille minus." 
 
 To you, it is altogether needless to add one word as 
 to the probable advantages of such a laborious pursuit 
 >t' lirst principles, being so well aware, as you are, that 
 to begin at the beginning in the sciences, as well as in 
 matters of fact, is the nearest and safest road to the mil. 
 Even sensible men are too commonly satisfied with 
 tracing their thoughts a little way backwards, and they 
 are, of course, soon perplexed by a profounder ad\ 
 In this respect, most people's minds are too like a child's 
 garden, where the flowers are planted without their roots. 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 1 3 1 
 
 It may be said of morals and of literature, as truly as of 
 sculpture and painting, that to understand the outside of 
 human nature, we should be well acquainted with the 
 inside. You can handle the anatomist's knife as well 
 as the artist's pencil. 
 
132 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 January 30, 1831. 
 
 As your Dissertation must, undoubtedly, be published 
 separately, I hope it will be done without delay, and I 
 am anxious that you should render it complete. This 
 will cost you but little trouble, and will require but a 
 short addition. 
 
 I have now read it attentively for the second liihe. 
 and I feel it to be merely justice to say, that I think it 
 by far the most profound and convincing work on Ethics 
 that I have ever met with. In saying so much, I am 
 aware that I am giving it no less than the praise of being 
 the best book on the best subject in all philosophy. Are 
 you content ? 
 
 At the same time, let me own, that I think its valin 
 would be greatly increased by a short statement of your 
 own view of MORAL OBLIGATION. This will be little 
 more than an abridgment of scattered passages in your 
 Dissertation. Were it otherwise, I should be disinclined 
 to withdraw your attention from more pressing and, I 
 fear, more engaging pursuits. 
 
 So much of our happiness inevitably depends on the 
 conduct of others, that it has been a serious enquiry, in 
 all times, by what rules we should be guided in our mu- 
 tual intercourse. Indeed, to man only it belongs to 
 know what should be as well as -what is. 
 
 Few differences 'of opinion have existed respecting 
 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 133 
 
 these rules, and none but such as can easily be recon- 
 ciled, or accounted for ; but far otherwise is the case 
 when it has been asked, "What is a good action!" 
 " Why ought we to seek the well-being of others as well 
 as of ourselves 1" 
 
 The answers given you are well acquainted with, and 
 they have been enumerated by writers of great learning 
 and of much acuteness. To ^ou, therefore, I shall only 
 say, that it appears to me indisputable that benevolent 
 intention and beneficial tendency must combine to con- 
 stitute the moral goodness of an action. To do as 
 much good, and as little evil as we can, is the brief and 
 intelligible principle that comprehends all subordinate 
 maxims. Both good tendency and good will are indis- 
 pensable; for conscience may be erroneous as well as 
 callous, may blunder as well as sleep. Perhaps a man 
 cannot be thoroughly mischievous unless he is honest. 
 
 In truth, practice is also necessary, since it is one 
 thing to see that a line is crooked, and another thing to 
 be able to draw a straight one. It is not quite so easy 
 to do good as those may imagine who never try. 
 
 Neither can it be disputed, I think, that our under- 
 standing, our reason, (call it which you will,) must be 
 judge, in the last resort, of every moral quality ; be that 
 whatever it may be, which urges us to act, to approve, or 
 to condemn. Yt, fortunately, we have not been left 
 entirely, nor chiefly, to the cold decisions of our intellect. 
 Far readier and stronger motives push us on, than the 
 tardy results of rational calculation. Yes ! feelings have 
 ever blended with convictions in forming our habits 
 habits, beside which nothing is a sufficiently prompt and 
 12 
 
134 LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 
 
 effectual cause of action in human nature. Virtue thug 
 soon becomes perfectly disinterested soon so much a 
 feeling as scarcely to seem also a principle ; nor is the 
 hypothesis of what is called the moral sense necessary ; 
 if, by that term, be meant any faculty innate and in- 
 stinctive. Once formed, the composition is indissoluble ; 
 the current is one, though fed by a thousand springs. 
 
 I am fully sensible, too, that the end sought for is 
 seldom or never the immediate stimulus to action. 
 
 Now, hi what manner habits spring up and grow, is 
 no secret to you, nor to any person acquainted with that 
 law of our nature which is called Association by Hartley, 
 Suggestion by Brown, and Sequence by Mill. The first 
 has traced them to their sources. 
 
 With you, I regret that no term, yet employed, indi- 
 cates the singleness of the compound, when once the in- 
 uts have been blend rd. 
 
 Thus far, probably, no real difficulty occurs ; but where 
 is to be found a short, clear, and satisfactory explanation 
 of the obligatoriness of moral conduct 1 Certainly not in 
 Paley. Yet it must ever have been unspeakably de.i ru- 
 ble to ascertain what is meant by such words as ou^ht, 
 should, duty, merit, demerit. In every language there 
 arc corresponding terms, but it will be enough to ana- 
 lyse them in our own. 
 
 I conjei -tare that this deficiency has arisen from the 
 inadequacy of a definition to explain the force of words 
 that have been gathering associations from the beginning 
 of life, from the cradle to the grave. 
 
 Etymology seldom accounts for the modern meaning 
 of a word ; yet it is often useful to ask the first question 
 of etymology. 
 
 
LETTERS AND ESSAYS. 135 
 
 It seems as if the notion of DEBT were always visible 
 in these terms ; and, if so, they are plainly instances of 
 a common figure of speech employing the name of a 
 striking part to designate the whole. But I am ventur- 
 ing beyond my purpose, and on such a theme, " Satius 
 est silere quam parum dicere." 
 
 

 
 
VERSES. 
 
 A NEW EDITION. 
 
 u Neque si quis scribal, UTI NOS, 
 Sermoni propriora, putes hunc esse poetam," 
 
 HORAT. Sat IV. Lib. 1. 
 
 12* 
 

 
 
 
139 
 
 EPISTLE TO AN EMINENT POET. 
 
 WRITTEN IN 1792. 
 
 " Hie error tamen, et levis htec insania quantas 
 Virtutes babeat." 
 
 HOR. Epis. I. Lib. 
 
 Yes ! thou hast chosen well "the better part," 
 And, for the triumphs of the noblest art, 
 Hast wisely scorn'd the sordid cares of life, 
 Its gaudy joys, and its ambitious strife. 
 
 Less fitted for the many, than the few 
 That love the Beautiful, and seek the True, 
 Too proud to pay his honour for his fame, 
 To wish a statesman's, or a conqueror's name, 
 The Poet shuns the Senate, and the Field ; 
 Known in his verse, but in his life concealed : 
 As some unheeded flower, that loves the shade, 
 Is by the fragrance of its leaf betray'd. 
 
 Far from the world's broad glare, the din of men, 
 He seeks the pathless wood, the twilight glen, 
 The silent mountain, the deserted stream, 
 Unseen, unheard, to woo the waking dream : 
 Now from the hanging rock and foaming shore, 
 Raves to the deaf sea, while its waters roar : 
 Or musing sits, while airy voices call,^ 
 Whole summer-days beside the torrent-fall. 
 
140 VERSES. 
 
 O'er the wild heath, alone, at eve he strays, 
 To catch with lingering look the sun's last rays : 
 Or watch the prying moon-beam, as it roves 
 Through towers forsaken long, and haunted groves : 
 And, as each glimpse some phantom-form reveals, 
 A strange belief, unknown till then, he feels : 
 But oft, when Fancy wakes her shadowy broods, 
 On his shut sense no sight, no sound, intrudes, 
 To break the spells that bid her visions play 
 In hues far brighter than belong to day. 
 Then from his lips burst forth the unbidden strains 
 In that wild hour when reason scarcely reigns. 
 
 Now in the closet's stillness, through the night, 
 He watches by the taper's trembling light, 
 The deep recesses of his mind explores, 
 Wakes every sleeping thought in memory's stores, 
 With eager joy each dawning hint pur 
 Yet courts in vain the coy, capricious Muse : 
 For still he finds his struggling powers too weak 
 The dazzling vision, swelling theme, to speak ; 
 The tuneless sounds, the sullied speech, of earth 
 Refuse to give his revelations birth : 
 Still the dark phrase, th' unmarshallcd thoughts confess 
 His shame, his glory, rapture and distress, 
 Mute till the Muse her aid propitious brings, 
 * And heav'nly themes in heav'n's own accents sings. 
 
 High o'er the earth's revolving poles he soars, 
 Scorning her trodden paths, her fathom'd shores, 
 
 * Poesis etiarn ad animi magnitudinem et ad 
 
 mores conferat Et merito divinitatis cujuspiam particeps 
 videri possit. BACON, De Augm. Scient., Cap. XIII. 
 Lib. 2. 
 
VERSES. 1 4 1 
 
 With dauntless hand the gates of heav'n unfolds, 
 
 And all its glories, unrebuk'd, beholds ! 
 
 Or, darting downward, with presumptuous flight, 
 
 Explores the realms of everlasting night ; 
 
 Or calls to life creations all his own. 
 
 Where brighter suns, and sweeter shades are known, 
 
 And fairer forms still charm the unsated eye 
 
 Than here just bloom to fade, just breathe to die. 
 
 No vapours rise as the fair morn awakes, 
 
 But, all unveil'd, light from her beauty breaks : 
 
 On odorous wing unwearied zephyrs play, 
 
 Murmur sweet music, and abate the day ; 
 
 In clouds of gold the lingering evenings close, 
 
 And every night the moon's mild lustre glows : 
 
 O'er gold and gems the living waters flow, 
 
 Flowers of all hues, all scents, uncultur'd, blow ; 
 
 Rich harvests (here the slow reward of toil) 
 
 Bend the wild bough, and crown the untroubled soil : 
 
 On every breeze soft notes of rapture swell 
 
 From echoing rock, green hill, or bowery dell : 
 
 And through the year (one bright unchanging spring) 
 
 The coy night-warbling bird delights to sing. 
 
 No hawk pursues the minstrels of the air, 
 
 Nor shuns the kid the lion's bloodless lair ; 
 
 And none harm man, nor are of man the prey, 
 
 And friendship fears no change, love no decay : 
 
 No pleasures pall, no cares, no pains annoy, 
 
 To ask is to obtain, to wish is to enjoy. 
 
 Scenes that recall the visions of that world 
 Whence man's rebellious spirit erst was hurl'd, 
 The fading memory, fainting hopes restore 
 Of all he held, of all he was before. 
 
142 VERSES. 
 
 Yet were this all his boast, how poor the praise ! 
 He proudly seeks man's abject thoughts to raise, 
 Wakes all our hopes of glory, fears of shame, 
 Incites to merit, and rewards with fame. 
 
 Heroes and kings their names, their forms, may trust 
 To the grav'd medal, or the mimic bu^t, 
 Their deeds consign to painting's glowing hand, 
 Raise pillars to the sky, and bid tin -in stand : 
 In vain ! the aspiring column prostrate falls. 
 The colours vanish from the faithless walls ; 
 Soon the dim coin shall mock the poring r\ 
 Born of the rock the breathing statue di<-, 
 Like man his proudest works to dust return : 
 See ! through the shattered tomb the mould'ring urn ! 
 Temple and tower shall strew th' i ncunilu r'd plain : 
 Of mightiest empires not a trace remain ; 
 But verse! immortal, ever in its prime, 
 Defies decay, and triumphs over time ! 
 
 Inspir'd, not taught, the bard's exalted art, 
 In sacred trust, to few tin- heav'ns impart: 
 A new, a nobler sense in man to wake, 
 From all his instincts all that's earthly take. 
 O'er Nature's works a nameless charm to throw; 
 On life a grace, a glory, to bestow ; 
 Its duties dignify, its joys enhance, 
 And lend to truth the interest of roma 
 To teach content, yet bid our hopes aspire, 
 Endear this world, and fit us for a higher. 
 
 Proud of his high commission, he disdains 
 To charm by vulgar or unhallow'd strains; 
 Yet stoops to guide the heedless steps of youth, 
 And leads through fiction's flowery path to truth : 
 
VERSES. 143 
 
 With pious fraud seduces man from ill, 
 And courts his fancy to control his will. 
 
 Sweet though his numbers as the murmuring stream, 
 And bright each image as the morning beam, 
 Though the wit sparkle, though the passion flame, 
 And Fashion dictate to obedient Fame ; 
 Yet if the theme be trivial or impure, 
 The verse is mortal : it shall not endure : 
 Virtue's the vital spark, the deathless soul, 
 That must pervade, and animate the whole : 
 He from the altar borrows all his fires, 
 And consecrates to heav'n what'heav'n inspires. 
 
 Oh haste ! the laurel twine, the statue raise, 
 Vast the desert, and equal be the praise ! 
 Lo ! Plenty at his feet her tribute flings ! 
 His rank with princes, and his seat with kings ! 
 Ah no ! in penury, perhaps in shame, 
 He lives, whom, lost, contending nations claim ; 
 Lives not dismayed, nor murmuring at his lot, 
 Content though poor, not humbled though forgot. 
 He can at once foresee, and brave his doom, 
 Sure that the palm shall flourish o'er his tomb, 
 With good for ill a thankless world repays, 
 And proud to have serv'd mankind foregoes its praise. 
 
 How different is thy fate, accomplished friend ! 
 Whom still the most commended most commend : 
 Thine all the honours of a well-earn'd name, 
 Secure of present as of future fame ; 
 Thine fortune's favours too, and thine the art 
 (So rarely learnt !) to use them, and to impart. 
 
 Thus gifted, thus encouraged, be it thine 
 To lift thy light on high, and bid it shine, 
 
144 VERSES. 
 
 A star ! to guide the wanderer, as he strays 
 O'er life's dark ocean, and its trackless ways : 
 Thy course so well begun pursuing still, 
 Obey thy call ; thy destiny fulfil ; 
 And pour out all the treasures of thy mind, 
 Bestow'd on thee, in trust for all mankind. 
 
 
VERSES. 145 
 
 EPISTLE TO A LADY, 
 WITH SHAKSPEARE'S PLAYS. WRITTEN ix 1788. 
 
 " Qui quid srit pulchrum, quid turpe, quid utile, quid noil, 
 Plenias, ac melius thry.-ippo ut C'rantore dicit." 
 
 HOR. Epis. II. Lib. 1. 
 
 Ah ! though invited l>v the spring and theo, 
 In vain I sigh, and struggle to get free: 
 'Mid smoke and noise, repining, I must stay, 
 And leave untasted all the sweets of May ; 
 To waste in stilling crowds the fragrant hours, 
 And lose the year's first shoots, and earliest flowers. 
 
 For now the tardy white-thorn blows, and now 
 The blossom hangs on every orchard-bough : 
 Earth seems new-horn, each blade and leaflet teems 
 With murmurs of delight, and golden gleams 
 As waking myriads swarm below, above, 
 And the dead quicken, and the living love. 
 And now each morn what clouds of incense rise! 
 What hymns of rapture ! grateful to the skies ! 
 While all night long a sweet sad voice is heard, 
 The soothing vespers of the wakeful bird. 
 Man too, reviving, his glad tribute pays : 
 (Most cause has he for thankfulness and praise) 
 Each vernal scene to his prophetic eye 
 More dear, as harbinger of Summer nigh, 
 13 
 
146 VERSES. 
 
 Soon to expand her warm maternal wing, 
 And nurse the tender infants of the Spring : 
 So shall the earth her countless broods sustain, 
 And of her millions none be born in vain. 
 
 Yet must I stay, though bidden to attend 
 The blissful rite that gives thee to my friend, 
 And at the altar hear thy trembling voice, 
 And see thy blushes, own thy maiden-choice. 
 Though absent present, I unite my prayer, 
 (Needless if love excluded every care) 
 That Fate, befriending virtue, may bestow 
 More than ye hope, and all ye wish below. 
 
 Source of my friend's best joys, who still shall find, 
 When thy cheek fades, fn-sli lu-autirs in thy mind, 
 Sweet soother of those ills that all must share, 
 And he must learn, tho' blest with thee, to bear, 
 Could Love alone life's few short hours employ, 
 Bidding Time borrow swifter wings from joy, 
 Sages had taught, and Poets sung, in vain, 
 All art were folly, and all science pain- 
 But oh ! ye days when beauty's soft control 
 First woke the slumbering instincts of the soul, 
 Sudden and swift wlu-n Love's resistless flame 
 Fiash'd through each kindling atom of our frame, 
 When the gay visions of its infant hours, 
 And all its first fine ecstasies were ours, 
 Too soon your value from your loss we learn ! 
 Too soon ye fly ! ah ! never to return ! 
 Some busy fiend of Folly's envious broods 
 In our defenceless paradise intrudes, 
 And lures from peace and joy to grief and shame, 
 Whispering vain hopes of pleasure, power, or fame. 
 
VERSES. 147 
 
 Exiled these blissful bowers, before our eyes 
 A bleak wide world in cheerless prospect lies, 
 Where some must force, by unrelenting toil, 
 Their scanty comforts from a stubborn soil, 
 While others sigh, amid their stores to find 
 No cure for oare, no medicine for the mind, 
 To still the pang that conscience can impart, 
 And calm the restless pulses of the heart, 
 Throbbing as burns ambition's feverish fire, 
 Faltering with grief, or fluttering with desiro. 
 Still must we bear, though shunning public strife, 
 The small hostilities of private life, 
 Those nameless, countless evils that infest 
 All, all that breathe, the happiest and the best. 
 
 Even Love from every ill is not secure, 
 But has its hours of absence to endure. 
 These hours to cheat, and speed the sluggish day, 
 What spell so witching as the poet's lay ? 
 
 He from its cares the enraptur'd soul can steal, 
 While busied fancy quite forgets to feel : 
 Tranc'd in the day-dreams of the fabling Muse, 
 The dull realities of life we lose ; 
 The senses sleep ; truth yields to fiction's power ; 
 A transient frenzy fills the ecstatic hour. 
 
 But this the humblest triumph of his art; 
 Which soothes to soften, melts to mould the heart ; 
 Calls forth new powers, with loftier passions fires, 
 And generous thoughts, and glorious deeds inspires. 
 
 Not thus the world's contagious school, for thence 
 The head buys knowledge at the heart's expense : 
 An after-wisdom, ever learnt too late 
 To save from error, or its ills abate ; 
 
143 VERSES. 
 
 A purblind prudence, missing still its aim, 
 Almost a vice, though with a virtue's name ; 
 Knowledge of evil, hurtful, humbling truth ! 
 That, while it teaches, taints the thoughts of youth, 
 Its cheerful faith with dreary doubts annoys, 
 Daunts its brave hopes, and blights its opening joys. 
 
 Vice is not safely seen, though seen forewarn'd, 
 Better unknown, than known but to be scorn'd : 
 More wise in happy ignorance to remain, 
 Than in the tranquil bosom nurse Disdain, 
 And Hate, and Terror, passions all unblest, 
 Unmeet to fill the sanctuary of the breast. 
 
 Fear is low born, but Hope of lii-li descent, 
 Allied at once to Virtue and Content. 
 
 Ah! if we see no ami Us in X a tun'.- i 
 Her gifts lose half their valur. all their r;! 
 Trembling we take them, and with thankless mind, 
 (Deaf to the harmony, the beauty blind.) 
 Too oft revile the bounteous, blissful plan, 
 And its great Author, in his image, Man. 
 
 Then be the Muse thy teacher, and thy guide, 
 Nor heed the bigot's fear, the sage's pride, 
 * In SUAKSPE ABB'S scenes, the unsullied mind nu 
 Safe from its harms, the world's epitome ; 
 May learn to fill ite duties, meet its en 
 Enjoy its blessing, and escape its snares. 
 
 In life's gay glare, as in the solar bla. 
 Confused and lost each mingling colour pla 
 Opprest, the baffled eyeball turns away, 
 
 \n discern the tints that form the day : 
 
 * He that has read Shakspeare with attention, will per- 
 haps find little new in the crowded world. JOHNSON. 
 
VERSES. 149 
 
 His page prismatic breaks the dazzling mass, 
 And bids the blended hues distinctly pass. 
 
 No dead remains of ancient art he knew, 
 But from the life man's naked nature drew: 
 Each changeful feature of the soul portray 'd, 
 And caught each latent muscle as it play'd ; 
 The bold but faithful sketch shall live, and last 
 Till the decaying world itself be past. 
 
 He the dim glass of learning could despise, 
 And look through nature with unaided eyes : 
 The sun of genius, with resistless ray, 
 On all her dark recesses pours the day. 
 He sees, exposed to his presumptuous glance, 
 The magic cavern, and the fairy-dance ; 
 Dares the dread secrets of the grave to trace, 
 And view its awful wonders face to face ; 
 The sullen spectres at his will employs, 
 The murderer's couch to haunt, to blast his festal joys. 
 
 But themes like these to loftier strains belong, 
 And the Bride trembles at the lengthening song. 
 
 For now, in fair perspective, rise to view, 
 All the heart sigh'd for, all the fancy drew, 
 In those gay hours when love -was life's employ, 
 And Hope was young, and credulous of joy. 
 Oh ! may she find each flattering promise truth, 
 And Time fulfil the prophecies of Youth. 
 But, should Fate frown, may virtue's cheerful ray, 
 More bright than suns, illume life's cloudy day, 
 Dispel the shades that o'er its evening rise, 
 And light her footsteps to the expecting skies. 
 
150 VERSES. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT 1804. 
 
 Thu.s long, long since, my verse prophetic flow'd, 
 But Fate has more than I foretold bestow'd : 
 Still, blest and blessing, each succeeding year 
 Has found thee- happier, lovelier, and more dear. 
 
 Yes! there are charms that scorn the spoiler T 
 More than predicted by my timorous rli 
 Then the gay bride : : mother now, 
 
 A graver beauty decks thy matron brow. 
 Years while they stole have giv'n grace for jr 
 Thy virtues are recorded in thy face : 
 A thousand tender thoughts have erather'd t! 
 More likeness to thy heart thy fe ; 
 
 More of his virtues ti> 
 Smile in thy looks, and through thy manners sliine. 
 
 Of those we love unconsciously we learn : 
 We think their thoughts, and with their passions burn. 
 
 e the same accents, the same idiom speak : 
 Strong in their strength but in their weakness u 
 
 How grateful then- art thou, to him allied, 
 Whose merits were thy choice^ and are thy pride ! 
 
 So shall ye both- (long hence) sur\i\ 
 Both still be lov'd and honoured in your son : 
 Not o'er his form alone your semblance play, 
 His mind your blended inlluem-e shall In-tray : 
 The mother's softness, and the father's lire, 
 In one harmonious character conspire : 
 With feeling spirit, modesty with worth, 
 Shall be the proofs, and blessings of his birth. 
 
d, " th-a !he Office of Transter u 
 
 <>f the Stock ot this Bank at Philadelphia, . 
 closed, and that the stock now remaining on th 
 At theSchuylkill Bank, Philadelphia, has been 0* 
 
 he placed on ihe Book of Transfer opened b 
 .litnti-.m at the ' Bank ot America. N-.v Yo-k.' 
 rder of the Board, JOSEPH SAUL, 
 l:-*w Cashier. 
 
 MARKET""! STOCK. 
 
 n Ordinance of ilie Board ot Commissioners of th 
 ensington District, passed February 3d, 18.S5, 
 rer is authorised to borrow Five Thousand Dollar 
 
 Idinjj a Market Uouse on Washington, street, i. 
 strict, to be paid by instalments as the expenses o. 
 'tiding may require, and for the securing the pay 
 f s*id loan, the rents and income of the market i 
 
 pledged for the space often years, from and afte..c RAV . 
 opleting of saiil Market to be given to the loanei 
 
 of interest oil the amount loaned, and if at the ex 
 
 ti of ten years the amount so received should no t ,. ;ll | s 
 
 al to six per cent per annum on s.iid load loan 
 
 is privilege will be continued until the interest sr" 6 * 1 !1 " 
 
 J, when it shall or will be the privilege of the (Join 
 
 icrs if they think proper to take the same paying U 
 
 "Sons so loaning the principal and interest iu t'ul 
 
 ie time of such payment. her notes, 
 
 y subscriber is to pay ten per cent on his subs . 
 
 the time of subscribing, the stock will be divide* 
 
 e hundred shares of f 50 each. nark 
 
 icriptioni to the above stock v, th. 
 
 her. JOHN TAY1. 
 
 d9t Treasurer p.t th-- 
 
 LA\V - ' Mring tick 
 
 1 Subscriber intending to resume his residence ii 
 us city, purposes to devote his time and attention 
 instruction of young men for tho profession uf t 
 Fhe difficulty of gentlemen in full practice fc.'viu^i .. 
 Indents in their rfRces the attention and assists 
 
 their i'tterests require, is known and felt by boti. cl.iv, 
 itor and pupil. Wishing to continue the studies 
 L-h hi 3 life has been devoted, in a way beneficial t< 
 and agreeable to himself, the subscriber has deler ^ 
 to open a Law School. 
 
 ng gentlemen desirous of fitting themselves for tht- 
 se of the Law, will be received into his office. Their 
 i will be directed; they will be constantly and mi 
 examined; they will be aided by explanatory lee 
 and exercised in forensic dissertation and debate 
 :ver he shall think will tend to qualify them for tho 
 erche of a profession so honorable, so useful, and 
 log such various preparation, will be carefully 
 d oat and duly inculcated. 
 
 JOHN B. WALLACE, i 
 
 , the subscribers, are of opinion that a Law School} 
 he plan proposed, well conducted, would be 
 , and from a long and intimate acquaintance wittf 
 Wallace, we are convinced that he is qualified b> 
 rag, experience and general capacity, to conduct it 
 We h we pleasure, therefore, in recommending it 
 >lic notice and support, as promising, under such w 
 [>tor, lo supply a uYfeot in cur yu-m of profession | 
 ruction, which ha* been sensibly iVh. 
 
 JOHN RKRGKANT, 
 
 f!!l4fH.f<'S ('IT ATTNif^.F.Y V 
 
 ve, 
 
150 
 
 Extract of a letter dated St. Mary's, Geo. 
 On Wednesday night, the most brutal, cow 
 horrible murders, were comnnitted by To 
 3d, and his sons, on Nancy Casey and youii 
 Scott, and it is presumed by this time, Bul( 
 sey is also dead. Mr. Demot and old M 
 both dangerously wounded. 
 
 It appears that on Wednesday night, a 
 Tim* long, lor King's oldest unmarried daughter, about 
 
 P,i* T?O* 1,00 ,t ld, let his flat adrift, so he could not fol 
 ijiii r tilt lias n . , . , , 1111 BJI 
 
 . jumped into the boat, and paddled over thf 
 
 Still, blest and an ,j met \v,Hi Ll rn Casey, to whom she was ma 
 Has found th< King mustered his sons, John, George, Hirai 
 Yes! there J J sii *^ an ^ crossed the river at my place, (wli 
 -. , one mile below him) where he was j 
 
 William and Simeon House. They had sv 
 Then the gay I geance whenever this marriage, which they i 
 A graver beauf*rt should take plar.e. They aU proceeded I 
 Casey's ic door of which was shut.' 
 
 King burst open the door, and said "there I 
 is clear." He, with the two Houses, ren 
 the door. King and his other sons enter 
 old man went up to Mrs. Casey, cursed and st 
 at her. Demot and Scott had just accidi 
 stepped in to warm themselves. Demot 
 : t'iy 1 caught the blow on his own arm, which was 
 Qf t i . ered her breast throug 
 
 u- L. v King caught. Demot round the waist and SUM 
 We think Ih Scott attempted to pull King 
 
 whiU- 
 Thy, 
 
 More likciie- 
 More of his 
 
 gj 
 
 i 
 
 "i 
 
 o the 8 
 Strong in tin- 
 How grate! 
 Whose merit: 
 So shall yt 
 Both still he i 
 Not o'er his i 
 His mind \-M 
 The mother' 
 In one harm 
 With feeliii-*- 
 Shall 
 
 Demot, when Hiram stubbed him. Scott 
 and Hiram pursued cut his bowels through 
 
 luces. He staggered about 80 i' 
 rise no more. King then went up to 
 sf.e begged tor her life; said she hud done 1 
 compassion on a defence!* 
 i i ::l her : 
 
 be ran a little way, fell and e 
 The next day, her child was found,- vainly em 
 ing to extract nourishment from th 
 
 :\vin Casey had been a little frost 
 King went to /us bed, and stabbed a 
 , three times his bowels com 
 cut through in several places and Dr. Halloi 
 sewed them up, and gave the foregoing r< 
 says he cannot possibly live. From their condi 
 threat, it is supposed their design was, to 
 they found at Casey's, and thus destroy all evi 
 The young couple, it appeirs, happened t< 
 Muzzle's about three miles off, instead of to C 
 and thus escaped the fate which awaited them 
 have not even the miserable excuse of drunkc 
 All the murderers were sober at that purliculs 
 K ng had been drinking a day or two befon 
 
 of them fled except John King and the two I 
 who, as they did riot use knives, thought i 
 could be done to th^m. They are now in 
 Jefferson, but the old man and his other son 
 H e << 
 
VERSES. 151 
 
 EPISTLE TO A FRIEND OX MARRIAGE. 
 
 WRITTEN IN 1790. 
 
 11 Poor moralist! and what art thou?" GRAY. 
 
 Here, where his rapid flood the Tamar leads 
 Through desert dills, wild woods, and pathless ni. 
 Or where, in conflict with the lessening shores, 
 I'p the sweet inland-vale the Atl.intie pours, 
 While with tin* thrush the seanicw blends her notes, 
 Or on the rocking surge in slumber fl 
 And oil the plou^hm;'!! st i\ s hi- team to mark 
 The drooping flag of many a cap' 
 Following the conqueror's course, as on he r> 
 And stems, with foaming prow, the murmuring tides, 
 
 ;ice airain I bid the world adieu, 
 And my heart turns to friendship and to you. 
 
 Friend of my youth ! who first, with fostering r. 
 Play'd round my morn of life, now gild my day, 
 (Nor shall one sullen vapour rise to lour, 
 And cloud its influence o'er my evening hour) 
 While you, in plighted faith, and mutual love, 
 Find joys on earth resembling those above, 
 And, proud a father's hallow r ed name to bear, 
 Taste pleasure's cordial in the cup of care, 
 Sad through a solitary world I stray, 
 With none to cheer my steps, nor chide my stay. 
 
152 VERSES. 
 
 Not ours to slumber in supine content, 
 Or only wake to weep o'er time misspent : 
 To man a task is set, a blessing given, 
 To do the will, and earn the joys of heav'n. 
 
 Engrafted on the stock of DUTY rise 
 Fruits ever fair, transplanted from the skies, 
 And far more rare, more precious, than of oU 
 Bloom'd on the Hesperian tree in living gold : 
 Than those more subtle to revive and save 
 * Which to the wandering chief great Hermes gave. 
 Or Helen crush'd to drug the wondrous b >\\ 1 
 f That sooth'd his son, and stay'd his droopin 
 For these have power the wounded mind to IK nil, 
 And bid remorse itself forget to feel ; 
 And these are yours, who, gifted to excel, 
 
 1 in peace and privacy to dwell ; 
 And chose the safe, sequester'd path, that si> 
 Far from the highway-crowd, and crash of w!, 
 Who, skilled in that rare art, the art to live, 
 Ask not the world for more than it 
 But, taught to fear its strife, and shun its n> 
 Disdain its honours, and distrust its joys, 
 Have sought content, not wealth, esteem, not f;ime. 
 And have deserved, though not desired, a name. 
 To thy pure mind re-u-il'd, in early youth, 
 The seeming paradox, but sovereign truth, 
 (Oft to the aged and the wise unknown.) 
 That seeking others' good we find our own. 
 
 * Odyssey, Book X. line 302. 
 t Odyssey, Book IV. line 220. 
 
VERSES. 1 53 
 
 Generous self-love ! whose dictates to pursue 
 (Alas ! the unenvied privilege of few !) 
 Fills with such sweet employment every hour, 
 That whether wayward Fortune shine or lour, 
 Whether above ambition or below, 
 A bliss unborrow'd of the world we know, 
 And, blest in blessing, proudly can disclaim 
 Rank, riches, power, and (harder task !) ev'n fame. 
 
 The social Passions their own bliss create, 
 A bliss that's scarcely subject even to Fate. 
 Friendship though call'd to suffer or endure : 
 Love without hope, that linds. that seeks, no cure ; 
 That can persist unknown, persist unshar'd, 
 For Love, like Virtue, is its own reward: 
 Pity though unavailing: vain regret 
 For those we see no more, but ne'er forget, 
 (.\N pensive Memory all the past restores, 
 Yearns for the absent, or the lost deplores:) 
 The fear that watches in a mother's eye, 
 
 first her infant breathes its feeble cry, 
 That never sleeps, but guards him, as he strays, 
 Through all the perils of In > 3 : 
 
 Even these, exposed to pain, alarm, or grief, 
 In their own generous nature find relief: 
 ften, in the sharpest wounds the\ 
 There springs a balm that can do more than heal, 
 That can delight, as well as ease, impart, 
 A subtler pleasure kindle in the heart 
 Than selfish triumphs, or the dead repose, 
 The sullen quiet, that the stoic knows. 
 
 Cold on the mountain-heath, exposed and bare, 
 The lone oak shudders in the troubled air, 
 
154 VERSES. 
 
 Around his stem her arms no woodbine flings, 
 Beneath his shade no tender sapling springs : 
 His leaf untimely falls : his shattered form 
 Shrinks from the fury of the driving storm ; 
 But horn in happier soil, in grove or wood, 
 Shelter'd, his spreading branches long had stood, 
 And borne their annual honours green in n 
 Safe from the summer-Maze, the winter's rage. 
 
 Emblem of him whose solitary cares 
 No partner of his pleasures more than shares : 
 For love too proud, for happiness too wise, 
 He looks on beauty with undazzled eyes, 
 Computes, compares, and gravely, sagely cold, 
 In cautious folly, rash delay, grows old ; 
 Doubts till fastidious youth his suit derides, 
 And Time (the coward's fortitude) decides. 
 
 Haply he seeks in mercenary arms 
 Love's modest pleasures, and my>trri>us rh 
 Presumes to hope its transports can be sold, 
 Trusting the weak omnipotence of gold. 
 But these Wealth cannot buy ; Vice cannot know ; 
 Pure are the countless sources whence the\ 
 From faith long tried, from lives that blond in one ; 
 From many a soft word spoken, kind dtv.l d 
 Too' small, perhaps, for each to have a name, 
 Too oft recurring much regard to claim : 
 As in fair constellations may combine 
 The stars that, singly, undistinguished shine. 
 Love, too, is proud, and will not be controll'd ; 
 Timid, and must be rather guess'd than told ; 
 Would be divinM, but then by only one, 
 And fain the notice of all else would shun : 
 
VERSES. 155 
 
 It stays not to forgive, it cannot see 
 
 The failings from which none, alas ! are free : 
 
 Blind but to faults, quick-sighted to descry 
 
 Merit oft hid from a less searching eye : 
 
 Ever less prone to doubt than to belie \ 
 
 Ever more glad to give than to receive : 
 
 Constant as kind, tho' changing nature, name ; 
 
 Many, yet one ; another, yet the same : 
 
 'Tis Friendship, Pity, Joy, Grief, Hope, nay Fear, 
 
 Not the least tender when in form severe. 
 
 It dwells with every rank, in every clime, 
 
 And sets at nought tin* malice 1 even of Time : 
 
 In youth more rapturous, but in age more sure, 
 
 Chief blessing of the rich, sole comfort of the poor. 
 
 But mark the evening of the lone man's life ! 
 Deserted then ! perhaps disturb'd by strife ! 
 Ah then ! in drrary a^e, 'tis his to sigh 
 For tender can-, a M. I soothing sympathy. 
 By his sick bed no long-lov'd face appears ; 
 No well-known step, no well-known voice he hears : 
 Strangers, for hire, his last sad moments tend ; 
 No children's prayers relenting heav'n ascend : 
 He dies, and is forgot ! Scarce known his doom ; 
 And weeds soon hide his unfrequented tomb. 
 
 Start from thy trance, thou fool ! awake in time ! 
 Snatch the short pleasures of thy fleeting prime ! 
 While yet youth's healthful fever warms the blood, 
 And the pulse throbs in vigour's rapid flood ; 
 While love invites, whose spells possess the power 
 Ages of bliss to crowd into an hour ! 
 Though to fond memory each blest hour appears 
 Rich with the transports of eventful years ! 
 
 
156 VERSES. 
 
 To Love alone such magic can belong : 
 The present still so short ! the past so long ! 
 
 But youth is on the wing, and will not stay ; 
 Fair morn too oft of a foul wintcry day ! 
 A warm but watery gleam extinguished soon 
 In storm, or vapour, gathering o'er its noon : 
 And should the unwearied sun shine on, till niu r ht 
 Quench his hot ray and cloud his cheerful light, 
 How fast the shadow o'er the <!i.il Hies ! 
 While to himself fond man a debtor d: 
 Trusting to-morrow still, or misemployed 
 He leaves tin- world unknown, and unrnj-iv 
 
 Haste, then, as nature dictates dan t <> live ; 
 
 "ihy youth the pleasures youth *-houl ( 
 So shall thy manhood and thy age confess 
 That of the past the present learns to bless ; 
 And thou shall boast, with mingling joy and pride, 
 The wife, the mother, dearer than the 1-ride, 
 And own, as on thy knees thy children grow, 
 That home becomes an early heav'n below. 
 
 There still an angel hovers o'er ' 
 To drive with flaming sword all e\il t!; 
 There, in a little grove of kindred, rise 
 Those t iider plants, the hum. in ehari 
 Which, in the world's cold soil and boisterous air, 
 Withhold their blossoms, and refuse to bear, 
 Or all unshelter'd from the blaze of day, 
 Their golden fruit tails premature away. 
 
 Hail, holy marriage ! hail, indulgent law ! 
 Whose kind restraints in closer union d 
 Consenting hearts and minds: By thee confm'd. 
 Instinct's ennobled, and desire refined. 
 
VERSES. 157 
 
 Man is a savage else, condemned to roam 
 Without companion, and without a home : 
 And helpless woman, as alone she strays, 
 With sighs and tears her new-born babe sun- 
 But choosing, chosen, never more to part, 
 New joys, new duties, blending in her heart, 
 Endow'd alike to charm him and to mend, 
 Man gains at once a mistress and a friend : 
 In one fair form obtaining from above 
 An angel's virtues and a woman's love : 
 Then guarded, cherish'd, and confest her worth, 
 She scorns the pangs that give his offspring birth, 
 Lifts for the father'* kiss the laughing boy, 
 1 1 shares his triumph and his joy. 
 
 Source of our bliss, and solace of our woe, 
 To thee our value as our joy we owe ; 
 On thee all morals, and all laws depend, 
 And, reft of thee, society must end ! 
 
 This earth resplendent in her rich array ! 
 Herb, tree, fruit, flower ; yon radiant orb of day ! 
 The moon, fair mirror of his soften'd light ! 
 The stars that crowd the purple vault of night ! 
 The wandering comet's bright, portentous train ! 
 The expanse of heav'n ! th' illimitable main ! 
 The storm that lifts its billows to the sky ! 
 The bursting cloud whence fiery arrows fly ! 
 The awful voice of thunder ! and the shock 
 Of earthquakes, when the globe's huge pillars rock ! 
 Its countless flocks and herds ! the savage brood 
 That shake the forest with their cries for food ! 
 The unwieldy sovereigns of the living deep ! 
 The shoals half-sentient in her caves that sleep ! 
 14 
 
158 VERSES. 
 
 The swarms that revel on each leaf and blade 
 
 In rainbow hues, and burning gold array'd ! 
 
 The exulting tenants of the peopled sky ! 
 
 Those worlds on worlds that mock the assisted eye ! 
 
 Stupendous scene ! Could less than Heav'n create 
 
 The parts so wondrous of a whole so great ? 
 
 Without their lord, the moral being, Man, 
 
 Say, what are all ! a chaos, not a plan : 
 
 MAW placed on earth, behold the full design 
 
 Declares aloud its Author is divine : 
 
 And, hark ! a voice from heav'n proclaims his will, 
 
 That favour'd man's immortal race should fill 
 
 The world's wide fields, o'er every tribe should reign, 
 
 Crown the whole work, and nought be made in vain. 
 
 
VERSES. 159 
 
 EPISTLE FROM THE ALPS. 
 
 THUN, 1816. 
 
 " Mi giovera narrare altrui 
 Le novita vedute, c dir, io fui." 
 
 TASSO, GBR. Lib. xv. 38. 
 
 Releas'd at length I drop that heavy oar, 
 
 Which thousands (once fast chain'd) must quit no more, 
 
 And like a steed let loose, that shakes his mane, 
 
 And loudly neighing, scours across the plain, 
 
 With kindling hopes, and swelling heart, I fly 
 
 For health and pleasure to a fairer sky. 
 
 The anchor's weigh'd, the north-wind fills the sail : 
 Adieu, dear EXGLAXD ! FRANCE, thy shores I hail ! 
 Not now to linger in thy lengthening plains, 
 Or gilded city, revelling in its chains ; 
 Reft of its spoil, those miracles of art ! 
 Which through th' enchanted eye exalt the heart; 
 For they reconquered twice, and repossest, 
 Shall with their rightful lords for ever rest ; 
 Borne back in triumph by the blood-stain'd arms 
 Of those, who from the cradle felt their charms, 
 Yet bought too dearly in that gallant strife 
 By many a lov'd, and long lamented life. 
 
 Far to the south in joyful haste I run 
 To bask in valleys nearer to the sun : 
 And, lo ! where, fearless of his hottest fires, 
 High o'er the clouds the hoary ALP aspires ! 
 
160 VERSES. 
 
 In vain the thunder rolls, the lightnings fly, 
 His icy summit braves the burning sky. 
 
 O'er earth and heav'n what sudden splendours play, 
 As in the west declines the orb of day ! 
 But, ah ! the glory fades, and melts av 
 
 As gay my hopes, as swiftly have they fled, 
 Of those bereft whose faltering steps I led, 
 Of those so dear, whose absence dims the I 
 While sad and lonely onward still I stray. 
 
 Oh ! were they h< re the visions to behold, 
 That still before my moistening eyes unfold ! 
 
 in ! for E.VOLAXD and for home they sail, 
 To shelter that sweet flower so fair, so frail, 
 Which now in hope, and now, alas! in 
 They strive thro* sunshine, and thro* show'r, to rear. 
 Then flow my verse ! to soothe their just regret : 
 Nor their last wish, their parting charge forget. 
 The rude, taint sketch their patience shall f; 
 For how shall language bid the 1 
 
 See hills o'er hills in rich confi. 
 (Their blue tops blending with the distant skies) 
 O'er the still lake their giant-shadows throw, 
 And view their awful form.- (low. 
 
 The dizzy pass \\lure scarce the chamois goes 
 
 -us of ice, and through eternal snows : 
 Tlf oYr\\ helming avalanche, of power 
 Flock, herd, and village, down the y.i\Miiiv, r 
 High o'er the dark abyss the plank that bends 
 From cliff to cliff, now sinks, and now ascends 
 Beneath the hunter's foot, while, scarcely heard, 
 l far below, and screams the imperial bird. 
 
VERSES. 161 
 
 The headlong Fall, on whose resplendent spray 
 In tiny circlets its own rainbows play ; , 
 
 (Oft from the summit flics the ponderous rock 
 Hurl'd down in thunder by the torrent's shock, 
 As on it foams, with many an oak up-torn, 
 Raging from morn to eve, from eve to morn :) 
 The rifted chasm ; the cavern full of night, 
 Where the wild brook eludes the baffled sight. 
 The counties-; streams that feed the living lake, 
 And gently bid its slumbering waters wake ; 
 While from each bay, behind the sheltering trees, 
 Steals many a hark to catch the welcome bn < 
 Spreads the white sail, or lifts the sparkling oar, 
 Seeking, for gain or sport, the distant shore, 
 Now o'er the willing wave exulting glides, 
 Now bravely struggles with the vanquished tides : 
 The wilderness of woods ! the vale of flowers ! 
 Green, as in spring-time, through the sultry hours, 
 By hills o'er-arched that lend both shade and showers. 
 
 Haply of old some gentle Angel, sent 
 To heal some grief, or prompt some high intent, 
 To smite the oppressor, or uplift the opprest, 
 Returning homeward from his high behest, 
 Pleas'd with his work of justice or of grace, 
 Paus'd here, and left his blessing on the place. 
 
 So fair the land that as its children stray 
 Far from their country and their homes away, 
 If chance those simple, well-known, sounds they hear 
 (Though scarcely music to a stranger's ear) 
 Which on their native hills the milk-maid sings, 
 (While the slant sun his lengthening shadow flings,) 
 14* 
 
 
1G2 VERSES. 
 
 Her wandering heifer homeward to recall 
 From the wild woodland to the sheltering stall. 
 What wonder that for these lov'd scenes they yearn, 
 And back, in sighs and tears, repentant turn 1 
 But this the least, HELVETIA, of thy praise! 
 That in thee Nature all her charms displays, 
 And smiling sits on her exalted throne, 
 Fair in eternal youth, majestic and alone ! 
 For safe within the rampart of thy rocks 
 Wander the myriads of thy herds and ll 
 The generous vine, too, gladdens all thy vales ; 
 And sickness flies before thy moiiiitiiin-j 
 And thine th' enlightenM industry, that fills 
 With plmty c\ ry cottage on thy hills, 
 Whence, through the darkness of the busy night, 
 Gleams, star-like, many a taper's wakeful light ; 
 Thine, too, each Sou of Science, whether born 
 To teach of other worlds, or this adorn : 
 Bold, in the search of knowledge, to explore 
 TLi- mint's tremendous secrets, or to soar 
 E'en to the glacier's point, and, safely there, 
 With mortal lips, inhale rmp\ roan air;" 
 And thine the lofty bard, the lettrr'd sage, 
 
 B glory shall be thine from age to age ; 
 In thee, too, Man is found, a- M be, 
 
 Active and brave, and innocent and f. 
 The last not least, for that secures th 
 The willing slav. not to be blest; 
 
 Nor merits more the tyrant, both debased, 
 And from the rank of man alike disgraced ; 
 Both reft of all that should control us hero, 
 One without hope, the other without fear, 
 
VJ.RSES. K>3 
 
 Torn all those sure, those subtle ties that bind 
 Man to his brother-man, and mind to mind. 
 Oh ! then, ye natives of this happy land ! 
 Assembling all, around your altars stand : 
 There shall the Spirits of your fathers rise, 
 To hear ye vow the patriot-sacrifice 
 Of every feud that separates clan from clan, 
 And of your Union mars the heav'n-taught plan. 
 Swear, too, that none, who dare in arms to strive 
 For your best birthright, shall th' attempt survive. 
 For well ye know the fraud and force of those 
 (At once the un wisest and the worst ot 
 Who thirst to en though the uceu 
 
 No gain to them, would make ye " poor indeed." 
 Oh ! watch, from all your hills, with wary eye, 
 The smallest cloud, that darkens in the sky, 
 Drawn from your own, or from a foreign soil, 
 To blight the harvest of your fathers' toil : 
 Revere the sacred memory of the Dead, 
 Nor lose the liberty for which they bled ; 
 Fulfil the trust to your own children due, 
 And leave them all your sires bequeath'd to you. 
 For so, when gathered to their ashes, long 
 Your names shall live in story and in song. 
 Nor are your hills the limits of your fame, 
 Wide as the world the gratitude you claim ; 
 All, in your freedom free, your cause shall bless, 
 Refuge of all whom prince or priest oppress. 
 Doom'd for his virtues or his faith to roam, 
 In you the injured exile finds a home ;* 
 
 * Alas ! this praise is no longer deserved. 
 
1G4 VERSES. 
 
 Safe and revered, the Patriot and the Sage 
 Smile at the Monk's, or Tyrant's, harmless rage. 
 
 And yet, though fair the land, the people blest, 
 In thee, in thee, dear ENGLAND ! would I rest : 
 I love thee better still the more I roam : 
 Proud of thee as my country and my home : 
 Thou fear'st not foreign nor domestic foes, 
 Thy laws no haughty neighbour dares impose, 
 Safe in thy valiant sons, thy subject-sea, 
 Thou dost not ask permission to be ft 
 Nay ! had thy Spartan youth no wall of wa I 
 A world confederate could not make them slaves, 
 So early taught to think a freeman's life 
 Not worth preserving, vanquish'.! in that strife. 
 
 But 'tis not now my theme to boast thy charms, 
 Thou land of wealth anij virtue, arts and arms ! 
 Thou art my choice, though changeful, though au 
 Thy clime ; and oft in pain, and oft in tV;ir, 
 My panting lip, and labouring breast, inhale 
 The \vinter liiiumnu in thy vernal gale. 
 
 1 1. nccforth (my skill forgot, my strength no more) 
 I quit life's stormy sea, and seek the shore; 
 My only task the footsteps to pursue 
 (Far, far behind !) of those, the virtuous few, 
 Who serve, without reward, in Freedom's cause, 
 And hourly watch the sanctuary of her laws. 
 No more, eh London ! but when duty calls, 
 To breathe the cloud that hovers oYr thy walls, 
 To stem thy crowds, endure thy deafening noise, 
 Gaze at thy splendours, or repent thy joys. 
 From thee far oft' I turn my willing feet 
 To the lone quiet of my lov'd reti 
 
VERSES. 1 65 
 
 To stray from field to field in careless ease, 
 
 And count the blossoms on the tardy trees ; 
 
 Climb the high down to meet the rising sun, 
 
 Or in my copse his mid-day fervour shun. 
 
 Oft as he sinks, accomplished Lock ! behind 
 
 Thy solemn groves, up thy steep lawn I wind 
 
 Unseen, unheard, to mark his crimson ray 
 
 Gleam through the gathering clouds, and fade away ; 
 
 Then, homeward turning, oft the past review ; 
 
 Learning from old faults to osenpe from new ; 
 
 Or call back joys long fled, that would not ri 
 
 'ed perhaps in youth's presumptuous day, 
 (Yet youth to age a lesson oft can give, 
 And te;ieh its timorous wisdom how to live,) 
 Now dreaming though awake, I soar in air, 
 And build a thousand gorgeous castles there; 
 Then drop into my cottage-home content : 
 The night's repose earn'd by the day well spent. 
 Still happier when by tho.-o my board is cherrM 
 (Kindred or friends) whom love has long endear'd ; 
 Or should some honour'd guest, half smiling, deign 
 To trace the limits of my little reign, 
 Then proud of both, < ; scene I show ; 
 
 The impending cliff, the gulfy stream below ; 
 The box-clad hill, in whose unfading groves, 
 Fragrant and fair, the lingering traveller roves ; 
 The gray church-spire, the trec-embosom'd town ; 
 The clustering flocks that crowd the upland-down ; 
 The distant mountain with its far-seen tower, 
 Now a sad purple in the summer-shower, 
 Now smiling, as the air-born colours play, 
 And the Sun's course from dawn to dark betray : 
 
166 VERSES. 
 
 The druid-grove, where many a reverend yew 
 Hides from his thirsty beam the noontide dew ; 
 The swelling steeps of Norbury's beech-crown'd height 
 Where lovely nature, tasteful art, unite 
 To lure the traveller's eye, and then detain, 
 Spell-bound, and loth to leave the fair domain. 
 
 Meanwhile I listen with attentive oar 
 To catch its magic accents, as they veer 
 From wit to wisdom ; his, upon whose tongue 
 The fate of his lov'd Ireland oft has hung ; 
 Or his, before whose philosophic eye 
 The mists, that cover man's best knowledge fly ; 
 Lh-stin'd his country's glories to record, 
 And give her chiefs their last and best reward. 
 His, too, who sings BO well in memory's praise 
 That she shall ne'er forget his deathless lays, 
 His, at whose bidding science, like the day, 
 Enlightens all with an impartial ray ; 
 Who, lavish of his intellectual store, 
 Scatters (best alms !) instruction to the poor ; 
 His ends, with sleepless energy, pursues, 
 And those the noblest ends that man can choose. 
 Or his, whom, in the senate, modest worth 
 Had raised to rank unknown to wealth or birth, 
 Or his (both mute in an untimely grave ! * ) 
 Wont to redress the wrong'd, protect the slave, 
 Arraign the greatest guilty; or persuade 
 Stern law to sheathe her sanguinary blade. 
 
 With such to live the envied lot be mine, 
 Pleas'd for the few the many to resign : 
 
 * Added in 1819. 
 
VERSES. 167 
 
 Blest in the esteem of such, and self-respect 
 More precious still, how vain the world's neglect ! 
 How vain its honours ! oft too dearly bought, 
 And worth the having only when unsought. 
 
 Ah ! " hopes too fondly nurs'd, too rudely crost." 
 Even now I mourn for some for ever lost, 
 Not only mine, but their sad country's boast. 
 
 Not long I weep, to follow I prepare, 
 I would not be the last that heav'n shall spare ; 
 Still some are left me, long in friendship tried, 
 Whose converse cheers me, and whose counsels guide. 
 Lov'd, too, by those departed, and, in fame, 
 In genius, equal equal, not the same ; 
 With these I ask life's few last hours to spend ; 
 Then calmly meet, nor wish'd, nor fear'd, its end. 
 
160 VERSES. 
 
 EPISTLE TO A VERY YOUNG LADY. 
 
 BADEN BADE, 1821. 
 
 Behold, dear girl, at your request, 
 A letter to yourself addrest, 
 And written, as you wished, in rhyme, 
 And dated from a foreign clime. 
 
 For now, once more, abroad I roam 
 In search of what I leave at home, 
 Pleasure which followed loves to fly, 
 But waited for, still hovers nigh. 
 And yet I go, and go alone : 
 Perhaps by penance to atone 
 For follies past, of ancient date, 
 Having committed none of late. 
 
 But, ah ! I see your well-known smile, 
 And hear you laughing too the while : 
 Though 'tis a gentle voice I hear, 
 That only jests, and cannot jeer. 
 
 No matter why the sea I crost, 
 Not sick, though somewhat rudely tost : 
 And now am posting up the RHINE, 
 Fam'd for old castles and old wine ; 
 Thanks to my light caliche which steals 
 Onward on yet unbroken wheels ; 
 Though jolting, shaking my poor bones, 
 O'er the rough pave's rattling stones, 
 
VERSES. 169 
 
 Or grating gravel by the side, 
 When leave by ruts is not denied. 
 
 How one gets on 'tis hard to say, 
 Still for the castle doom'd to stay ; 
 Some carrying hay, the others hired, 
 They must be fed, too, and are tired ; 
 The small third horse (their right by law,) 
 That will look back, and will not draw ; 
 The trace and bridle of old rope 
 Sure soon to break, and balk your hope : 
 In vain you cry " Well now we're gone," 
 The driver's off as soon as on ; 
 Still something in the tackle wrong ; 
 This is too short, and that too long. 
 In vain you threaten, coax, or bribe 
 This smoking, dozing, self-will'd tribe, 
 Proud of the terrors of the whip, 
 The huge mustachio on the lip, 
 The high-cock'd hat, and tassell'd horn, 
 They hear you but they hear with scorn : 
 And when to the town-gate you get 
 Thinking to enter Hold"" Not yet." 
 A thousand questions you must answer, 
 " Or to get in you have no chance, sir !" 
 As what you are, and what's your name, 
 Whither you're going, whence you came ; 
 " Your passport, sir" Heav'ns ! that's mislaid, 
 Yourself you absolve, your man upbraid, 
 " Of sense he surely is bereft," 
 You wonder " where it can be left," 
 Then search and search, and (humbled) find it, 
 Just in the very place assign'd it. 
 
 15 
 
1 70 VERSES. 
 
 Fam'd HEIDELBERG I reach at last, 
 Repaid for toil, and dangers, past : 
 The prying custom-house at DOVER : 
 The long, or stormy passage over, 
 The favourite packet t'other side, 
 And that one sails in losing tide ; 
 The capering boat that comes from CALAIS 
 To wet you through and spoil your valise : 
 Then through the surf the ride astraddle, 
 A Frenchman's shoulders for your saddle. 
 
 But thanks to WATT, the gale may blow, 
 The restless tide may ebb or flow, 
 Self-mov'd the fire-fraught vessel ilies, 
 Heedless of adverse seas and skies. 
 
 But, lo ! what sudden visions rise 
 Before my charm'd, my dazzled eyes ! 
 What awful ruins, high in air, 
 The subject mountains proudly bear ! 
 Of gothic kings the ancient home, 
 The unconquer'd foes of baffled ROME, 
 And now believ'd their dwelling-place, 
 Though lost by their degenerate race ; 
 For oft, with solemn, wild affright, 
 Unearthly sounds, at dead of night, 
 Are heard along the mouldering walls 
 Of these unroof 'd, deserted, halls; 
 While armed statues lie around, 
 Prostrate and humbled, on the ground ! 
 
 With what delight these paths I tread. 
 And trace the footsteps of the dead ! 
 The terraces and gardens fair ! 
 Where many a flower still scents the air, 
 
VERSES. 171 
 
 Once throng'd by those who grac'd the court : 
 
 By dames, and peers, of lofty port ; 
 
 Still to the way-worn pilgrim dear : 
 
 The lovelorn bard still lingers here, 
 
 And listens to the funeral cry 
 
 Of night-birds, wailing as they fly. 
 
 And still, at eve, each holy-day 
 
 Here crowd the pensive and the gay ; 
 
 These bowery steeps ascending slow 
 
 From the tower'd city, far below. 
 
 Yet wherefore climb the arduous height ? 
 
 And quit that valley of delight? 
 
 Hr-ide yon rocky mountain-stream 
 
 Well may the youthful poet dream, 
 
 The traveller pause, the idler stray, 
 
 I nc. mscious of the waning day, 
 
 And mark the proud sail bending low 
 
 Beneath the humble arch to flow ; 
 
 The jointed raft, now, snake-like, glide, 
 
 Now dart impetuous down the tide : 
 
 The unwirldly barge, o'erladen, creep, 
 
 Scarce floating on the murmuring deep : 
 
 In each calm bay reflected far 
 
 The crimson west, the unqucnch'd star : 
 
 Or on the hills the cottage-light 
 
 Appear, and vanish from the sight : 
 
 Then, home returning, seek again 
 
 The cheerful haunts of busy men. 
 
 Could Britain (heav'n forbid it !) barter 
 For aught on earth, her freedom's charter, 
 Or change, through wantonness or fear, 
 Those laws that she should most revere, 
 

 2 VERSES. 
 
 Self-banish'd I could be content 
 Here, with a few, to pitch my tent, 
 Here end my days, and bless my lot, 
 Forget the past, and be forgot. 
 
 Sweet BADEN too, that seat of pleasure! 
 Where monarchs spend their hard-earn'd leisure, 
 And (more attractive guests) the fair, 
 Whose smiles a crowd of suitors share ; 
 How shall my verse, so rude, so weak, 
 Presume thy countless charms to speak 1 
 Thy groves and glens, thy lawns and hills ; 
 The virtues of thy fuming rills : 
 Thy castled heights, thy gay chateau, 
 Its caverns, dark and deep below : 
 The bright fantastic spires that crown- 
 The steeps of thy aspiring town : 
 Thy shelter'd paths, with many a seat, 
 Where the shy strangers fear to meet, 
 And scarcely dare each other note, 
 Though neighbours, at the table d'h6te, 
 The morning walk, the ride by day, 
 At night the bath, the ball, the ph-.y. 
 
 Yet here, ev'n here, is wanting still 
 Somewhat the craving heart to fill. 
 Of those I love if one were here, 
 One only, my lone steps to cheer, 
 Wert thou but leaning on my arm, 
 All, all would more than doubly charm : 
 The groves in brighter hues would glow, 
 The streams in sweeter murmurs flow. 
 Still more were she our walks to share, 
 Who, with a more than mother's care, 
 
 
VERSES. 1 73 
 
 Thy tender years from harm protects. 
 
 Thy manners forms, thy mind din 
 
 Or he, so near in blood allied. 
 
 Once my companion, now my guide ; 
 
 Or others, easily divin'd. 
 
 To me so dear, to me so kind. 
 
 Farewell ! I leave ye with re-zrei, 
 Ye scenes that I may ne'er f. 
 Far wilder those to which I go, 
 Mountains, and vales of summer-snow : 
 
 <>o, with compliments to fri 
 This Ion-: and dull epistle ends ; 
 For I am tired, and so are you, 
 my dearest ward, adieu ! 
 
 15* 
 
174 VERSES. 
 
 EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 
 
 INBPRUCK, 1821. 
 
 To thcc, my old, my valued friend, 
 Health from the TYROL hills I send. 
 Oh ! that I had the power to grant 
 The only blessing thou canst want, 
 Health ! of Heav'n's gifts almost the best, 
 Without it what are all the n->t ? 
 
 Come quit with me the world of care, 
 And breathe this salutary air. 
 That world together we began ; 
 Its toilsome race together ran ; 
 Together let us seek repose, 
 And husband life, so near its close : 
 Fanning the embers of that fire, 
 Which else might unawares expire. 
 But no ! 'tis still thy praise to find 
 The joys that suit thy vigorous mind 
 In scenes of energy, not ease, 
 (The joys that on reflection please,) 
 From a lov'd wife and children round i 
 Of all delights the sweetest found ! 
 From affluence and from honour gain'd 
 By arduous duties well-sustain'd ; 
 From gratitude for harms represt, 
 For rights maintained, and wrongs redrest. 
 
VEK 175 
 
 But yet, ray friend, there is a time 
 (Believe the truth though told in rhyme) 
 When life should not be spent too fast, 
 But be economis'd to last. 
 
 Of time (so short at best!) aware 
 How little I can have to spare, 
 All cares, save duties, I decline, 
 And ev'n ambition now resign. 
 But little miss'd I freely roam, 
 Leaving a solitary home: 
 Yet oft of those that most I prize 
 The well-known forms around me 
 Still when my evt-nin^-u .ilk is o'er, 
 My inn regained, and closed my door, 
 My winged thoughts delight to stray 
 O'er land and sea, far, far away ; 
 Some face I see, some voice I hear, 
 By absence render'd doubly dear, 
 And in sweet visions pass the niuht, 
 Chas'd only by the unwelcom'd light. 
 
 The day returns : yet still I seem, 
 Though broad awake, as much to dream : 
 So strange the sights that then appear, 
 So strange the accents that I hear. 
 
 Behold the stork ascend to perch 
 On the green spire of yon tall church f 
 Which, like each house, is storied o'er 
 With tales of legendary lore : 
 The dragon vanquished by the knight : 
 The monk that fiends in vain would fright ; 
 Who prays, though lires around him rise, 
 To her that beckons from the skies : 
 
1 76 VERSES. 
 
 The giant-form of aspect mild, 
 That on his shoulder bears a child, 
 And walks the water as 'twere land, 
 Wielding an oak-tree in his hand ; 
 The saint that bears the labourer's yoke 
 And with the beggar shares his cloak, 
 Or he, whose cup has power to drown 
 The flames, that threat th' affrighted town. 
 
 But see the living motley mas- ! 
 The dress uncouth that marks each class; 
 The bare-foot son, the bare-kneed sire, 
 The hat, now tapering like the spire, 
 Now broader than a broad umbrella, 
 Black, white and blue, pea-green or yellow. 
 The women too but that's a task, 
 That well a hundred tongues might ask, 
 That well a hundred tongues might tire, 
 So strange, so various, their attire. 
 
 Contrasted thus in outward show, 
 Their minds few shades of difference know ; 
 Priest-ridden, ignorant, unrefin'd, 
 But just, and brave, and not unkind ; 
 Of each the employment, every day, 
 To eat and drink and smoke and pray : 
 At every hour, in every street, 
 The tinkling bell and HOST you meet: 
 At every turn the traveller sees 
 Crosses almost as thick as trees; 
 And not a little scorn it rouses 
 To note more chapels built than hou> 
 Monks, Friars too, black, white, grey or brown, 
 With cord, and cowl, and shaven-crown, 
 
 
VERSES. 177 
 
 With surplice, tunic, cloak or vest, 
 Lazy and harmless at the best. 
 
 Ill fated man ! whose doom is such 
 That still too little, or too much, 
 Is taught his unsuspecting youth, 
 By those who scorn, or fear, the truth. 
 
 Better, far better, of the two, 
 To hold each tale devoutly true 
 That priests have feign'd, or beldames old 
 Have taught, and trembled as they told; 
 Than in suspense be tost about 
 From faith to faith, from doubt to doubt, 
 Or think, if it deserve that name, 
 That all from chance, from nothing, came. 
 
 .Man in foul air may draw his breath, 
 Exhaust it, and ho sinks in death. 
 For life he needs some atmospln 
 For health one uncorrupt and clear. 
 
 Yet worse, far worse, th' accursed creed 
 That those who err, or doubt, should bleed, 
 Or suffer torture, loss, or shame. 
 Because their faith is not the same, 
 As Pope, or Priest, or Presbyter. 
 Boasting they can, or do not err, 
 Have dared in folly, or in fraud, 
 As Heav'n's decree, to send abroad, 
 Blaspheming, wronging, (impious plan !) 
 Their maker, God ; their brother, man. 
 
 Hark ! hear ye not that cry so dread T 
 The living mourning for the dead 
 And see ye not yon sight of w r oe ? 
 The dying made a public show. 
 
178 VERSES. 
 
 That rolling beat, that thrilling blast, 
 Proclaim that one now breathes his 1 
 The bloody wheel, the flaming stake, 
 Failing his dauntless heart to shake, 
 The irrevocable word was giv'n, 
 That sends a soul to hell, or heav'n. 
 
 Oh say, ye mourners, what the deeds, 
 Unnatural, foul, for which he bleeds 1 
 Just Heav'n ! ye know not all ye know 
 That in yon dungeon, dark, and low, 
 He groan'd in chains for many a year, 
 Unheard his sigh, unseen his t< 
 And that he now lies breathless here. 
 The holy office knows the r 
 Their secrets never are confest : 
 Haply some dogma he denied, 
 To check some vile abuse he tried ; 
 He might be evil, might be just, 
 But all is darkness, and distrust. 
 
 Not thus in ENGLAND, no! thank God ! 
 There bigots wield a broken rod, 
 Though smiting with an iron-hand 
 Yon verdant isle's devoted land. 
 
 Brought home thus by an episode 
 I'll there take up a short abode : 
 Or, to speak plainly, I think best 
 To give myself, and you, some rest: 
 Not without hope that this may find you 
 At * *, business left behind you, 
 Reclin'd beneath that ancient yew 
 Whence most the landscape charms the view, 
 Or strolling o'er the busy farm, 
 
VIRUSES. 179 
 
 With Jane or Sarah on your arm : 
 But they, a side-saddle for their scat, 
 Scamper on other people's feet, 
 Up fam'd BOXHILL, or MicKtEiiAM-down, 
 Or to buy pins in DORKING-IOWII. 
 
 Perchance you hear what Jane relates 
 Of fair Helvetia's happy states; 
 Or of gay PARIS does she speak ? 
 That has no Sunday in her week, 
 So greedy both of gain and pleasure, 
 Breaking for both that day of lei 
 Or if the sun, by some rare chai 
 Should through the clouds a moment glance. 
 Then, with your lady by your side, 
 Along the sheltering copse you glide, 
 Or now, at eve, you sit in door, 
 And turn some classic author o'er ; 
 One haply of the illustrious dead, 
 Whom, young, together oft we read. 
 But now, sometimes, to own the truth, 
 It is not as it was, in youth : 
 When after dinner one applies, 
 The glimmering letters teaze the eyes, 
 The book too is so apt to fall ! 
 And then, methinks, 'tis time to call, 
 As you do now, "John ! bring the light, 
 I'll go to bed" Good night ! good night ! 
 
ICO 
 
 VERSUS. 
 
 EPISTLE TO A BROTHER. 
 BEX, 1821. 
 
 Oh ! that one friendly cloud would rise> 
 To mitigate these burning skies ! 
 Or that in some sequestered bay 
 Floating upon the wave I lay ; 
 While o'er my head the branches play'd 
 Of some vast oak, a sun-proof shade ! 
 And gentle showers fell pattering round ; 
 Beneath the leaves I'd bless the sound. 
 
 My mind relax'd, my body too 
 Thaws and "resolves itself into a dew!" 
 While yet I'm visible I'll run, 
 From ITALY'S inclement sun ; 
 For Summer scorches hill and vale, 
 Dries up the streams, and taints the gale : 
 Not till yon beaming orb declines, 
 Thridding the last autumnal signs, 
 And in the thirsty river-bed 
 The clouds of stifling dust are Jaid, 
 Yon barrier-alps to reascend, 
 And tow'rds the imperial city bend. 
 
 As through the glittering peaks I go, 
 Reviv'd I tread the bracing snow : 
 Each little patch of pasture green, 
 Each eddying gust, tho' biting keen, 
 
VERSES. 181 
 
 The very mists that curling rise 
 And blend the mountains with the skies, 
 My pulses calm, my strength restore, 
 And bid me breathe and move once more, 
 Ne'er to lament, in prose or rhyme, 
 The rigours of our northern clime. 
 What though, now gentle, now severe, 
 From point to point the breezes veer, 
 And many a cloud the heavens obscure : 
 From pestilence, from plague secure, 
 Still nerv'd to enjoy, and broad awake, 
 Our lot, so scorn'd, content we tako, 
 Nor envy those their heat and light 
 Who sleep at noon as well as night. 
 
 'Twas thus the rude epistle ran, 
 Which on the ARNO I began: 
 Now happy at your favourite BEX, 
 
 And cool, far other feelings sway. 
 
 Here grateful memory fain would praise 
 
 Fair ITALY in living lays : 
 
 But this demands a loftier strain, 
 
 And I must seek her vales again ; 
 
 Again peruse her storied walls 
 
 In solemn temples, sumptuous halls, 
 
 Where all the rival arts conspire 
 
 To charm, to touch, and to inspire. 
 
 Ah ! hapless land where prince and priest, 
 And stranger-tyrants, ("last not least,") 
 Thy rights deny, thy arms deride, 
 And, in the fulness of their pride, 
 Or jealous of thy former fame, 
 Would rob thee of thy very name. 
 
 16 
 
182 
 
 VERSES. 
 
 
 Oh ! when will the avenger rise t 
 Touch'd by his country's stifled cries, 
 (Not loud, but such as those can hear 
 To whom their country still is dear) 
 And, gathering round him host on host, 
 From the ALPS to far CALABRIA'S coast. 
 Lay, by one bold resistless blow, 
 Never to rise, the oppressor low ? 
 
 The usurper fled, behold once more 
 Freedom thy arts and arms restore ! 
 But, ere that hour of bliss return, 
 Thy humbled, scatter'd sons must earn. 
 Must bravely earn their liberty ; 
 First be victorious, then be free ! 
 That blessing must their courage nen 
 Which to desire is to deserve : 
 Old feuds they must forget, forgive. 
 And as ONE mighty people live, 
 Then shall the world allow their claim 
 To more than ev'n their ancient fame. 
 
 Not yet ! still holds the vile intrigue, 
 Self-nam'd, in fraud, TUB HOLT LEAGUE ! 
 No bigot-folly, but far worse, 
 Of heav'n the mockery, earth the curse : 
 For though the scepter'd robbers scorn 
 Each his confederate, yet " they've sworn"- 
 They " have an oath in heav'n," and must 
 (Good men!) be impious and unjust. 
 
 Once, by the grateful world confest, 
 Here was a refuge for the opprest. 
 But now, in vain the patriot flies 
 From his lov'd home, and native skies ; 
 
 
 
VERSES. 183 
 
 In vain of broken faith complains, 
 Dragg'd back to death, or, worse, to chains. 
 Great as thou art, my country, thou 
 Canst scarce protect the stranger now ! 
 In secret fetter'd to their cause, 
 The despots dictate ev'n thy laws.* 
 But, thanks to heav'n ! there is a land 
 Above their influence, or command, 
 Virtuous their maxims to despise, 
 And strong their violence to chastise. 
 Haste ! weigh the anchor, spread the sail 
 Wide to the welcome eastern gale : 
 Still, still the setting sun pursue; 
 Driv'n from the old world seek the new : 
 There fear no more the exile knows, 
 But from his hunters finds repose, 
 His own, his country's wrongs proclaims, 
 And safe, the baffled tyrant shames. 
 
 Yet blame not this just people still, 
 It is their weakness, not their will, 
 That yields consent to those that hate, 
 And fain would crush each unking'd state. 
 O'er-look this blemish, and once more 
 The wonders of this land explore : 
 Beheld with rapture, left with pain, 
 Yet felt more deeply seen again, 
 Than when at first, with hurried pace, 
 Surprised, subdued, these scenes we trace. 
 To loftier heights the hills aspire ; 
 In deeper gloom the glens retire ; 
 
 * The nation has resumed its ancient generosity and 
 independence, ] 824. 
 
184 VERSES. 
 
 With sweeter sounds the waters flow, 
 More brightly their reflections glow. 
 
 For who can, self-possest, behold 
 The visions these wild vales unfold 1 
 The mountains of eternal snow 1 
 The abyss of rifted ice below 1 
 The bridge that springs from rock to rock, 
 And trembles to the torrent's shock 1 
 The fearful pass, whose cliffs between 
 A line of sky is scarcely seen 1 
 The liquid crystal of the rill 
 That gushes from the rocky hill ? 
 The inland sea, now calm in sleep, 
 Now, waken'd, an overwhelming deep ? 
 
 Here first, long since, at your request, 
 I came, and found delight and r< 
 And now with joy my o'er-travell'd feet 
 Return to this belov'd retreat : 
 Where, on the loud tumultuous RHONE, 
 From dawn to dark I muse alone ; 
 Or listen to the vesper-bell 
 Echoing through many a craggy dell : 
 Or, as the soft green lawn I tread, 
 While chestnuts flower above my head, 
 The far-off LEM AN LAKE descry, 
 Fair mirror of the changeful sky ! 
 Now silvery-smooth, now sparkling gold : 
 Or, o'er the humbler Alps, behold 
 Those glowing peaks that long detain 
 The sun's last rays, tho' dark the plain, 
 Then, pale and wan in the cold night-air, 
 Look like the ghosts of what they were : 
 
VERSES. 185 
 
 Or mark with awe the mouldering towers, 
 That tell of long-departed hours ; 
 Or cliffs that guard the little gate ; 
 Frail barrier between state and state ! 
 
 More charm'd from hour to hour and yet 
 With far more pleasure than regret, 
 Homeward at length my steps I turn ; 
 My eyes for other objects yearn ; 
 The fire-side circle, small and dear, 
 Narrowing, ah narrowing every year ! 
 The chosen, or the neighbour-friend, 
 The servant pleas'd and proud to attend ; 
 The well-known door, and even the bed, 
 On which, so oft reclin'd, my heu< I 
 Sweet rest has found, or vainly sought 
 Through the long night of troubled thought. 
 
 How slowly, eager to arrive, 
 I think the dull postilions drive ! 
 The leagues seem longer, and the pav 
 Is surely grown more rough and heavy : 
 Yet haply 'tis in vain I haste, 
 Doom'd, as before, whole days to waste 
 Pacing till night on Calais-pier, 
 Invoking winds that will not hear ; 
 While not a packet dares to sail, 
 Aw'd by the equinoctial gale ; 
 Still looking o'er to that white shore 
 Where I so long to tread once more. 
 E'en now in thought I spring to land, 
 And grasp o'erjoy'd a brother's hand. 
 
 16* 
 
186 VERSES. 
 
 EPISTLE TO A FRIEND AT HIS VILLA. 
 
 CHAMOUNY, 1823. 
 
 At length you fly from smoke and noise 
 
 To wholesome air, and tranquil joys, 
 
 From route and ball, from park and play, 
 
 (Day turn'd to night, and night to day,) 
 
 To cheerful rides at morning-hours, 
 
 And evening-walks 'mid shrubs and flowers, 
 
 Where broad, and bright, the stately Thames 
 
 From the charm'd guest due homage claims ; 
 
 As o'er its wave the white sail glides, 
 
 Or the swift steam-boat stems the tides. 
 
 But, ah ! the town diffuses far 
 
 Its gloomy atmosphere of care ; 
 
 The murmurs of its strife assail 
 
 The peace of each surrounding vale : 
 
 O'er many a mile must toil the feet 
 
 That seek an undisturb'd retreat : 
 
 Its pride and vanity are wont 
 
 The meek and humble to affront, 
 
 And, though forbidden to oppress, 
 
 To make them think their little less. 
 
 But you, who all its stores command, 
 Yet its temptations can withstand : 
 Its pleasures quit without regret. 
 And quickly all its cares forget. 
 
 
187 
 
 More timorous I for safety run, 
 And wisely the rough conflict shun. 
 
 Once more amid th' eternal snows 
 The frozen Alps around me close, 
 Though flames the summer-sun on high, 
 Just seen athwart the narrow sky ; 
 The beam of fire, the whelming rain, 
 Beat on these ice-built rocks in vain : 
 For reconciled the seasons here 
 Dance hand in hand throughout the year. 
 In this disorder, these extremes, 
 As if in sport wild nature seems 
 To scorn restraint, and break all laws; 
 Alarm'd we fly to her great cause, 
 And, awed though tranquil lised, we hail 
 The goodness that can never fail 
 Of Him, who all these wonders plann'd, 
 And in whose presence here we stand, 
 Who gave us (grateful let us kneel!) 
 Eyes to discern, and hearts to feel. 
 
 Let then th' aerial spire ari- 
 And tower on tower invade the skies ; 
 On clustering shafts the proud dome rise ; 
 With gems one gold the walls emblaze ; 
 Bid art with truth wage generous strife, 
 And soften marble into life : 
 Then consecrate, in pomp, the pile, 
 While wondering angels gaze and smile ; 
 Here are his temples, here his court ! 
 Hither the pilgrim should resort ; 
 Not cross the desert's burning sands 
 To bow at altars built by hands, 
 
188 VERSES. 
 
 Nor to LORETTO'S shrine repair, 
 Though spirits bore it through the air. 
 
 Nurs'd in these scenes sublime, severe, 
 The wild, but pious mountaineer 
 Learns their great Author to revere : 
 Gentle, though ever prone to dare, 
 And, when the need is, firm to bear, 
 'Tis his to extort by patient toil 
 His hard fare from a churlish soil : 
 Through pathless hills to guide, and save 
 The wanderer from a sudden grave. 
 Or, on his pike-staff bounding high, 
 From rock to rock, o'er torrents fly : 
 Or, cowering, on his knees to creep 
 Along the ridge of some tall steep, 
 Chasing the Chamois " dreadful calling ;" 
 Ever 'mid sights and sounds appalling ; 
 Above ! the avalanche ! below ! 
 The crevasse in the treacherous snow ! 
 Where death lurks, waiting for his prey, 
 Watching the hunter on his way. 
 The path breaks down Behold he falls ! 
 In vain to climb the glassy walls 
 He strives, and strives : he shouts in vain, 
 Far far from all the haunts of men ; 
 Deep in the narrow chasm he lies, 
 No more to see the cheerful skies ; 
 Not one of all his soul holds dear 
 To close his eyes, or dress his bier : 
 Unknown his burial-place, though guess'd, 
 Alas ! too truly, all the rest : 
 
VERSES. 
 
 They search, but find not. He must lie 
 For ever hid from human eye. 
 Yet bites not there the insulting worm, 
 Even Time respects his manly form : 
 He still shall sleep, unchang'd, tho' lost, 
 Embalm'd in everlasting frost. 
 
 Alive that manly form could please, 
 Though clad in undy'd robe of frieze. 
 Heav'ns ! how unlike the half-sex'd beau, 
 Screw'd in new stays for Rotten-row ! 
 With tiny coat, but huge cravat, 
 Rings, seals, and glasses, and k -ull that !" 
 Enough farewell ! with higher matter 
 'Tis wrong to blend truth so like satire. 
 
 189 
 
I 
 
 390 VERSES. 
 
 EPISTLE TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. 
 HOME, 1823. 
 
 Lur'd by thy verse, behold once more 
 Thy friend fair ITALY explore ! 
 And though, by suffering taught, I shun 
 Her unrelenting summer-sun, 
 Yet now I woo his beams, to cheer 
 The gloom of an expiring year : 
 Where, 'mid the ruins round her spread, 
 ROME lifts on high her mitred head, 
 Once circled by the imperial crown, 
 To which a subject-world bow'd down. 
 
 Now weak tho* reverend, in decay 
 She scarcely claims her ancient sway ; 
 But begs a little homage, paid 
 Less to the living than the dead, 
 Whose honour'd tombs, now mouldering round, 
 Can consecrate the very ground. 
 
 Palace and dome scarce heeded rise, 
 More sees the memory than the eyes. 
 Yet here (the work of modern hands) 
 In state, the noblest temple stands, 
 That to his great Creator's praise 
 The piety of man could raise : 
 Here, too, like breathing nature warm, 
 Dwells many a bright, angelic form, 
 
VERSES. 
 
 Hewn from the rock by matchless skill, 
 Once gods, and almost worshipped still ! 
 And here the pencil's magic hues 
 Their spells along the walls diffuse, 
 Culling saints, heroes, from the gr 
 Again to teach, again to save. 
 
 Th' eternal city as I trace 
 The present to the past gives place : 
 The spirits of the dead appear, 
 And sounds divine transport my ear; 
 I listen, hcedlos of the throng, 
 To TULLY'S speech, or MARO'S song. 
 Now, winding through the sculptur'd arch, 
 Behold the long triumphal march : 
 Or mark the warrior-horseman leap 
 Fearlessly down the yawning do 
 Or him, who, singly, dares oppose 
 (Striding the bridge) a host of foes. 
 Now, shuddering, the stern consul see 
 His rebel sons to death deer 
 Or, in the senate, hail the blow, 
 That lays the great usurper low. 
 But who, on thrones, in robes of state 
 Silently sit, and smile at fate- ? 
 The conscript-sires though fierce and rude, 
 The conqueror is himself subdued, 
 Drops the red spear, and bends the knee, 
 Esteeming each a Deity ! 
 
 Oh ! how in latter life it cheers 
 To triumph o'er the power of years ! 
 Calm'd, not exhausted, to perceive 
 That we can feel, admire, believe 
 
 191 
 
192 VERSES. 
 
 E'en to the last, as in our prime, 
 
 Spite of the malice of old Time. 
 
 Not more our joy, than pride, to know 
 
 That the chill'd blood again can glow ; 
 
 That Fancy still has wings to soar 
 
 High as she oft was wont before : 
 
 And Hope still listens to her song, 
 
 As erst when credulous and young: 
 
 That there are vales where smiling Spring 
 
 Is lovelier than the poets sing ; 
 
 And Nature's bright realities 
 
 Transcend what painting can devise : 
 
 Where May can trust, in field and bower, 
 
 Her blossoms to the morning-hour, 
 
 Nor dreads the venomous east should breathe. 
 
 To blight the flow'rets in her wreath ; 
 
 Where scarcely swells a bud in vain 
 
 Of blushing fruit, or golden grain. 
 
 Alas! fair land ! that thy rich dower 
 
 Should ever be the prize of powt 
 
 Yielded to Vandal, Moor, or Gaul, 
 
 Or bigot-sloth, far worse than all ! 
 
 Oh grief! that blessings too profuse 
 
 Should turn to curses by th' abuse ; 
 
 That virtue, freedom, still must fly 
 
 For shelter to a frozen sky ! 
 
 Like gold, all good requires alloy, 
 We learn by suffering to enjoy. 
 
 Once thy possessors, great in arms, 
 Defended, and deserv'd thy charms, 
 Well taught (alas ! in times gone by) 
 Bravely to conquer, or to die. 
 
VERSES. 193 
 
 Then the rude Hun rough welcome found, 
 
 And with his bones manur'd the ground, 
 
 Though now his haughty banner waves 
 
 High o'er his vanquish'd fathers' graves. 
 
 Now must thy humbled sons regret, 
 
 The present bear, the past forget, 
 
 Blush when they hear their fathers' fame, 
 
 And hide in smiles their grief and shame ; 
 
 Not long soon shall the smouldering fire 
 
 Explode in thunder, or expire ; 
 
 Oh! not the last! in vain they dare 
 
 (The crown'd conspirators) to share 
 
 The earth between them, as their prey 
 
 Willing to suffer and obey. 
 
 As soon shall they forbid the sun, 
 
 Save at their will, his course to run, 
 
 Arrest the ocean-tides, or bind 
 
 The pinions of the wandering wind. 
 
 What though of much the land's bereft, 
 Enough to regain all is left ! 
 Art, science, letters, still survive 
 The liberty that bade them thrive : 
 And many a poet of high name 
 Upholds his country's former fame. 
 Thy latest theme ; well chos'n by thee 
 The bard inspired by memory ! 
 And greatly shall thy lasting lay 
 Her hospitality o'erpay : 
 Long, long the rival to remain 
 Ev'n of her noblest native strain. 
 
 17 
 
194 VERSES. 
 
 EPISTLE TO THE LORD HOLLAND. 
 
 WIWDERMEHE, 1829. 
 
 " Feros mollite colendo." 
 
 GKOR. ii. 3H. 
 
 Ask not what channs there are in scenes like tin > . 
 Wild hills, and clamorous brooks, and inland-seas ! 
 In the sweet face of nature to delight 
 Will not in thee surprise or scorn excite. 
 
 But 'tis not only mountain, lake and stream, 
 (Though here as fair as a young poet's dream) 
 No ! here a generous peasantry we find, 
 Of graceful form and cultivated mind: 
 Here, too, a gentry that may well preside 
 O'er men thus gifted and not void of pride. 
 To them the earth her annual tribute yields 
 As lords, not tenants, of their native fields : 
 Yet to their sons the sires bequeathed far more 
 Than land, herd, flock, and heaps of glittering ore : 
 In every village, schools, though rude, they rear'd; 
 It was not want but ignorance they fearM ; 
 And of their little largely gave to ensure 
 Their children's children should be taught tho' poor. 
 
 Blest be their memory ! what is man untaught ? 
 Unfit alike for action, or for thought ; 
 Selfish and wretched, ignorant and unjust ; 
 And now by hunger goaded, now by lust : 
 
VERSES. 195 
 
 Fraudful not wise, revengeful but not brave, 
 Savage a tyrant, civilised a slave : 
 Much like the brutes that groan beneath his sway, 
 A beast of burthen, or a beast of prey. 
 
 Rare though the plant may be and kind the soil, 
 The fruit is worthless unimproved by toil : 
 But tended, train'd through sunshine, gust and shower, 
 The weed'^ transformed into a radiant flower. 
 
 Hard, hard indeed is woman's ceaseless task ! 
 E'en from the cradle all her cares we ask : 
 Cares that a mother only can bestow ; 
 A task that only love will undergo ! 
 All must be learnt and most 'tis hers to teach ; 
 The foot to step, the lip to move in speech. 
 See ! now disdainful of her proffer'd hand, 
 The ambitious boy essays, in vain, to stand! 
 And, hark ! the little mimic lisps her name, 
 Vain of success, but failing tinged with shame ! 
 With thoughts and feelings, heart and mind, she sows, 
 And plucks each weed that still, unbidden, blows. 
 Beyond this world too she extends her care, 
 And on her knee unites his hands in prayer. 
 
 Soon stronger, bolder, from her arms he flies, 
 Proud to alarm her fears and to despise ; 
 Now at his father's heels, where'er he strays, - 
 He learns his sayings and aifects his ways : 
 Then comes the school, the college, rivals, friends, 
 And but with life man's education ends. 
 
 All must conspire yet all conspire in vain, 
 Unless the state be just, the church humane : 
 'Tis from the cherish'd faith and dreaded law 
 That men their maxims learn, their motives draw. 
 
196 VERSES. 
 
 Governed by fraud or force a PEOPLE must 
 Be, or become, unfeeling and unjust- 
 What can avail the nursery or the school, 
 Should priests misguide or magistrates misrule ? 
 To whom can helpless youth, perplex'd, repair, 
 Should precept and example both ensnare 1 
 Setting their busiest hopes and fears at strife 
 With the pure lessons of their early life. 
 Can they esteem their good old teachers wise, 
 Whom thus the learned and the great despise 1 
 Or love their God and neighbours as they ought, 
 Should falsehood as the truth from heav'n be taught 1 
 If endless bliss be promised as the meed 
 Of bigot-zeal, or a presumptuous creed 1 
 And all the terrors of a future world 
 Against the best men found in this be hurl'd 1 
 
 But, lo ! the clouds disperse, the horizon clears ! 
 The sun of science thro' the mist appears ; 
 Pierc'd by its beams the brood obscene of night, 
 With shrieks and murmurs fly the hated light ! 
 Long since from this blest isle the foulest fled, 
 A loathsome band, by superstition led : 
 And the scar'd demons of the lagging rear 
 Rise on the wing, soon, soon to disappear. 
 
 Knowledge of old in one deep current stream'd, 
 While on its banks the narrow harvest teem'd : 
 All else a thirsty waste of shifting sand, 
 Or curs'd by weeds that chok'd th' uncultur'd land. 
 But now fresh rills break out on every side, 
 Diffusing health and pleasure as they glide, 
 Flowing thro' town and city, village, farm, 
 And lending each a blessing and a charm. 
 
VERSES. 197 
 
 The prophecy's fulfill'd, the poor are taught; 
 Home to each door the precious gift is brought, 
 TRUTH, to exalt and purify the mind, 
 For, where truth comes virtue's not far behind. 
 
 Distrustful are the ignorant, fierce, self-will'd, 
 Fickle, yet fix'd their judgments ne'er to yield, 
 Seditious, servile, rash, yet wanting nerve, 
 Easy to dupe, but very hard to serve. 
 
 Not thus th' instructed, for though, haply, proud 
 (When self-compar'd to the benighted crowd) 
 Yet have they ears to learn and eyes to see 
 Their duty, dealt with as men ought to be. 
 
 Rarely, if ever, is good given to man 
 Unmix'd with evil, such is Heav'n's high plan ! 
 Yet can there still remain one generous doubt 
 Whether a People with sense, or without, 
 Is happier, better, less disposed to err, 
 Or which an honest statesman must prefer ? 
 
 Oh! 'tis a pleasant dream (if dream it be) 
 Of man the brightening prospects to foresee : 
 Far more of Nature shall he daily know ; 
 Far mightier o'er her powers his mastery grow. 
 How many evils shall become more light ! 
 How many more, perhaps, be banish'd quite ! 
 How many comforts added to the store 
 That bounteous Providence had given before ! 
 Not to the selfish, indolent and blind, 
 Who trust whate'er they wish to beg, or find, 
 But only to the wise, who can discern 
 That we are born our happiness to earn. 
 
 'Tis well that most are for their bread, each day, 
 Destin'd to toil, as well as taught to pray : 
 17* 
 
198 VERSES. 
 
 And all, of every rank, who would enjoy, 
 Must both their body and their mind employ. 
 
 Ye who find nought to love or to admire, 
 Beg, beg of niggard Nature a desire. 
 
 Nothing is had for nothing, all is sold, 
 Not to the wealthy only for their gold ; 
 By strenuous action and by patient thought, 
 All our best blessings ever must be bought. 
 
 Man seldom fails to o'ertake what he pursues, 
 But 'tis most rare that object well to choose. 
 Could thine be wealth, wake early and watch late, 
 Or, scorning dross, wouldst thou be still more great ? 
 The world's reproaches and thy own despise, 
 Be servile to rule others, creep to rise ; 
 Or wouldst thou feme ? court science or the muse, 
 An ardent lover neither can refuse : 
 Be oftener heard in senates, now to still, 
 Now stir, their charmed passions at thy will. 
 To be renown'd, some health and life expose, 
 Cross Afric's sand, or pierce the polar snows, 
 Or in the field, the bravest of the brave, 
 For glory seek, and find it in the grave. 
 
 Thy hopes, I know, have a far loftier aim 
 Than riches, rank, vain learning, or a name : 
 Of love, true honour, happiness, the price 
 Is fixed, and must be given Self-sacrifice. 
 This, through thy life, has cheerfully been paid, 
 And the rich recompense as freely made. 
 * 'Tis thine the same judgment to have shown 
 Of thy lov'd country's welfare and thy own. 
 Still has it been thy fate thy choice to oppose 
 Power and corruption, formidable foes I 
 
VERSES. 199 
 
 And, ah ! how few the victories thou hast won ! 
 Yet wilt thou deem thyself o'erpaid by one.* 
 The last, the most desir'd, a victory ! 
 Long due to him, who still survives in thee. 
 
 Oh ! could even now his generous spirit feel 
 For justice, freedom, but its ancient zeal, 
 Think with what heart-felt joy he must have view'd 
 Evils that foil'd even him, by thee subdued. 
 One conflict more,t and soon shall all be free, 
 All, all, whatever their Creed may chance to be. 
 
 * Repeal of the Test and Corporation Acts. 
 | Emancipation of the Catholics. 
 
200 VERSES. 
 
 EPITAPH ON MR. HENDERSON.* 
 
 Born to delight at once and mend the age, 
 
 Life to adorn, and dignify the stage, 
 
 No more, oh HEICDEHSON ! thy magic art 
 
 Shall wake at will each passion of the heart ; 
 
 No more thy ardour fire, thy humour cheer, 
 
 Nor at thy bidding start the obedient tear ! 
 
 No more shall crowds entranced, scarce breathing, se 
 
 The dreams of Shakspeare realis'd by thee. 
 
 Yet, were this all, this loss thy friends might bear, 
 
 And ev'n with pride the general sorrow share ; 
 
 But can they hope again, in one, to find 
 
 Thy sense and genius, wit and worth, combin'd ? 
 
 Where shall thy widow'd wife, thy orphan child, 
 
 Meet love so warm, authority so mild ? 
 
 Alas ! thy fame shall still renew their grief: 
 
 And Time itself to them refuse relief. 
 
 * Buried in Westminster Abbey, 3d December, 1785. 
 
VERSES. 201 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 Say, lovely Rose, so fragrant and so fair ! 
 Why art thou doom'd these rugged thorns to bear ? 
 None sure would steal thee from thy native bower, 
 Though smooth thy stem, and silken as thy flower. 
 
 Once was I a poor weed, a worthless briar ; 
 
 Till HE, who tun'd thy voice, and strung thy lyre, 
 
 Bade me these soft and blushing leaves to bear, 
 
 And scatter perfume to the summer-air. 
 
 For, as she fled whose love he long had sought, 
 
 Her fluttering garments in my branches caught, 
 
 And she was won to listen to his vows 
 
 When, lo! these blooms, these odours deck'd my boughs! 
 
 POET. 
 
 Blest omen, hail ! one opening bud I'll bear 
 To grace the obdurate bosom of my fair : 
 Haply he might to thy sweet breath impart 
 A subtle virtue to subdue the heart 
 If such thy power I can be grateful too ; 
 And thy entrancing scent, thy vermeil hue, 
 And this thy story, they shall live in verse, 
 And none henceforth thy guard of thorns asperse, 
 
202 VERSES. 
 
 TRUE PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 There was an ancient sage, I'm told, 
 Who held that "man should weep," 
 
 The doctrine's sour as well as old, 
 Not good enough to keep. 
 
 But, for the honour of those times, 
 
 It must be own'd, another 
 Maintain'd the tenet of these rhymes, 
 
 And scorn'd his whining brother. 
 
 That must be true philosophy 
 
 Which bids us smile at Care, 
 Since, whether mortals laugh or cry, 
 
 What happens they must bear. 
 
 Is there in sighs and tears a power 
 
 To soften stubborn Fate ? 
 Or add one unpredestin'd hour 
 
 To our appointed date ? 
 
 The turnpike-road to happiness 
 Through misery leads, no doubt ! 
 
 Though somewhat rough, you must confess, 
 And rather round about. 
 
 There is a path more smooth and near, 
 Trust me, for I have tried ; 
 
 
VERSES. 203 
 
 I did not ask my way of Fear, 
 Hope is a better guide. 
 
 Companion gay! that ever leads 
 Through verdure and through flowers, 
 
 And talks, whene'er the tempest breeds, 
 Of sunshine after showers. 
 
 Yet dwell not with her, though she toy, 
 
 And promise fair, and woo, 
 But win and wed her sister, Joy, 
 
 Still lovelier, and more true. 
 
 Youth, like a morning vision, flies: 
 
 Waking we sigh, in vain, 
 To close once more our aching eyes, 
 
 And dream it o'er again. 
 
 Ah ! still, ye dear illusions, stay ! 
 
 Still let me think ye true : 
 All the poor certainties of life 
 
 I'll gladly change for you. 
 
 Fold, Fancy, fold thy busy wing ! 
 
 Sleep, troubled Memory, sleep ! 
 Why should one fly our cares to bring ? 
 
 The other wake to weep ? 
 
 Our youth seem'd short because so sweet, 
 
 Then why should we repine ? 
 Because we did our breakfast eat, 
 
 Must we refuse to dine ? 
 
 
204 VERSES. 
 
 Why should we look before, behind, 
 Unless the prospect charms ? 
 
 Draw up the window ! drop the blind ! 
 Whene'er the road alarms. 
 
 The future is beyond our power, 
 The past we should forget; 
 
 We can't afford the present hour 
 Should run away in debt 
 
 'Tis well we yesterday thought so, 
 
 Aware it could not stay : 
 To-morrow may not come, you know, 
 
 We'll therefore live to-day. 
 
 Let not the good, ill-taught, despise 
 These maxims as too gay : 
 
 True pleasure in well-doing lies ; 
 'Tis worse than folly to delay. 
 
 

 
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